by John Blaine
A short distance up the coast, as he turned toward the town ofWhiteside , he noticed that his oil-pressure gauge was falling off. It had been acting up, owing to some defect in the instrument itself. He was sure he had pressure enough, but there was no use taking a chance. He banked tightly toward the airfield on the edge of town. In a few moments he was setting the Cub down on the gravel strip and taxiing to a stop in front of the hangar.
Gus, manager of theWhitesideAirport , gasoline attendant, mechanic, flight instructor, and philosopher, came out to greet him, rubbing greasy hands on the thighs of his dungarees.
An assistant, whom Rick had seen only a few times, was with him. Gus introduced him as “Mac” and then asked:
“What’s up, Rick?”
“The oil-pressure gauge again. I’m afraid to trust it.”
Gus turned to Mac. “Take a look in that shipment of parts that came in this morning and see if there’s a new gauge. I ordered one a week ago.”
Mac went into the hangar and came out in a moment with a cardboard box.
“This the one?”
“That’s it,” Gus said. “It’ll only take a little while to install, Rick. Want me to do it now?”
Rick hesitated. “I have to go toNewark on an errand. Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure,” Gus agreed. “Take it. Drive it fast. Maybe hit a tree with it so I can collect the insurance. I need a new one.”
Mac, the new attendant, laughed.
“Get someone else to have your accidents.” Rick grinned. “I’m a safe-and-sane driver.”
“I’ve seen you drive,” Gus chuckled. “You take corners like you were banking the Cub. Go along, sonny. Well have the gauge in by the time you get back.”
Rick climbed into the battered jalopy that stood before the hangar. “Thanks, grandpa,” he mocked. Gus was only about three years older than Rick.
He stepped on the starter and the motor groaned protestingly into life. The car rolled out onto the highway and he headed for the manufacturing area on the outskirts ofNewark . He knew just where to go for the tube-he had been on many similar errands for the scientists.
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He left Whiteside behind, thinking that Gus evidently put in more time on the jalopy than he did on his planes. It rattled and complained, but there was surprising power under the battered hood. He stepped on the gas and the old car leaped ahead. But, as he picked up speed, a tire blew with a loud report, followed by a bumping and crunching as the jalopy rolled along on the rim.
Rick pulled up and got out, muttering to himself. Fortunately, there was a spare. There was also a jack that didn’t work until he had fussed with it for fifteen minutes. But at last the tire was changed and he rolled on his way again. With the flat, he estimated, the trip toNewark would take more than an hour.
The Farnham Radio and Television Supply Company was his first stop. The clerk looked at the slip of paper Rick presented and then said:
“You’re half an hour too late, son. We just sold out all we had—six of ‘em. Don’t expect any more until sometime next week.”
Rick thanked him and drove to another supply house. He handed the specifications to the girl at the desk.
“Better give me three of them,” he said.
She shook her head. “Sorry. We only had three on hand, and a man bought those about fifteen minutes ago.”
Rick was disturbed as he drove through traffic to another company. The errand wasn’t turning out to be as simple as he’d thought. When he went into the third office, he asked, “Do you have any of these?”
“Did have,” the man at the supply desk said. “Rut we sold them not more than a quarter of an hour ago.
Man came in and asked for all we had.”
He went out thoughtfully. There was no reason why there should be such an unprecedented demand for that particular tube. With sudden decision, he swung the car in the direction of the Cotter Electronic Supply Company, on the far side ofNewark . Cotter was one of the biggest supply houses. If anyone had the tubes, certainly they would.
He drew up in front of the brick building and parked behind a gray sedan of expensive make. As he got out and walked to the front door, two men in the sedan watched him suspiciously.
Strange-looking men to find in front of an electronic supply house, Rick thought. They looked like prize fighters or wrestlers.
As he went into the front office, a man brushed by. Rick caught a quick glimpse of a short, neat beard and a pair of dark glasses. The man carried a square package under his arm.
Rick greeted the clerk cordially. “How’s business, Dick?”
“Okay. What’s new onSpindriftIsland ?”
“Not much,” Rick said. “Got any of these?” He handed the clerk the specification slip.
“I’ll be doggoned,” the clerk exclaimed. “Why all the sudden interest in these things?”
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“What sudden interest?” Rick asked quickly.
“I had a dozen in stock,” the clerk said. “We’d had them for quite a while-they weren’t much in demand. Then, just now a man comes in and buys out the whole stock and you come along and want the same thing.”
“What man?” Rick asked sharply.
“Tall guy with a beard. You must have passed him on the way in.”
“I did,” Rick exclaimed. “Excuse me!” He was out the door before the clerk could say another word.
The gray sedan was just vanishing around the corner.
He jumped into the jalopy and kicked it into action. Something was wrong. Coincidence was all right, but when the sudden demand for a certain tube stretched all overNewark and ended up with a bearded man who bought out entire stocks of tubes . . . Well, that was just too much.
He had seen instantly that the bearded man wasn’t in sight. He couldn’t have walked to the corner in that time. Rick decided that he must be in the gray sedan. Hurling the jalopy around the corner with tires screaming, he caught a glimpse of the car as it turned into another street farther up.
Rick had no definite plan of action; his following the sedan was only an impulse. But a hunch told him that the bearded man who had bought up all the tubes was in that car.
He was gaining on the gray sedan now. He slowed down, content to keep it in sight.
The gray sedan led him to the outskirts ofNewark ; then it turned in the direction of Whiteside, speeding up as it hit the open highway. Rick crouched over the wheel and gave the battered airport car all the gas it would take. It pounded like a broken washing machine, but there was enough speed in the ancient motor to keep the sedan in sight.
The car ahead slowed suddenly and Rick had to jam on the brakes to keep from overhauling it. He saw a face pressed to the rear window and knew he had been seen. The men in the sedan would recognize the jalopy as the one that had parked in front of Cotter’s.
Suddenly he felt apprehensive. The men hadn’t looked like the kind who would take kindly to being trailed.
The car swept into Whiteside, and Rick closed in to keep from losing the sedan in traffic. The gray car spun into a side street, catching him unawares. He turned the jalopy after it, just in time to see the gray sedan sweep into a narrow alley.
Rick jammed on the brakes and went after it at a safer speed, driving the old car cautiously through stacks of crates, garbage cans, and the like. The sedan shot out the far end and turned left. He held to the wheel grimly and followed, realizing that they were trying to shake him. That knowledge only increased his determination. If the men in the sedan were trying to lose him, they must have something to hide.
In the center of Whiteside, the fleeing sedan came to a red light and went right through it without slowing down. Rick gritted his teeth and jabbed down the accelerator. He jerked the wheel over just in time to avoid a truck that was proceeding through the intersection. Behind him, he heard the shrill screech of a Page 10
police whistle.
His heart went into his boots. Every officer on the Whiteside
force knew the old airport car by sight.
Most of them knew Rick, too. But he couldn’t stop now. Gus would have to explain it away-if he could.
There was no time to worry about that now. The sedan was streaking for the open country and he had to push the pedal to the floor to keep up. The gray car led the way to a secondary road that headed north along the shore. The highway was deserted as the two cars sped away from Whiteside into wooded country.
Rick worried. Following the gray car had been a senseless thing, when he stopped to think of it. What could he hope to do? There was nothing illegal about the bearded man’s buying up all the tubes in sight.
In spite of his realization that he could do nothing, he never slowed his pursuit of the other car. Instead, it was the gray sedan that brought the chase to an unexpected close.
The chase led into a densely wooded section, far from the nearest house. They roared past the solitary figure of a hiker and the road stretched ahead of them, completely deserted.
Then, with a suddenness that caught Rick by surprise, the gray sedan screamed to a stop, turning so that it blocked the road.
CHAPTER III
The Marines Have Landed
Rick slammed the brakes to the floor and the old car bucked to a stop, scarcely ten feet from the gray car, Ahead, the doors of the sedan opened and the three men got out.
One of the men, a squat, flat-nosed man in a derby, came up and said crisply, “Okay, kid. Get out.”
Rick obeyed, his heart pounding. As he stepped to the ground, the other two moved close to him. One was the bearded man. The other was thickset, with the long arms and short neck of a wrestler. He wore a sports jacket of bright-colored checks and a battered felt hat. His eyes were close-set, and of a strange, glassy hardness.
The bearded man confronted Rick. “Young man, you have been following us for miles. My friends and I demand to know why.”
The question put Rick on the defensive. He stammered, “Why, I-that is, I-“
“Out with it, kid,” the man in the derby growled. “Why you been shackin’ us all over the country?”
Rick put on a bold front, concealing the trembling of his knees. These men looked capable of anything.
Even the bearded man, in spite of an almost scholarly appearance, had a thin-lipped mouth that was held in a firm slit.
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“You’ve been buying up all the triode tubes in the area,” he said. “I need one badly. Could I buy one?”
The man in the sports coat pushed his face close to Rick’s. “We’re collectin’ ‘em and we don’t want to sell, see?”
Rick swallowed. “I just thought it was strange. How could you use that many tubes?”
“We use ‘em to trim Christmas trees,” the man in the derby growled. “Got anything to say about that?”
The three men had been moving gradually closer to him until now he was trapped against the jalopy. He looked from one face to the other and a wave of cold fear came over him. These men were dangerous.
He could see it in the wicked gleam of their eyes, in the cruelty of the bearded man’s thin lips.
If he could get away, into the woods . . .
There was a space of about five feet between the bearded man and the one in the sports coat. Rick lunged for it, his legs driving hard.
The man in the sports coat grabbed his sleeve, pulled him off balance, and swung him around. Rick brought his foot up in a vicious arc that smashed against the man’s thigh muscle. The man let out a cry of agony and rolled on the hard macadam, grabbing at his leg.
But the kick had thrown Rick off balance. As he teetered wildly, the man in the derby hit him from behind. Two long arms closed in a circular vise around his chest and lifted him from the ground. The bearded man stepped forward with raised fist, his thin lips drawn back from his teeth.
Both of Rick’s arms were pinioned; there was only one thing to do. He threw his head back sharply into his captor’s face. There was a muffled grunt and he felt the arms loosen. He tore himself loose and whirled just in time to see a fist streaking toward his face. He ducked-but too late!
His knees buckled as the fist smashed into his forehead. He staggered back and fought to keep his balance, but the bearded man stuck out a leg and neatly kicked his feet from under him. Before he could get up, the man in the derby had leaped on his chest, crushing the breath from him.
Rick looked dizzily up into the face of his opponent Suddenly the face was jerked away from him by a lean, brown hand.
Two things happened simultaneously, unbelievably! A strong fist smashed the derby down over the man’s eyes, while a side punch with the open hand caught the man under the chin. He crashed to the road.
Rick jerked to his feet. He caught a glimpse of a flashing smile and of a forest-green marine uniform, as he heard the stranger shout, “Watch it!”
The bearded man and the one in the sports coat were advancing toward the two boys with arms extended, their faces set in hard, vicious lines.
Rick took an uncertain step backward. But the marine’s hand lanced forward into the bearded man’s midriff. The man doubled forward.
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The man in the sports coat launched himself in a flying tackle. With a quick, dancing step, the marine dodged. Rick saw his rescuer’s arm chop down, aiming the outside edge of his hand like a blade. It landed just where the man’s thick neck connected with his shoulders and he dived to the road.
“Let’s get out of here,” the marine shouted. He grabbed Rick, who stared at him, dumb-struck with the quickness of it. The boys legged it down the road.
Rick knew a thing or two about running, but the ground-eating pace of the marine made him step up his stride to a hard sprint. They ran all-out for a minute, throwing glances over their shoulders.
The three men had picked themselves up and were staring after the two boys.
“In here.” the marine motioned. He led the wav off the road into the woods. “I don’t think they’ll try to follow.”
Through the trees they saw the men get into the sedan and drive off, leaving the highway empty except for the airport car. Rick let out a sigh of relief. “They’ve gone.” He turned to his rescuer with a forced grin.
The marine was a husky boy, perhaps an inch taller than Rick. His hair under the green overseas cap was black, his eyes were brown, set in a tanned, friendly face. His green uniform had red sergeant’s chevrons on both sleeves and there was a double row of ribbons over the left pocket. A small pack was slung over his shoulders.
“You certainly saved my bacon,” Rick said soberly. He held out his hand. “Thanks.”
The young marine-he looked scarcely old enough to be in uniform-took Rick’s hand in a firm grip. His ready smile flashed. “No strain. It was a good fight—while it lasted.” He added, “My name’s Don Scott.
Scotty, for short.”
“Mine’s Rick Brant. What did you do? I never saw anything happen so fast.”
“Judo punches,” Scotty said. “I learned them in the marines.” He looked at Rick speculatively. “What was it all about, anyway?”
Rick didn’t know how to answer, so he countered with a question of his own. “Where did you drop from?”
“You passed me,” Scotty said. “I was hiking along when you sailed by. I saw you stop up the road. Just as I was going by, the fight started, so I took a hand. Three against one didn’t look so good.”
“If you hadn’t . . .” Rick leaned against a sapling, his knees still a bit unsteady. “Where are you heading?”
Scotty shrugged. “Nowhere special. I’m looking for a job. I got discharged inWashington two days ago, so I headed forNew York , hitchhiking. I thought maybe I could find something to do in the city.”
“Is your home inNew York ?”
“Don’t have a home,” Scotty replied cheerfully. “The only relative I had was my grandmother. She passed away while I was overseas.”
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An idea took form in R
ick’s head. “Come home with me, Scotty,” he suggested. “I’ll bet my father can find a job for you.”
Scotty hesitated. “Look, I’m not asking any favors just because I took a hand in that scrap.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Rick assured him. “We’ll go home and you can talk to Dad. You’ll like him. He’s regular.”
“We’d better call the police first, hadn’t we?”
“Not now,” Rick evaded. “I want to talk to Dad.”
They walked back and got into the jalopy. Rick headed it around toward Whiteside.
“Your car?” Scotty asked.
“I borrowed it.”
The assorted noises of the car made conversation difficult and the boys fell silent until Rick turned down the road leading to the airport.
“Do you live far from here?” Scotty asked.
“On an island. It’s about fifteen minutes away.”
“By boat?”
“By air.”
The marine stared. “By air? You mean there’s an air line that flies to where you live?”
They topped the rise in front of the airport and the field spread before them. Rick pointed proudly to his Cub. “That’s our air line.”
Scotty looked at him with new respect. “You fly it?”
Rick nodded. “The government had a program to teach kids to fly. It wasn’t hard.”
“Oh, then your dad got you a plane?”
“Not on your life,” Rick asserted vigorously. “I worked that deal myself. I formed a company and sold shares, and that gave me enough money to buy the Cub. All the scientists chipped in. Now I pay them back by doing their errands and ferrying them around at reduced rates.”
Scotty was puzzled. “What scientists?”
“You’ll see,” Rick answered.
He stopped the airport car in front of the hangar, warning Scotty with a glance not to mention the fight to Gus.
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“Some can!” he said to the mechanic. “When you going to turn it over to the Whiteside museum? And give those tires away. I had a flat.”
