The Secret of Sigma Seven

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Contents

  * * *

  1. The Missing “Secret”

  2. Eat Photons, Alien Dog!

  3. Elevator to Nowhere

  4. If Cars Could Fly . . .

  5. The Huckster Room

  6. Vanishing Act

  7. Maker of Worlds

  8. The Missing Master

  9. Thunder and Lightning

  10. The Pressure Mounts

  11. A Meeting in the Woods

  12. Fatal Surprise

  13. Invader from Mars

  14. The Magic Box

  15. Over the Edge

  16. Splash Landing

  1 The Missing “Secret”

  * * *

  “Take me to your leader, humanoids,” the alien creature said in a muffled voice. “Or to an establishment where I can obtain some of the substance you Earthlings refer to as ‘food.’ ”

  Frank Hardy, a tall, muscular eighteen-year-old with dark hair and eyes, looked thoughtfully at the alien. It appeared to Frank to be a cross between a tall, hefty poodle puppy and a robot. Covered with damp, curly gray fur, it had glowing eyes that blinked alternately blue and red. On its head were a pair of floppy silver antennae that bounced back and forth every time it moved. It wore metallic three-fingered gloves on its front paws and clanking steel boots on its hind paws. As it stared at Frank and his seventeen-year-old brother, Joe, it made a panting sound.

  “I think it’s an invader from the Planet of Wet Poodles,” Frank said. “It’s come to earth to lick us to death and keep us awake all night with its barking.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” his brother said. Joe was slightly shorter than Frank and had light blond hair and blue eyes. “Whatever it is, it will probably fly back to its home planet soon. It can’t breathe our Earth atmosphere. Too much oxygen.”

  “Come on, you guys,” the alien said. “You know I’m supposed to be the Hairy Horror from Zepton.” The creature reached up with a metallic paw and yanked its head straight off its shoulders. Underneath was the familiar round face of Chet Morton. Frank smiled at his friend, and Joe laughed out loud.

  “Whew, it’s hot under there!” Chet gasped. “I don’t know how the guy who sold me this costume managed to breathe when he wore it.”

  “Maybe that’s why he sold it to you,” Joe suggested.

  “You’re not going to wear that at this convention all weekend, are you?” Frank asked.

  “Nah,” Chet said. “I’m wearing it tonight because it’s the first night of the convention. And I’ll wear it to the Cosmic Costume Contest tomorrow night. First prize is a trip to Florida to watch a space shuttle launch.”

  “Great,” Joe said. “Maybe the shuttle will take you along. Then you can become a real space cadet.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” Frank said, “but it looks as if you’re going to have plenty of competition.”

  “You think so?” Chet said, frowning as he glanced around the room.

  The three teenagers were standing in the crowded lobby of the Bayport Inn, a large, four-story motel on the outskirts of their hometown. The setting sun shone through the tall windows that formed one wall of the room. A bank of elevators was set into the opposite wall, and hallways branched off in two directions from the lobby. The room had a high, arching ceiling with exposed wooden beams, dark green leather couches and chairs, and a stone fireplace.

  Brightly colored signs and posters, many of them featuring futuristic spacecraft and monsters from outer space, had been put up all over the lobby. Directly over Frank’s head a cloth banner read Welcome to BayCon, Bayport’s first science fiction convention! The Hardys and Chet watched as an assortment of strange creatures strolled through the lobby. Only a few feet away stood a young woman with large feathered wings growing straight out of her shoulder blades. One of her companions was a seven-foot-tall robot with metallic legs and arms. The other was a green, scaly creature with a long tail and a lizardlike snout who had a large bird perched on his shoulder. Other conventioneers were dressed as purple-skinned barbarians and giant space-age insects.

  “Just a typical day in the neighborhood,” Frank commented. “If the neighborhood happens to be somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy.”

  “This is really funny,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I’m starting to feel like a weirdo dressed in my normal street clothes.”

  “Don’t worry,” said an unfamiliar voice from behind Frank’s shoulder. “Some of these science fiction fans are almost normal underneath the costumes. Of course, the emphasis should be on the word almost.”

  Frank Hardy turned around to see a teenager with a friendly freckled face and short-cropped brown hair. The young man was three or four inches shorter than Frank and wore a yellow knit shirt and a pair of black jeans. Tucked under one arm was a large manila envelope.

  “Hey, don’t I know you?” Frank asked, eyeing the newcomer carefully. “Aren’t you in one of my classes in school?”

  “Right,” the teenager said with a smile. “Brian Amchick. I moved to Bayport a few months ago. I’m in your trig class. First row on the right, second seat. You’re Frank Hardy, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me,” Frank said. Then he added with a laugh, “You’re the guy who always has the right answers to the questions and makes the rest of us look bad.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Brian said, chuckling. He turned to the others. “Are these your friends?”

  “This is my brother, Joe. And the robot puppy from Alpha Centauri is our friend Chet Morton.”

  Chet raised one of his shiny paws. “Greetings from Zepton,” he said in a deep voice. Joe rolled his eyes.

  “Hi, guys,” Brian said with a grin. “Nice to meet you. You just get here?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “We’re still trying to figure out what’s going on. Maybe you can show us around. This is our first sci-fi convention.”

  Brian winced. “Well, for starters, you’d better not refer to it as ‘sci-fi.’ Science fiction fans hate that term. We prefer to call it SF or just plain science fiction. And a convention is called a con.”

  “Uh, sorry,” Joe said. “Guess I’ve got a lot to learn about sci-fi—er, science fiction.”

  “What do people do at a science fiction convention—I mean ‘con’—anyway?” Frank asked. He pulled a booklet out of his pocket and showed it to Brian. “I looked at this program we got when we registered, but I can’t figure out some of this stuff. It mentions a con party and a huckster room and something called filk singing.”

  Brian chuckled. “Mostly the con is a chance for science fiction fans—and, in a few cases, people who write SF books—to get together and have a good time.”

  “All right!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

  “There must be more to it than that, right?” Frank asked. “According to the program, there are scheduled events.”

  Brian nodded. “There’ll be panels tomorrow and Sunday in the auditorium, where SF writers and experts will talk about science fiction.” He patted the envelope he was carrying. “And if you’re a collector of science fiction memorabilia like I am, you can pick up some great posters from old movies and back issues of SF magazines.”

  “We’re not really collectors,” Joe said.

  “Of course,” Brian went on, “there’s the film tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said, his face brightening. “The Secret of Sigma Seven! The three of us have seen the first four films in the Galactic Saga series. We can’t wait to see the new one.”

  “It’s not every day that a major motion picture has its premiere in Bayport,” Frank added. “We heard that the director, Simon Devoreaux, will be here in person to introduce it, and that he’s givin
g a talk on his films.”

  “You heard right,” Brian said. He glanced at his watch. “In fact, the movie should be starting in less than an hour.”

  “In that case,” Chet said, “I think I’ll head out to the van and change my clothes. If I don’t get this costume off soon, I’ll start to melt.”

  “Better hurry up,” Joe called as Chet began to edge his way through the crowd milling around in the lobby. “We’ll save you a seat—if we can.”

  Frank was about to ask Brian about one of the scheduled events when a loud, sharp voice suddenly cut through the noise of the crowd. “Feinbetter, you old phony! I knew you’d show up to try to convince the fans you know how to write. Why don’t you give up writing and find an honest way to make a living?

  “Lay off, Hennessy,” a second voice snapped.

  “Who was that?” Frank asked Brian. “They sound like two guys looking for a fight.”

  “Oh, that’s just Arlen Hennessy and Richard Feinbetter,” Brian said. “They go through this routine at every con. Don’t worry. They make a lot of noise, but they’re really harmless.”

  The Hardys and Brian turned toward the crowd that had gathered in a semicircle at one corner of the lobby. A pair of men stood at the center of the crowd. One was a man of about sixty-five with thinning gray hair. He was wearing a plaid shirt and cotton pants too large for his thin frame. The other was a younger man who looked to be in his thirties. He had sharply cut facial features and tightly curled brown hair.

  “How did you get in here, Hennessy?” the older man asked. “Did you walk in the front door or just ooze under it, like the slime you are?”

  “Those two don’t like each other much, do they?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Brian said, a sly smile on his face. “It’s just an act. SF fans have come to expect Feinbetter and Hennessy to be at each other’s throats, so they have to live up to expectations. Later tonight they’ll be at the con party like everybody else, having a great time.”

  Frank glanced at the two men as they continued their argument. “Are they both writers?”

  “Yeah,” Brian said. He gestured toward the older man. “Feinbetter’s an old pro, one of the last writers from the so-called Golden Age of Science Fiction. Used to write for Astounding Science Fiction magazine. He’s the guest of honor at this convention.”

  “What about the other guy?” Frank asked. “Arlen Hennessy?”

  “He’s one of the hottest writers in the field right now,” Brian said. “He’s won a lot of awards for his stories, and he’s only about half Feinbetter’s age. He’s got a big mouth that’s been known to get him in some trouble.”

  “Sounds as if they both have big mouths,” Frank said. He watched for a moment as Hennessy and Feinbetter exchanged another round of insults and the fans surrounding them laughed.

  “What about this movie?” Joe asked. “Maybe we’d better start looking for seats.”

  “Good idea,” Brian said. “Follow me.” He led them to the rear of the lobby and down a hallway, then through a door marked Conference Room A. “This is where the film will be shown,” he said.

  Joe looked over the rows of folding chairs that had been set up in the large room. About half of the seats were already filled, and a crowd of people continued to pour in through the doors. Frank, Joe, and Brian found a row of seats about midway back and grabbed four of them.

  Frank settled in his chair and looked around the room. A wide screen had been set up in front. In the center aisle sat a pair of large movie projectors on carts. Next to the screen was a colorful poster with the title The Secret of Sigma Seven written across it in bright red letters. Beneath the title was a picture of a long-haired, muscular young man dressed in black armor. In the background were stars, spaceships, and brightly colored explosions.

  “I can’t wait to see this movie,” Joe said, sitting next to his brother. “The last one in the series, Warriors from the Forgotten Star, had incredible special effects, and I heard that the effects in this one are even better.”

  “Did I miss anything?” Chet asked as he slid into the chair next to Joe. He was holding a huge bag of popcorn, which he offered to his friends.

  “You’re just in time,” Frank said as he took a handful of popcorn and motioned toward the screen.

  In front of the screen a dark-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties was setting up a microphone. She tapped on the mike a couple of times, then spoke into it, causing the speakers on the wall behind her to emit a high-pitched whining noise. After she adjusted the microphone, she cleared her throat and began talking.

  “I, um, would like to welcome all of you to BayCon and to our special showing of Simon Devoreaux’s new film, The Secret of Sigma Seven,” she said nervously, glancing sideways to a door on the left.

  There was a burst of applause and whistling at the mention of the film’s title. When the crowd quieted down, the young woman adjusted her eyeglasses and continued speaking.

  “I’m Linda Klein, the convention chairwoman and president of the Bayport Science Fiction Society, or BSFS, as we like to call ourselves,” the young woman said, pronouncing the name of the society as “bissfiss.”

  “We’re really excited about the premiere of this film,” she went on. “Because science fiction fans have liked his Galactic Saga films so much, Mr. Devoreaux felt it would be appropriate to premiere the latest movie in the saga at a science fiction convention. We’re really proud that he chose BayCon for this momentous event.”

  She looked at her watch, then glanced at the door again. “Er, maybe you’d like to hear a little about the history of BSFS before we show the movie.”

  “We want to see the movie!” somebody in the audience shouted.

  “Well, we’re not quite ready yet,” the young woman continued. “Mr. Devoreaux was supposed to be here by now and was going to introduce the film himself, but I’m afraid that he—”

  Her glance suddenly shifted to the door of the room. Frank turned and followed her gaze. A tanned and handsome middle-aged man with platinum hair and a commanding manner strode down the center aisle, accompanied by a small entourage of men in suits. Frank recognized Simon Devoreaux immediately from pictures he’d seen in magazines. The two large men walking close to him looked like body-guards, while the others trailing along behind were probably private secretaries or studio executives. One of them, a tall, ruddy-faced man with a mustache and curly reddish hair, looked slightly familiar to Frank. Devoreaux walked up to the microphone and stood next to Linda Klein.

  “Mr. Devoreaux!” the young woman exclaimed. “It’s . . . it’s great to see you. We’re all ready to see your new film.”

  The audience began to applaud as Devoreaux stepped up to the microphone. Linda Klein moved off to one side of the movie screen. Frank noticed the angry expression on Devoreaux’s face as he began to speak.

  “I’m afraid there’s not going to be a film tonight,” the movie director announced in a deep, clear voice.

  “No film?” somebody in the audience called out. “I passed up a trip to Florida to be here!”

  Devoreaux shrugged. “Well, there’s no way anyone’s going to see this film tonight—or anytime soon.”

  “Why not?” someone asked.

  “Because there is no film!” Devoreaux exclaimed. “The Secret of Sigma Seven has vanished, disappeared. In short, the movie has been stolen!”

  2 Eat Photons, Alien Dog!

  * * *

  “Stolen?” Frank jumped to his feet. “How did that happen?”

  “We took every precaution against theft—or thought we had,” Devoreaux replied. “But some crook got to the film, anyway. One of my assistants—a former assistant, I should say— stupidly left it inside my limousine. When we entered the motel, the assistant realized he had forgotten to bring the film. I rushed back to the parking lot myself to get it, but it was gone. Someone had taken it out of the limousine.”

  “I want my money back!”
somebody shouted. “I paid good money to get into this convention, and it sure wasn’t to hang around with all these freaks in weird costumes.”

  “That’s not my problem,” Devoreaux said curtly. “You should talk with the people who put on this so-called convention. I have only one more thing to say,” he added, glaring at the audience. “If the person who stole the print of my film is in this audience now, I want you to know that the studio will prosecute you to the full extent of the law when you are captured—unless you return the film this weekend, in perfect condition. And if any bootleg copies of the film should be made, I’ll also prosecute anyone caught distributing them. Is that clear?”

  Apparently, it was clear enough, Frank thought, because nobody asked any questions. Devoreaux stepped away from the microphone, exchanged a few words with the members of his entourage, then began walking toward the door.

  After the director had left the room, Linda Klein moved back to the microphone and said a few apologetic words, but no one in the audience paid attention to her. Everyone was too busy talking excitedly about the stolen film.

  “This is awful,” Chet moaned, a disappointed look on his face. “I’ve been looking forward to this movie all week.”

  Frank leaned back in his chair and frowned. “You know, I’d be angry, too, if somebody stole something that had taken me a whole year’s work. But Devoreaux doesn’t seem too concerned about his fans. I mean, the least he could have done was to say he was sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “I don’t believe this whole thing,” Chet said. “Who’d steal a copy of a movie? What are they going to do with it, anyway?”

  “That’s not hard to figure out,” Joe said. “They’re probably going to sell it.”

  “But who’d buy it?” Brian asked. “Only somebody who owns one of those big projectors”—he gestured toward the oversize movie projectors in the middle of the aisle—“would be able to watch it.”

  “Not if they transferred it to videocassette first,” Frank said. “Just about everybody’s got a VCR.”