There was no sense to the note. There was no sense to anything that Vic Butler did, for that matter. Where he hid away his vast scientific knowledge in that rattle-brained, red-haired head of his has always been a mystery to me. The note read:
Dear Pete:
If you get this, I’m in a jam that promises some action.
Drive out, if plane-peddling is palling on you, and bust into the lab. I’m leaving another note there for you, old son,...
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