“So it’s got a few bugs.” The stout youth shrugged. “I notice that doesn’t stop these wise guys from thumbing a ride in my racer whenever they need a lift. You’ll have to admit it’s really sharp looking!”
“Pedestrians call it the Red Menace,” Phil wisecracked.
The car’s body metal had a worn, battered look but gleamed with a fresh coat of paint.
“Not bad for an old heap,” Joe said, grinning. “When are you going to install a refrigerator?”
“Hey, that’s an idea!” Chet said, snapping his fingers.
The Hardys’ plump pal had helped them on many investigations. Even though he preferred food to danger, Chet never let Frank and Joe down when they were in a tight spot.
“Hop in, you two. We’re wasting time!” he went on. “We can talk about food supplies later. Right now we’re on our way to Bayport Meadow.”
“What’s going on there?” Frank asked.
“The most exciting scientific event of the century!” Chet exclaimed. “Up, up, and away! Don’t miss it.”
“Chet just finished his rocket,” Iola confided. “He can’t wait to try it out. It’s in the trunk.”
Laughing, Frank and Joe crowded into the car, practically sitting on their friends’ laps. By now they were used to Chet’s mania for new hobbies. His latest was rockets, and he had been working on one in his basement for weeks. He intended to enter it in a national high-school science contest.
The jalopy sagged under the extra weight but began to move. Chet drove it noisily through Bayport and headed for the meadow outside of town, while the others chatted and joked about the contest.
Joe had managed to squeeze into a place next to Iola. He usually dated her when the gang went to picnics or dances.
“Chet just might win,” Iola told him. “He’s really worked hard on this project.”
“We’ll all be cheering him on,” Joe promised.
In a few minutes they reached the meadow, a large open area covered with dry brown grass. The soil was still slightly frozen from the winter’s cold.
Chet parked and they all got out and checked the area to make sure no one was in the way of the test.
“Looks like you’ve got a clear firing range,” Tony observed.
“As long as he aims straight,” said Frank.
“Don’t worry,” Chet boasted confidently. “I’ve designed a foolproof steering system.”
He opened the car trunk and lifted out his rocket. It was a two foot long cylinder with a pointed nose and tail fins. For a launching pad, Chet stuck two pipes in the ground, mounted a cradle on them, and placed the rocket in it. The missile tilted at an angle with its upper end pointing skyward. Then Chet attached a control wire with a switch at one end.
At last the tubby teen-ager stepped back proudly to survey his handiwork. “Ah! Ready for the countdown!”
“Man, that looks like a space probe to the planet Mars!” Frank joked admiringly.
“Powerful enough to carry an astronaut to the moon,” Joe suggested.
“Any astronaut but Chet,” said Biff. “With a payload that heavy, even a Saturn rocket would never get into orbit.”
“Quiet, you guys!” Chet commanded. “The Morton Moon Grazer is about to be launched. My electrical igniter will do the trick. Here goes!”
He pressed a remote-control switch. There were a flash and loud report, followed by a burst of smoke. The rocket shuddered, left its cradle, and shot high in the air. Chet’s friends were impressed and burst into applause.
Chet bowed. “It’ll land at the far end of the meadow,” he predicted.
They all shaded their eyes and watched. Suddenly the missile began to wobble and veer off course.
“Oh, oh! It’s looping over to the right!” Joe blurted.
The rocket appeared to be zooming down beyond the strip of woods fringing the meadowlands.
“There are farms on the other side of those trees!” cried Biff.
“What happened to your foolproof steering system?” Frank inquired.
Chet gulped and turned pale. “S-S-Something must have gone wrong!”
“No argument there. Come on! We’d better find out where your Moon Grazer lands!”
The boys and Iola ran around the edge of the meadow and headed through the stand of trees.
“Must’ve come down on Old Man Jessup’s farm!” Phil guessed. “Boy, that guy’s a real crab!”
Chet shuddered. It took them several minutes to cover the distance, and he was puffing and panting anxiously by the time they approached Jessup’s farmyard. He turned even paler as the loud squawks of frightened chickens with an angry bellowing voice reached their ears from the other side of the barn.
“Oh gosh!” Chet exclaimed. “Sounds like we’re in real trouble!”
“What do you mean we?” said Biff.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the barnyard noises were drowned by the shrill hoo-haw of an approaching police siren!
CHAPTER III
The Blow-Up
A SCENE of wild confusion greeted the teen-agers’ eyes as they rounded the barn. Feathers were flying as white Leghorns and Rhode Island reds hopped, cackled, and fluttered about the yard. Chet’s rocket had smashed their chicken coop.
Enoch Jessup, a gaunt, bushy-browed man in overalls, was shouting orders to his farmhand, who was trying to round up the frightened fowls and calm them down by scattering feed.
Just as Jessup’s glance fell on the young people, a police car with flashing lights screeched to a halt near the farmhouse. A burly man in a brass-buttoned uniform jumped out and strode toward the scene of the disaster.
“Oh, brother! It’s Police Chief Collig himself!” muttered Tony Prito.
“What’s going on here?” Collig demanded.
“You’ve got eyes! What does it look like?” Jessup retorted. “These young scamps just wrecked my chicken coop with their blame-fool contraption! Scared the wits out of my best laying hens!”
Turning to the high-schoolers, he growled, “Which one of you’s responsible for this outrage?”
“W-W-We weren’t aiming at your chicken coop, Mr. Jessup,” Chet stammered. “It was j-j-just an accident.... I mean, that is ... well, I—I guess I’m sort of responsible.”
“Sort of responsible, my foot! Your nitwit contraption smashed my henhouse, didn’t it?” Shaking his finger in Chet’s face, Enoch Jessup proceeded to bawl out the trembling youth.
“All right. All right! Take it easy,” Chief Collig cut in. “We got a CB call from some motorist who saw you kids about to fire a rocket. Good thing I grabbed a squad car and came myself. I might’ve known you’d be at the bottom of this mess, Chet Morton. You and your harebrained hobbies!”
“Actually, Chet made the rocket for a high-school science competition, Chief,” Frank Hardy spoke up. “I know the test went wrong, but he’s worked hard on this project. I think he deserves credit for making a model that flew as well as this one did. After all, our country needs rocket engineers, and they have to start somewhere.”
“Tell you what, sir,” Joe added. “If Mr. Jessup won’t press charges, we’ll all pitch in and repair his chicken coop. We’ll even help out with a few chores.”
“Sounds fair enough,” Collig agreed. “What do you say, Enoch?”
The farmer’s scowl relaxed. “Why not? Makes more sense than wasting time in court.”
Biff Hooper borrowed Chet’s car keys and hurried off to get some fresh lumber, while the others cleaned up the debris from the wrecked coop. Luckily the coop had broken the missile’s fall, so that the rocket itself was not much damaged.
“Boy, you Hardys really saved my neck,” Chet said as they drove back to Bayport.
“Forget it. It was fun,” Joe said.
“Think you can still enter your rocket in the competition?” Frank asked their chubby pal.
“Sure. I can make repairs tonight and turn it in tomorrow morning.”
Although spring vacat
ion had started, Mr. Palmer, the science teacher, had promised to be on hand at the high school to receive last-minute entries.
Frank and Joe found their mother and aunt just back from the supermarket. Aunt Gertrude was their father’s sister.
“Where have you boys been?” she demanded tartly.
“Watching an unidentified flying object, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe told her with a grin.
“What’s that supposed to mean, young man?” Her eyes flickered suspiciously over her two nephews.
The tall, sharp-tongued spinster was extremely fond of Frank and Joe and secretly longed to take a hand in their detective work, although she could seldom bring herself to admit it openly.
“Chet fired a homemade rocket,” Frank said, and he described the crash landing.
“Good heavens! I’m glad no one was hurt,” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.
Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “That boy Chet needs a firm hand.”
“Someone like you to help fire his rockets?” Joe teased.
“He could do worse,” Gertrude Hardy snapped. “Apparently you two didn’t help him steer it right.”
The boys laughed, and Frank said, “Score one for Aunt G.!”
He told them about Oliver Ponsley’s visit and their father’s call. “We have to go to Princeton first thing in the morning,” Frank added.
“Oh dear,” his mother said. “I hope you’re not going to get involved in anything dangerous.” Mrs. Hardy, an attractive woman, worried whenever her husband and sons took a new case.
“Well, what’s dangerous about going to a university?” Aunt Gertrude scoffed. “Might learn a thing or two there at Princeton, as long as they don’t start playing any foolish college pranks.”
“We won’t,” Joe promised, chuckling.
“You’re going alone?” Mrs. Hardy asked, still a bit concerned.
“We were,” Frank replied, “but now that you mention it, we might ask Chet to come along.”
“Hey, good idea!” Joe said.
He rushed to the phone and called their overweight buddy. Chet was delighted at the suggestion and agreed at once to accompany them.
“Pack an overnight bag,” Joe advised. “We may have to stay a day or two.”
“That’s okay with me,” Chet said. “I was just thinking it might be a good idea to stay out of sight the next few days. Chief Collig will probably have every cop in town breathing down my neck for a while.”
Joe then called Mr. Ponsley and told him that they could not start searching for Mike Moran until they knew more about what was expected from them in their father’s case. Ponsley agreed to the delay. “Call me as soon as you know more,” he added.
Early next morning, the Hardys got into their sleek yellow sports coupe and picked up Chet Morton. Then they headed for Princeton. Threading their way through traffic, they reached the highway, where Frank stepped on the gas and kept the car whizzing along at the speed limit. Once the rush hour was over, they made good time under the brilliant sunshine.
“Get your rocket fixed, Chet?” Joe inquired.
“You bet. Handed it in just in time. I think I’ve really got a chance to win.”
“I sure hope so. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
At a fork in the road, Frank turned onto Route 206 and soon they saw signs indicating that Princeton lay straight ahead. When they ran into Nassau Street, they knew they were at their destination. Shops lined one side of the famous Princeton thoroughfare, and university buildings occupied the opposite side.
“Now I know why it’s called Ivy League,” Chet quipped. “Look at the ivy on the dorms!”
“I wonder where the Aerospace Lab is,” Frank said. He stopped for a red light near a couple of high stone gates flanked by iron railings. Beyond the lawn they could see Nassau Hall, the main building of the campus. Its slender tower rose toward the sky and was topped by a weathervane.
A student carrying a couple of books under his arm started to cross the street with the light. Joe leaned out the window and asked him the way to the Aerospace Lab.
“Go down Nassau Street and turn right onto Washington Road,” was the reply. “The lab is near the football stadium.”
Frank followed the directions. They passed the psychology and biology departments, and arrived at a science complex, where Chet spotted a sign reading: PRINCETON AEROSPACE LABORATORY. Frank parked and the young detectives went in.
They found themselves in a rotunda, where a model of a Saturn rocket stood upright in the middle of the floor. Around the walls behind glass were exhibits of dramatic moments in the history of space exploration.
Chet pointed to one of them. “The astronauts on the moon!” he said.
“And there’s Skylab in orbit!” Joe exclaimed.
“And Telstar!” Frank marveled. “They bounce signals off it out in space, and the signals are picked up by TV systems around the world!”
A guard approached and inquired what they wanted. When Frank explained their mission, he escorted them down the hall to a door bearing the nameplate: PROFESSOR ARTHUR YOUNG. The guard knocked and went in. A moment later he returned and announced that Professor Young would see them.
They entered a study lined with books, graphs, mathematical equations, and blowups of major rocket launchings. The professor rose from his swivel chair and shook hands with the visitors. After introductions were made, he made a motion indicating that they take three chairs near his desk, and sat down again. He was tall, thin, and slightly bald. He looked intently at the boys as he tamped tobacco into his pipe and lit it.
“Your father phoned me and told me you were on your way,” he said with a smile. “I’m very glad to see you and your friend. We need fast action.”
“Professor, what is the problem?” Frank asked in a puzzled tone.
“How much do you know about the case that has developed here at the lab?” Young countered.
“Nothing,” Joe admitted.
“Well, I’ll give you all the information I have. First let me show you around the place, so you get an idea of what we’re doing. Then you’ll see what we’re up against and why we need your assistance.”
He led them out of his office and through the building. “Everyone here is devoted to the exploration of space,” Young commented. “This lab is one of the best in the world when it comes to interplanetary probes and the study of the solar system.”
The group passed a lecture hall, a library, two seminar rooms, and several offices belonging to famous scientists. Then they arrived at the lab itself, a maze of rooms in which experts were carrying out experiments on everything from liquid fuels to the problems of weightlessness in outer space.
“Boy, this sure beats Bayport High!” Chet exclaimed. “I could make myself a real rocket here. Maybe I’ll apply for a job after I win the state science competition.”
Young laughed. “Glad to have you aboard, Chet. Just be sure you get clearance from the Space Flight Center when the time comes. You’ll have to be okayed down there because we work for NASA. What we discover goes on the drawing boards at the Center.”
“No wonder Dad said the case was hush-hush,” Frank put in. “This lab must be filled with top-secret stuff.”
Young became solemn. “That’s the whole point of the investigation you’re undertaking.”
They arrived at a room where a youth was working at a modified atomic reactor. Young introduced him as Smoky Rinaldo, a senior at Princeton University.
“Smoky can show you around from here on,” the professor said. “When you’ve seen enough of the lab, meet me back at my office and we’ll discuss your assignment.”
He walked off and Smoky informed the visitors that he was doing research for a term paper.
“I’m into rockets, myself,” Chet spoke up. “Fact is, I’ve got my own missile.”
Frank chuckled. “You almost didn’t. It flew straight—straight to earth.”
“What are you talking about?” Smoky asked.
“Oh, no
thing,” Chet said hastily. “Why don’t you show us the rest of the lab? I can’t wait to see it.”
The young people wandered through the last row of rooms, which were assigned to scientists experimenting with the shape of nose cones and tail fins for partly developed rockets.
Suddenly a movement caught Frank’s attention. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man behind them. He was tall and lanky and wore a black beard and tinted glasses.
Frank paused before a blow-up of a Saturn rocket. Joe and Chet joined him. The man stopped at a workbench and furtively glanced at them.
“I think we’ve got a shadow,” the older Hardy informed Joe and Chet in an undertone.
Joe traced the curved line of a nose cone with his finger, pretending to be interested in it. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“No. It could be a coincidence. Let’s go on and keep an eye on him.”
Joe turned as they walked farther, catching a glimpse of the man. “Beard with glasses?” he asked.
“Right.”
Smoky was slightly ahead of the group, explaining the interesting features of the lab. When they left the last room and walked back to where they had started, Chet asked, “Who’s that guy with the beard over there?”
Smoky turned around to look. “I’ve no idea. Matter of fact, I’ve never seen him before.”
The man obviously realized that the boys had noticed him, and instead of following them farther, he entered a door with the sign OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.
“He must be on the staff here,” Smoky went on. “Would you like to see the reactor I’m working on? The interior is hot enough to handle uranium.”
They walked over to the instrument. “We can’t see the interior,” Joe pointed out.
“That’s because it’s running,” Smoky said. “Just follow me, and you’ll find out what’s in there.” He led the way to a diagram on the wall representing a slice through the reactor from top to bottom.
“This is how the machine is put together,” the student explained. “The core in the center marked A is where the uranium goes. The letter B stands for the pressure vessel, and C is the casing. These tubes extending from the core to the top are the fuel—”
The Firebird Rocket Page 2
