Rick Brant 1 The Rocket's Shadow

by John Blaine

  As the afternoon wore on, Rick’s tension increased rather than diminished. At least ten times he left the house and wandered through the grounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the scar-faced man. Each time he returned, Scotty would plead with him to sit down and relax.

  The sun was beginning its day’s-end plunge in the west and the crowd had begun stirring in anticipation when the three boys left the house together. Since having his wounds dressed, Jerry Webster had been strangely thoughtful. He walked along silently by Rick’s side and just as they started to enter the door of the laboratory, he stopped and snapped his fingers loudly.

  “I’ve got it at last!” he exclaimed. “The thing I was trying to think of!”

  Rick was jumpy from his tensed nerves and he started slightly. “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “Shoes!” Jerry answered. “I saw his shoes as I fell to the ground! They were two-tone browns with funny,, hard toes-as if they were reinforced with steel.”

  “What are we supposed to do, go around looking for shoes instead of faces?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah, that’d be silly, wouldn’t it,” the young reporter answered. “Forget it.”

  The boys wandered into the lab with a nod to the detective guarding the door. The shadows were growing longer now, and the lab’s interior was quite dim. In less than an hour the moon would rise and then the rocket would be launched.

  Three workers squatted before the chamber that housed the electron gun. They were dressed in leaded suits and helmets. As the boys came to the door of the room housing the chamber, one of the workers rose and came toward them. It was impossible to tell who it was behind the quartz glass window in the helmet, but when the man raised his hand in salutation, Rick nodded and stood aside to let him pass.

  At that moment there was a disturbance at the door behind them. Hobart Zircon was standing in the doorway, waving his arms.

  “Clear a path, gentlemen,” he announced. “The firing section of the rocket is to be installed now.”

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  The worker who had brushed by them returned to the room and helped the other two men lift a gleaming cylinder from the radiation chamber. Rick knew that the reason for the leaded suits was to protect the workers from the radioactive elements contained in the cylinder. This was the firing section and it emanated invisible deadly rays that would help fire the rocket-fuel mixture.

  Hartson Brant moved in beside Hobart Zircon. His eyes moved anxiously over the heavy cylinder and then swung out over the crowd outside the door. Rick knew what was going through his mind. If Scarface were going to make an attempt at sabotage, now would be a good time.

  The transfer of the firing section from the lab to the launcher was accomplished without incident, however. The crowd gave the workers a wide berth as they carried it, well knowing that death lay within its walls.

  The men reached the edge of the field, where the rocket launcher stood, and set it gingerly in its socket.

  Then one of the men reached up and unfastened a rope that held the canvas tight around the top part of the rocket.

  Silence fell over the crowd as the rocket stood revealed in the last rays of the sun.

  Its weight was more than a hundred tons, but the streamlining of the huge space ship made it appear as thin as a pencil. It seemed incredible that enough power could be generated in the tiny firing section to propel this great ship to the moon.

  Hartson Brant fidgeted impatiently as the firing section was installed. As soon as danger from radiation was over, he and Hobart Zircon hurried to the foot of the launcher. The crowd pressed close to the ropes, conscious of the drama being unfolded before them. Rick saw his father make a last inspection of the rocket’s innards and then nod to Hobart Zircon.

  As Hartson Brant turned from the rocket, with a last look at the ship that had taken him so long to bring to reality, Rick knew the emotions that his father must be feeling.

  It seemed now that if the scar-faced man had intended to make a last wild attempt to wreck the rocket, his opportunity had passed. The rocket was intact now and the flip of a switch would send it hurtling on its appointed errand, far out into space.

  Hartson Brant and Hobart Zircon walked smilingly away from the poised rocket, the three lead-garbed men following. Rick saw one of them stoop, as though making a last inspection of the firing unit, and then his attention was distracted by a commotion at the edge of the crowd.

  “What’s up?” Scotty exclaimed.

  Julius Weiss was pushing through the crowd, followed by a man whom Rick recognized as one of the laboratory workers.

  The little scientist was beside himself as he ran to Hartson Brant.

  “Hartson!” he cried hoarsely. “Hobart! Listen! I found Jones in a closet! In a closet, do you hear? There was a noise, and I opened the door, and—“

  “Someone slugged me,” the workman said. “I was just getting into my suit, and someone sneaked up Page 98

  behind me. I woke up in the closet, tied up.”

  “Scarface!”

  Everyone looked at Rick as he uttered the name, comprehension dawning in their faces. Scarface had knocked Jones unconscious and then taken his suit!

  “The shoes,” Jerry Webster yelled suddenly. “The shoes! Look!” He was pointing at the feet of one of the lead-helmeted workers, who was just walking away from the crowd.

  Rick stared at the feet of the worker.

  The man’s shoes were two-toned brown and equipped with hard toes!

  “It’s him!” Jerry Webster yelled. “It’s the guy that slugged me!”

  The man in the leaded suit suddenly broke into a run. He reached for the bulky helmet, attempting to wrench it off. With a vault, Scotty was over the ropes and sprinting after the running figure. A flying tackle brought the man down with a crash.

  Into the dirt they went, the hooded man struggling with his helmet. The force of Scotty’s tackle wrenched off the two heavy clasps and the helmet came free. In desperation, the man swung it high over his head and aimed it squarely at Scotty’s face.

  The vicious blow was never completed, for as the man’s arm drew back, Scotty’s fist shot forward, straight into the pit of his stomach. Heavy as the cloth of the suit was, it could not protect the man from the paralyzing force of the punch. With a painful whoosh of escaping breath, his arm flopped to his side and the helmet rolled away.

  A second punch landed and his whole body went limp. Hartson Brant, Rick, and Jerry Webster were the first ones to reach Scotty’s side. He was sitting astride the figure in the leaded suit, pointing a finger straight at the man’s face.

  “Scarface,” he said simply.

  Hartson Brant looked into the scarred face and let out a shocked gasp.

  “Manfred Wessel!”

  A long-forgotten memory flashed into Rick’s mind. No wonder he had thought this scarred face familiar.

  Manfred Wessel had once worked for his father, many years before. Then he had drifted away and had been heard of next in Germany. He was suspected of aiding in the development of the Nazi rocket bombs, but since precise proof was lacking, he had not been indicted as a war criminal. Later he had turned up in America and had applied to Hartson Brant for a position on the island staff. Naturally, he had been refused.

  Somehow, since then, he had been badly scarred. Rick guessed that a chemical explosion had been responsible. No wonder Wessel had been familiar yet unrecognizable.

  “You were the one,” Hartson Brant accused. “You were duplicating our experiment, and when the time came, you were going to step forth and claim credit, after first destroying our rocket. Until now, Manfred Page 99

  Wessel, the world of science has had only strong suspicions of your dealings, but this, I think, will be ample proof.”

  He must have sneaked into the lab as soon as he got on the island, Rick thought, and waited for an opportunity. Scarface would have known that some of the workers would be dressed in the shield suits, and he had hidden himself, perhaps in
the very closet where he had put Jones.

  Wessel stood with slumped shoulders, the picture of despair.

  “The rest of your gang is already behind bars,” Hart-son Brant continued. “I think our police lieutenant will gladly take you to join them.”

  Suddenly Wessel made a driving leap. He broke through the surprised ring of spectators and ran through the orchard toward the air strip.

  Instantly Rick and Scotty were after him, outdistancing the older men. But Wessel’s move had taken them by surprise and he had a good lead.

  “The plane,” Scotty gasped. “He’ll try to get away in the Cub!”

  “No,” Rick said breathlessly. “He couldn’t start it in time.”

  Wessel swerved and ran in an arc that would take him to the south shore, behind the laboratory. The boys were gaining now, running for all they were worth. Behind them they heard the cries of the others.

  They passed the lab and Rick yelled, “Go right, Scotty!” He himself turned left, realizing that Wessel was approaching the south cliff. They would cut him off.

  But the renegade was running toward the sea, not trying to reach safety. Rick put on a burst of speed and saw that Scotty was gaining, too.

  Manfred Wessel reached the cliff and leaped far out into space!

  The boys stopped short at the bluff and looked down at the creaming surf that shattered against the island. They turned away, feeling sick. Nothing could live in that rock-fanged sea!

  Hartson Brant came up with the others and looked silently down at the surf.

  “He was a disgrace to the sciences,” Mr. Brant said, as he turned away, “and he was a dangerous man.

  But I would not wish to see him end that way.”

  On the heels of his statement Rick exclaimed, “Dad, the launcher! I saw him hanging back when the rest of you left.”

  He and Scotty led the rush back to the field where the gleaming moon rocket rested in its high cradle.

  There, at the base, Hartson Brant found a small box. He ripped the cover off and touched the mass of gelatin within. Then, with an angry gesture, he ripped loose the wires that connected the box to the cylinder.

  “Phrenodyne,” he said in a hushed voice. “The fastest-acting explosive known.”

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  “His plan is clear,” Zircon boomed. “The phrenodyne would have acted a split second before the rocket fuel exploded-just soon enough to shatter the base and send the rocket off at an angle too acute to be corrected by our instruments. We would surely have missed the tar-get.”

  “And lost the grant,” Hartson Brant added. “Then Wessel would have made a try.”

  “But the plan didn’t succeed,” little Julius Weiss put in. “Thanks to our young friends here.”

  A shaggy little figure trotted up, late as usual. “Don’t forget Dismal,” Rick smiled.

  Then they were all walking back toward the lab, except for the reporters who were running for telephones to report the sensational development.

  “I wonder if Wessel knew-“ Scotty mused.

  “Knew what?”

  “Nothing. Only he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would commit suicide.”

  “He did, though,” Rick answered. He shuddered. “We saw him. Let’s not talk about it any more, huh?

  Let’s go shoot our rocket.”

  “Okay,” Scotty said. “Only—Well, never mind.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  The Launching of the Rocket

  There was a hushed silence in the main room of the big laboratory. Rick found himself holding his breath as Barby leaned over the control panel where his father was seated.

  “This one, Daddy?” she asked.

  “That one, Barby,” Hartson Brant said.

  Barby threw the switch.

  For a tense instant there was silence; then a mighty, diminishing roar shook the island. It was echoed by a great shout from the assembled watchers.

  The moon rocket was on its way!

  Rick, with Scotty and Jerry close on his heels, ran for the stairs. He paused long enough to pat Barby on the shoulder and exclaim, “Good shooting, Sis.”

  At Rick’s suggestion, the honor of firing the rocket had been given to Barby, although Hartson Brant had Page 101

  first offered it to the two boys.

  He went up the flight of stairs and burst out on the roof where the observatory was set up. Julius Weiss hunched over the eyepiece of a large telescope and there was exultation in the very set of his small body.

  Without taking his eye away, he said, “I have it. I see the trail perfectly.”

  Rick’s glance sought the moon, which was rising above the horizon. Out there was the rocket, speeding through infinite space.

  “Professor Weiss,” he asked, “may we have a look?”

  Julius Weiss tore himself away from the precious sight. “I mustn’t be selfish. But quickly, boys, quickly!”

  One after another, Rick, Scotty, and Jerry saw the fiery trail that was a faint line against the dark of the heavens. Then they relinquished the telescope to Weiss and ran back downstairs.

  Hartson Brant bent over his controls, his eyes riveted to “’he instruments and to his radar screen.

  Hobart Zircon sat before a larger screen, a big oval that glowed with a greenish light. On it were two bands of light from which little pulsations flickered.

  Without looking up, he indicated the largest point of light. “This ‘blip’ is the moon.” His index finger chose a second, smaller point. “The rocket.”

  The boys stood very still, watching. The smaller “blip” was moving with deceptive slowness across the screen to the larger one.

  They were getting closer. Now there were only inches between them. Now only fractions . . .

  They merged!

  From the roof came a piercing shout. The boys charged back up the stairs to find Julius Weiss doing a very unscientific war dance.

  “A direct hit,” he shouted joyously. “Oh, beautiful! Beautiful! Right in the Mare Imbrium. I saw the explosion. I saw it! Oh, magnificent!”

  “What’s the Mare Imbrium?” Jerry Webster asked dazedly.

  No one bothered to explain that it was the largest flat plain on the moon. They were all running downstairs again to where men crowded around a flushed and happy Hartson Brant.

  “Hartson,” a distinguished-looking man was saying, “there can be no doubt that the grant goes to you and your associates.”

  “Did you hear that, Scotty?”

  “I heard it, Rick. It’s great!”

  “You have proved that radar control of a projectile is possible at great distances beyond the Page 102

  atmosphere. This may very well be the pioneer step that will someday see the first man on the moon’s surface.”

  “I want to take a look,” Rick whispered. “Come on.”

  With Scotty, he hurried back to the telescope on the roof. Rick looked first, long and searchingly.

  “Right in the center,” he said. “Take a look, Scotty.”

  Scotty applied his eye to the opening. “Where? Oh, that dark spot? It looks like a shadow.”

  “That’s it.” Rick was exultant. “The new crater caused by the explosion. That’s the rocket’s shadow, old son!”

  As they solemnly shook hands, a burly figure joined them.

  It was Hobart Zircon. “Well, lads,” he said, “I think we can start packing our bags, now that this is over.”

  Rick saw the twinkle in the huge scientist’s eyes. “Start packing, sir?”

  “Yes, for a short trip.” Zircon smiled. He pointed to the moon, which rode so serenely above the horizon. “We’re not through with old Luna yet. It might be exciting. Although I suppose both of you have had enough excitement for the present?”

  “No, sir,” they said.

  Hobart Zircon beckoned them closer and lowered his voice. “Our next stop is high Tibet, half the world away. Lads, we’re going to set up a moon relay!”

  THE END

&
nbsp; of The Rocket’s Shadow

  by John Blaine

  no.1 in the Rick Brant series

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