Rick Brant 1 The Rocket's Shadow

by John Blaine

  “Rick!” Hartson Brant said. “What is all this?”

  “I just remembered,” Rick explained, “that it was Stringfellow who was standing at the tail of my plane the day I went to Newark. He was the one who put the message in the tail. Only, his friends at the airport didn’t get it, and neither did Mac in the black plane.”

  “Hartson, would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Stringfellow demanded.

  “I will tell you,” Hobart Zircon cut in. “I remember now that it was you who told me that the lock on the shields was broken, not the other way around. You were arranging a reason for the shields being down, but I never saw it until now!”

  “Of course not,” Rick said. “Besides, that shields thing was an accident.”

  All faces turned to Rick.

  “He was trying to steal the microtron that night, only he heard us coming, and the shields crashed open because he was in a hurry to get away. He didn’t have time to put them back up. The next night, he got the tube.”

  Stringfellow turned white. “Do you realize what you are accusing me of?”

  “About every crime in the book,” Rick said. “Including shooting us down. Wasn’t that because one of the thugs lost his head? I think that field was the place where you were going to erect your own rocket launcher!”

  A gray look crept over Stringfellow’s features. His eyes went to the door.

  “Do any of you know this guy?” Rick heard the detective’s voice say.

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  Rick wheeled. The burly detective was holding a young man in a sports coat and turned-up hat squarely by the scruff of the neck.

  “Jerry Webster!” Rick shouted. “Am I glad to see you!”

  “No gladder than I,” Jerry said, wrenching free from the relaxed grip of the detective. “Every time I pay you a visit I get manhandled.” He held out his hand with a folded slip of paper. “Here’s your love letter.”

  Rick grabbed for the decoded note. His eyes swept the sheet and he turned to his father.

  “Listen to this, Dad,” he said. “’The experiment is being delayed to the best of my ability. I will try to steal the tube at my first opportunity. This should delay them until we can complete our work.’” Rick paused. “Signed, ‘J. S.’—John Stringfellow!”

  “John Stringfellow,” Hartson Brant repeated huskily, his unbelieving eyes on the man he had trusted.

  Rick’s moment of triumph gave way to unhappiness. He saw the hurt disbelief in Hartson Brant’s face and knew his father was deeply shaken at this overwhelming evidence of Stringfellow’s guilt.

  All eyes had turned to Hartson Brant, and Stringfellow was quick to take advantage of the brief, unguarded moment.

  The thin scientist made a dive for a drawer in his workbench. Before anyone could reach him he wrenched the drawer open and grabbed a .45 automatic.

  “I’ll blow a hole through the first man who makes a move,” he said coldly. “I’m going through that door and out of here.”

  Every eye turned to the detective who stood squarely in the middle of the door. Rick saw a little muscle near his temple flick and swell.

  “Then you’ll have to go through the hole you blow in me,” the detective said tensely. “Come on.”

  It was a battle of eyes between Stringfellow and the detective. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the thin-faced man warned in a hoarse voice, “but if I must, I will.”

  Every man in the room could see that the slightest hostile move from any of them would cause Stringfellow’s finger to constrict on the trigger.

  “If you won’t move from that door, I’ll go out the back way,” he said. “Don’t follow me beyond that spot.” He nodded to a bench separating him from the others.

  Slowly he began to back toward a side door. On the bench behind the scientist lay the electrical shock machine which Rick had constructed and laid so carelessly on the bench. He was thinking.

  The scientist felt his way slowly, ever so slowly, to the bench. Rick’s arm stole out toward the wire that trailed from the electrical device. If only he could reach the button in time.

  Stringfellow’s back bumped into the metal bench. With a wild grab, Rick reached for the button and pushed it. A cry of alarm came from Stringfellow’s lips as the electric current shot through him. In the split second when his gun bobbed in the air, Scotty hurled himself across the room, directly against the Page 91

  scientist’s legs.

  Down they went, the man swinging wildly with the butt of the automatic. But a stunning left smashed against Stringfellow’s mouth and a roundhouse right landed against his jaw.

  With a moan of pain, the thin-faced man collapsed in a heap under Scotty’s attack. The youth drew back his fist to strike again but Rick yelled, “No! He’s done for, Scotty.”

  In a moment, everyone crowded to the boys’ side, all asking how they had trapped Stringfellow.

  Hartson Brant put both arms around their shoulders and squeezed hard.

  “Every man in this room owes you a debt he cannot repay,” he said, blinking strangely.

  CHAPTER XX

  A Great Day for Spindrift

  Rick slept soundly that night. The State Police, acting instantly after Hartson Brant’s call, had gone to the secret lab and rounded up the gang. Even Mac, the missing airport attendant, had been caught. Only Scarface had slipped through the police net, and he was sure to be picked up within a short time, the lieutenant said.

  There was a great crowd gathered at the breakfast table when Rick went downstairs next morning. The scientists who had been vacationing had reassembled for the final experiment. Rick greeted them, glad to see all the familiar faces once more.

  A man with freshly shaven face and amused eyes called from the end of the table as the boys sat down.

  “I hear you’ve been studying to be a detective instead of a wire mechanic, Rick.” He was Dr.

  Wisecarver who had helped develop the rocket fuel.

  “I wish you’d tell me the secret of those inches you’ve grown since the start of the summer,” said a very short and smiling scientist. This was Professor Gordon who had designed the rocket launcher.

  With everyone excited and in a gay mood, breakfast was noisy and amusing. Even Zircon and Weiss had recovered from last night’s events and were their jovial selves again.

  Looking from the window, Rick could see a crowd of men gathering. There were reporters by the score and men unloading broadcast equipment from sound trucks. The newsreel men were setting up their cameras to get pictures of the proceedings from start to finish.

  “It’s a great day for you and your dad,” Scotty said.

  “And it almost didn’t happen.” Rick smiled. “It might not have happened if you hadn’t been around at the right time.”

  “I’ll bet old Scarface is still running,” Scotty remarked.

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  “I certainly hope so,” Rick said seriously.

  Scotty nodded his readiness to leave, and the two boys rose from the table and strolled into the big yard.

  “Say, Jerry Webster ought to be in this gang of reporters,” Rick said. “Let’s look for him.”

  They began meandering through the crowd of reporters and guests, trying to find the young reporter.

  “Funny he didn’t come looking for me,” Rick commented. He saw Professor Zircon talking to a group of dignified-looking visitors and headed his wav.

  “Excuse me, Professor Zircon,” Rick said. “Didn’t you drive the speedboat over to pick up the reporters?”

  “Why, yes,” the professor answered.

  “Did you see Jerry Webster? You remember. The young reporter who was dragged into the laboratory yesterday-the one with the note.”

  Zircon rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “No, I don’t believe I saw his face in the boat,” he said. “Wait. I have the list of reporters here. They all had to show passes and sign this list.”

  He reached for a list of names on a near-by table. Rick peered
over his shoulder.

  “Yes! There’s his name,” Rick said when he came to it. He pointed to the name Jerry Webster, which was written in a flourishing script.

  “Well, he’s here then,” Zircon said.

  Rick looked closely at the signature. “If that’s Jerry’s signature, his writing has really improved since he left school.”

  Zircon shrugged his shoulders. “He’s around somewhere. He couldn’t have signed this without showing a pass.”

  Rick thanked the scientist and rejoined Scotty at the edge of the crowd.

  “Why the crinkles in the brow?” Scotty asked as Rick walked toward him.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m just jumpy,” Rick replied. “But I’d swear that signature I saw on the reporter list wasn’t put there by Jerry Webster.”

  “Look, pal,” Scotty said, putting a hand on Rick’s shoulder, “don’t start thinking up more trouble just when things are all settled down, will you?”

  Rick grinned. “I won’t. I wish I could find Jerry though.”

  They edged their way through the crowd and wandered toward Pirate’s Field.

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  There was a curious group around the launcher. The island scientists were explaining it to those standing near by. As the boys approached, Dr. Wisecarver was saying:

  “Prior to this, gentlemen, this experiment would not have been possible because of the lack of a suitable fuel. Had we used gasoline, for instance, more than eight thousand tons would have been needed to throw this rocket into space.” He patted the gleaming metal of the base.

  The boys joined the crowd, but Rick heard the doctor with only half an ear. He was looking at the faces around him for a sign of Jerry Webster.

  “It is necessary,” the doctor continued, “for our little baby here to reach a speed of more than seven miles a second in order to break out of the earth’s gravitational field.”

  “But the rocket would burn up at that speed,” a voice objected. “Friction with the atmosphere would heat it to the melting point!”

  “That has been taken into consideration,” the doctor said. “Since the fuel and the jet engine are controllable by radar, we will start the rocket off at a moderate speed.”

  A reporter spoke up. “What do you consider a moderate speed, Dr. Wisecarver?”

  The doctor’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, perhaps two miles a second.”

  Another reporter had been figuring rapidly on his pad. “Then the rocket will reach the moon in about thirty-five seconds, Doctor?”

  “That would be true,” Dr. Wisecarver replied, “if we maintained the speed needed to tear it away from the earth’s gravity. But you must remember that, large as the moon is, it is a small target when we consider the distance. Therefore we slow the rocket down in order that we may control it better. Hartson Brant has calculated his firing table so that the rocket will take almost a minute and a half to reach the moon.”

  Rick was familiar with this information and with a jerk of his head he drew Scotty away from the launcher.

  “Now what?” Scotty asked.

  “Let’s take a walk around the island. It’ll be some time before the excitement really begins.”

  Scotty followed him down the path toward the boat landing. “Maybe we do need a little sea breeze to relax us,” he remarked.

  As they neared the shore, a strong breeze tugged at their hair and they breathed deeply. “Peace. It’s wonderful,’ Scotty said, smiling.

  “Oh, yeah?” Rick was pointing excitedly down toward the dock. “I knew there was something wrong with that signature. Look!”

  A few feet off the dock was a figure standing in a row-boat, waving his arms wildly and, obviously, attempting to convince the dock keeper that he belonged on the island. The figure was Jerry Webster!

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  “Rick!” Jerry shouted as he saw the boys. “Tell this guy who I am!”

  Rick ran to the edge of the dock. “It’s all right, Mr. Huggins,” he said to the island’s tenant farmer, who was acting as dock guard. “Come on in, Jerry!”

  Jerry pulled on his oars, and as he drew closer, Rick could see an ugly welt across his eye and a bump on his head. His clothing was disheveled as though he had been in a fight.

  “What happened?” Rick asked as he reached out to pull the boat into the dock.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Jerry panted. “I was supposed to attend this shindig today and I thought I’d get here early. I was walking down the path toward the boat landing on the mainland, when all of a sudden—boom! I woke up with these.” He pointed to his wounds.

  Scotty looked at Rick. “You were right,” he said. “There’s somebody on this island who doesn’t belong here.”

  “If I lay my hands on him—“ Jerry stopped and gritted his teeth. “That guy’s got my press pass. But the worst of it is, I haven’t the faintest idea who he is!”

  “I think I have,” Rick said. “Only one man in the world would want to get on this island that badly.

  Scarface!”

  CHAPTER XXI

  Scarface Tries Once More

  For a moment Scotty and Rick looked at each other.

  Then Scotty spoke up. “Scarface must be in the crowd at the laboratory right now.”

  “Right! And if I know Scarface, he’s going to make a last-ditch attempt to wreck the experiment.”

  They started on a dead run for the laboratory, with Jerry limping along behind. Just as they reached the fringe of the crowd gathered before the rocket launcher, Rick stopped short.

  “Oh, what boneheads we are,” he said. “Jerry should have stayed out of sight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Scarface is in the crowd, hell see Jerry and know we’re wise to him.”

  “Look, Rick,” Scotty said. “This thing is too big for us. Let’s tell your father and have the island searched.”

  Rick peered over the heads of the crowd, trying to locate his father. He spied him, finally, talking to a group of reporters. “Stay here. I’ll get him.” He edged his way through the crowd toward his father.

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  As he arrived at the group surrounding his father, he heard him say, “My associates have given me the honor of operating the controls which will launch the rocket. Unfortunately”-he smiled as he spoke-“you cannot stand as near the rocket as you would like to do, for the temperature, at the time the rocket is launched, will be twenty-three hundred degrees Fahrenheit in this spot here.”

  There were low whistles from the reporters as they scribbled the information on their pads. It was at this moment that Hartson Brant noticed Rick motioning to him from the edge of the crowd.

  The scientist excused himself and moved to his son’s side.

  Rick took the smile from his father’s face with two words. “Dad, trouble,” he whispered.

  Hartson Brant’s eyes grew serious. “What is it, Rick?”

  Rick took his arm and led him away from the crowd. He told him briefly what had happened to Jerry.

  “We must post guards around every installation on the island,” Hartson Brant said. “Then we must find the man with Jerry’s press pass.”

  Rick watched his father hurry through the crowd toward the police lieutenant who was assisting in the handling of the crowd. He made his way back to where Scotty and Jerry were standing and told them of his father’s decision.

  “We’re the only ones who have ever seen Scarface,” Scotty said. “We’d better help in the search.”

  Rick nodded. “And you’d better get those bumps fixed up, Jerry/ he advised.

  “And miss out on a story like this?” Jerry exclaimed. “Not on your life! I’m sticking.”

  Rick grinned and motioned to the boys to follow. The police were already spreading out through the crowd and a few had stationed themselves about the rocket launcher and the lab. In a moment, the boys were at Hartson Brant’s side.

  “Let’s not be too obvious about this,” the scientist was saying to
the lieutenant. “I don’t want to excite this crowd.”

  “I get it,” the lieutenant said. “Unless he’s disguised, it should be easy to find a scar-faced man.”

  The three boys split up and spread out through the crowd. Rick stared at every face. When he reached the group of men from the Stoneridge Foundation, he peered even more closely. It seemed every one of the dignified gentlemen was wearing a beard. He couldn’t go around tugging at all these whiskers to see if they were real, that was certain. But as he wandered innocently through the group of chatting men, he could see that that wouldn’t be necessary. There wasn’t a false beard in the crowd. Scarface, he decided, would hardly choose so obvious a disguise as a beard, anyway.

  Every second the scar-faced man was free, however, meant that much more of a chance for him to do damage. Rick tried hard not to think of what the man might have planned. He quickened his search of the faces and in five minutes had reached the rope stretched before the rocket launcher. It had been installed to keep the crowd back from the delicate mechanism.

  He shook his head as he saw Scotty coming toward him. “No sign of him,” he said. “How about you?”

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  “He’s not in this crowd,” Scotty replied. He looked across Pirate’s Field toward the woods. “Do you suppose he’d be hiding in there, waiting his chance?”

  “Someone else thought of that,” Rick answered, pointing to some plain-clothes men entering the woods.

  It was more than an hour before the men returned. Rick could see by their faces that the search had been unsuccessful.

  Hartson Brant called a conference near the edge of the crowd. “With that man free, we must double our guard,” he said. “Heaven knows what he might be planning.”

  “He won’t do much with us around the place,” the lieutenant assured him. “Spread out, boys. And keep your eyes open.”

  The men moved to their stations, and Rick thought that with the increased guard it would be impossible for Scarface to do anything. But he couldn’t convince himself. He had seen too many samples of the scar-faced man’s ingenuity in the past. Once more this man was forcing them into a waiting position.