Johnny said that must have been keen fun, and the conversation died.
Craig’s mother came to the rescue. “It may be all right,” she said brightly. “After all, they’ve made radios with little parts and pieces.”
“Condensers and resistors,” Steve explained.
Officer Ricardo slapped his knees together in pleasure, and Craig had the awful feeling that he was not taking them very seriously.
“Maybe you ought to come see what we’ve done,” Craig suggested, somewhat surprised at his own calmness.
“Yes,” his mother said. “Perhaps it’s not as dangerous as we think. It may be quite good.”
Another condescending pause.
“After all,” she began again, “Mr. Diamond gave that radio kit to Craig—wires all hanging out—because he couldn’t make it. Said he had bought it as a project so that he and his son might get to know each other better.” She laughed. “He said the directions were absolutely unintelligible and that the whole thing had ended up in his being frustrated and angry at his son.”
“You boys got it together?” asked the officer.
“Oh sure,” answered Steve. “Craig and I talk on it all the time. Phil and Johnny are too far away for the FCC regulations. You see, we can only use a fifty-foot aerial or we’ll interfere with other bands.”
“I see,” said Officer Ricardo.
“What I don’t understand,” Craig’s mother broke in, “is why this whole rocket business started anyway. This town has everything to make a child happy. There are dancing classes, orchestras to play in, bands, soccer, football, Little League, Boy Scouts, choirs, drama groups, ski trips, ice skating ... seems sort of silly to go off by yourselves and make rockets and radios when there is so much offered.” She sighed.
“Frankly, Mrs. Sutton,” Officer Ricardo said rather gently, “I don’t know what the stir’s about. So, some boys made a rocket. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have a look at it and get the chief to okay the whole thing. I’m sure he will.” He rose. “Where is it, Steve?”
“On an island in the marsh.”
“That sounds safe.” The officer crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe we can let you boys go ahead with it.” He turned to Johnny, who had bounced to his feet happily.
“How high does it go? Thirty or forty feet?”
“Two thousand,” Johnny answered.
“Two thousand?” Craig saw the officer’s eyebrows lower ominously.
“Oh, now, Johnny,” Mrs. Sutton said, “that’s like a real rocket.”
“It is a real rocket,” Johnny replied.
The officer stepped toward the vestibule. “When can I see this? I’m busy this afternoon, but tomorrow morning I’m on duty in this area. Could we meet at eleven?”
“That would be fine,” Steve said and glanced with relief at Craig. But Craig was looking at the officer’s feet. They splayed out, he noticed.
Then the telephone rang. His mother stepped into the kitchen to answer it. She said a few “yeses,” an “oh,” and signaled the policeman to wait. She hung up and came into the vestibule. The falling water of the fountain sounded loud and steady.
“That was Mr. Brundage,” she said. “Phil’s father. He’s terribly upset. His son told him that the rocket had twenty-four engines and was thirty-two inches tall—without the top on.”
“The nose cone,” Steve corrected.
“Yes, that’s it.” She went on, “Mr. Brundage said he thought a committee ought to be formed to check the rocket and see what’s going on. He suggested you and himself, and Johnny’s father, the town supervisor ... and a scientist.”
“Can they come tomorrow?” the officer asked.
“Oh, I doubt it. It’s Sunday. Mr. Brundage will be tied up at the church and the others will be busy I’m sure. It’ll have to be organized.”
“Yes, organized,” the officer repeated and Craig was reminded of the crows again. “Well, I’ll go ahead. Perhaps a committee won’t be necessary.” The big man spun on his heel, then dropped a large hand on Mrs. Sutton’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “everything’s going to be all right.”
“It’s just that Mr. Brundage is so upset that this got ‘out of hand,’ ” she said hopelessly. “He can’t understand how a rocket got built without adult supervision.”
Craig was eager to correct his mother. “Oh, lots of adults helped,” he said. “Mr. Brian, the science teacher, checked out the launch panel at school, and Mr. Pappo, that free-lance inventor, gave us lots of condensers and old tubes. Even Mr. Brundage helped Phil carve the first-stage nose cones out of balsa wood.”
“You mean it was supervised?” Officer Ricardo said brightly.
“Well, not exactly.” Johnny took up the explanation. “Everybody kind of helped us in their free time. But the funny thing was,” he turned his head slightly, “nobody asked us what it was for. And we just sort of never told them. They were all so busy with their own work.”
Craig watched Officer Ricardo’s face as he scratched his head and put on his cap. He opened the door and hesitantly turned back to say something. But he was interrupted as Craig’s brother Pete called loudly from the basement and his sister Ellen burst in the back door with a friend, crying, “Hey? who’s being arrested?”
Officer Ricardo threw open the door. “See you all at eleven sharp. I’m getting curious about this Cape Kennedy of Blue Springs.” But his laugh seemed forced.
Craig’s watch read 1 P.M. He shook it, then stared at the small hand that had inexorably arrived at the numeral that not long ago was to be the most exciting number in his life—one.
“It’s T-time,” he said to Johnny and Steve, “and all systems are red.” Johnny’s eyes dampened as he turned away.
3 THE MARSH
CRAIG’S MOTHER CAME into his room after an early supper to tell him it was time to leave for the Community Night. He was lying on his bed, his math book spread open before him. He did not look up. “Zero, one, two, three, four,” he said, “ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Twenty, twenty-one ... ”
“What kind of counting is that?” she asked.
“New math. Base five.” Craig lowered his head. “Guess I shouldn’t go to Community Night.”
“It does sound as if it needs some work,” she said. “Well, don’t stay up late.”
Craig stared at black numbers until the door closed softly and the sounds of his family’s footsteps faded on the front steps. He repeated the numbers as he listened to the murmur of his transceiver, its switch opened to Steve’s house. The disappointment of the afternoon was at last layered over with thoughts of the work ahead at Batta. He rolled on his back and bicycled in the air.
A loud sputter from his radio landed him on his feet on the floor. He turned up the volume.
“Steve to Craig! Steve to Craig!” the radio sputtered. “Do you read me? Over.”
Craig flicked his button to “broadcast” and picked up a square gray microphone. “Craig to Steve. I read you go. Over.”
The radio crackled. Steve’s voice came in again. “Mom’s gone. Are you ready? Let’s meet at the swamp buggy in fifteen minutes. I’ll stop by for Johnny. Better get some paint for the rocket. If it looks good I think Officer Ricardo will let us put it off. Don’t you? Over.”
“I dunno. Mr. Brundage still has to check it, and he’s pretty strong-minded when he gets going. Over.”
“Yeah. Well, we’ve gotta try. See ya. Out.”
“Roger and out.” Craig turned off the radio.
Fifteen minutes had brought the sun to the rim of the northern ridge of the great marsh. Craig crossed Rushing Road and disappeared into a tangle of willows. He found the path that led to the wharf the four boys had built, its pilings hammered into the mud, its flooring nailed carefully to a square frame. Craig jumped on the wharf that stood in a gray-green screen of Phragmites grass. Beyond, according to the depth of the water, grew hard-stem bulrushes and water lilies. Then the slow stream stretched ou
t into a meandering lake that formed the basis of the marsh. It was a half-mile wide and three-quarters of a mile long.
Craig waited for John and Steve. He listened for the cracking of the bushes that would tell of their coming but heard only the arguments of the red-winged blackbirds settling on reeds and branches for the night. He snapped on his flashlight and lifted the plastic cover that protected the swamp buggy from the rain. He checked the gasoline in the old lawn mower engine that Mr. Olsen had given him and examined the paddle wheel that moved the craft. He remembered gathering the shingles for paddle blades when the Rovers renovated their house several years ago. But he was particularly proud of the iron hoops that held the blades. They had been taken from lobster barrels at the end of a neighborhood party. He stepped on the buggy and looked over the edge to see whether the oil drums that held the flat floor above the water were leaking. They seemed fine.
He filled the gas tank, then sat down to wait for the others. A soft click in the willows attracted his attention. “Hi, Squawker!” he said as he peered into the cobweb of limbs to locate the friendly blue jay that roosted there every evening. A soft spot among the stiff branches was all Craig could see of the bird. He squinted, moved closer and saw that the breast feathers were fluffed. The heckler of the marsh appeared gentle. Craig thrust his fist toward him, first and little fingers raised, so that his hand and wrist made the outline of an owl. He knew Squawky would object, because an owl’s shape—live, dead, or badly imitated—made him angry. He could not help it; his mind was imprinted with hate for a round head and tufted ears. The bird screamed. Craig laughed and turned away.
He lay down on the wharf and shone his flashlight into the water. Small animals were moving slowly in the cold. A dragonfly nymph clung to the stem of a splatterdock leaf. A water strider made six dents on the surface with its black feet as it walked. Craig thought about the water strider: he might make big feet for himself and his friends so they could walk across the water to Batta—but he did not get very far with the idea. He was diverted by memories of more successful devices he had borrowed from the animals of the swamp and woods.
For instance, the day the marsh buggy was on its maiden voyage. The craft was steady on the water as he and Phil and Steve and Johnny nailed the last plank down and stepped aboard. The motor started, the paddle wheel turned, and they were off with cheers down the channel among the reeds. Too late, they realized they had no way to steer. They were headed for the reeds. Steve jumped to turn off the motor but he was not fast enough. They struck hard, and Craig, standing precariously on the edge, was plunged into the water. He sat up to his chin in mud and black marsh water.
An argument had started aboard the craft. Johnny wanted to lie on his belly and steer with his hands, but Steve thought the best solution was a car steering wheel with ropes attached to two boards nailed beneath so they would turn. Craig had said nothing. He was watching a water boatman steer itself unerringly around the cattail stalks. He leaned closer to it. Two large feet shaped like paddles maneuvered the insect. On each foot was a fringe of hairs that bent to give the creature more control. “Hey!” he called. “I got it.” He came to his feet dripping black water. “We need two old canoe paddles. We put one on each side of the buggy and steer with them.”
Steve had nodded. Johnny had said, “That’s it!” and Phil had added, “Where’ll we get ’em?”
Johnny suggested that the sporting goods store might have some secondhand ones they’d be glad to sell cheap, which they did. In fact, Mr. Aronozo took only a dollar for them to hurry the boys out of the store before they blocked the entrance admiring the guns. Craig, still impressed by the hairs on the feet of the boatmen, insisted that they tack fringed inner tubing on the paddle edges. Johnny had said, “Okay, you do it.” So he did, and fastened the paddles to the barge with rainspout hoops. That was two years ago. The beginning of project Batta.
Craig came out of his thoughts and again listened for his friends. As he stood up, he looked back at the buggy and remembered the day they had finally set sail successfully through the vast marsh. The motor had purred, the wheel turned, and the swamp buggy had inched forward on a perfect course. He and his friends had sung songs as they moved down the channel between the reeds. Occasionally they stopped to hack down cattails and make a wider passageway. They puttered on.
The channel wound in and out for a hundred yards among all types of swamp life. Frogs rested on broken reeds, turtles basked in the sun. Occasionally the paddle wheel struck the bulrushes and red-winged blackbirds flew up, protesting the intrusion. There were snakes, muskrats, snails, and dragonflies. As they explored, they talked about the fact that the town board had once wanted to drain this beautiful marsh. If the subject ever came up again, Johnny had said, he would tell his father he would tie himself to the reeds and just stay there.
They turned a bend and came into a huge body of black water, too deep for reeds, too meandering to be a lake—the slow stream. They could see across it to the north shore where the hemlocks darkened the ridge. Ducks floated on the water, a marsh wren sang its pensive song. Craig whispered that they could not see a house or a chimney, for the town was hidden beyond the edge of tall hickories, maples, snakeroots, and rushes.
Then he saw the island! Johnny saw it at the same time. Phil and Steve turned at their shouts. The island was small and green. Its northern end was rocks and boulders; they could see meadow and woods, gold and dappled with sunlight. Craig noticed that the shoreline was covered with moss.
They steered toward it, knowing before they got there that they had found a haven, a place to be alone, a secret island, hidden in the middle of a busy town.
The swamp buggy touched the island and Craig turned off the motor. Softly, he stepped ashore. A flock of ducks winged up, circled the island, then disappeared into the marsh. A raccoon, sunning itself on a sugar maple limb, got up and walked headfirst down the tree. He disappeared along his private trail. The boys tied the buggy to a willow and crept up the embankment. Craig found a sparrow’s nest in a hawthorn bush. Four fat babies lifted their heads to be fed as he jiggled their nest branch. Johnny laughed. “Do they think that shaking’s their mother?” Craig nodded, and crept on. A mink ran across an opening in front of them. It slipped into the water without a splash.
The island, Steve figured, was about an acre. Most of it was low and flat except for the boulders they had seen from the slow stream. These were high. They jutted above the willows and were surrounded with big hemlocks and saplings, wild grapes and blueberries. The boys climbed the rocks and sat down. “This is heaven,” Johnny said. “A boy’s acre to try it alone. No piano lessons, no organized activities ... nothing ... but us.”
“Boy’s acre to try it alone,” repeated Phil. “Not bad. B-A-T-T-I-A—Battia. Let’s name the island Battia.”
“Or Batta,” said Steve. “That’s easier to say.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring and rolling in the sun. Reeds jangled, leaves made shadows, ducks and geese cried out, and the herons stalked fish on their long legs.
Before they started back Steve asked to circle the rock once more. On the far side the boulder hung over the ground, making a dry shelter. He called the others. When they found him, he was kneeling in soft earth, digging. “Something’s down here,” he said. “Gimme a hand.”
Suddenly a barrel of dirt shifted under Steve’s knees and slid into a deep hole. Craig crept forward on his stomach and peered into the earth. A stone room lay below him. He eased himself down and found six log steps. They spiraled into the room. He lit a match. The light fell on an arched cavern, its floor covered with ages of fine dust. “Gee!” Johnny had followed Craig. “What is it?” Steve and Phil were close behind.
“We’ve got a secret, a big, quiet secret. Batta, the underground retreat!” Phil said.
“It looks like a Revolutionary War ammunition shelter,” observed Steve.
Johnny walked into the room. “I see beds here and a kitchen there
. Running water, lights. Wow, we’ll never have to go home.”
“And it’s a good place for the transceiver Uncle Harry gave me,” Steve added. He was feeling the dryness of the rocks.
“Yeah, we can listen to music while we fall asleep,” said Johnny.
Craig sighed at the memory of that wonderful day two years ago. Now, he thought, we’re getting that same wonderful island ready for police inspection. Nuts.
He listened with annoyance for his friends. They were already fifteen minutes late. A water nymph caught his eye. The lower lip of the insect sat far out. The nymph was moving the lip up and under a snail. When the snail rested on it, the insect opened its mouth, and the entire lower lip enclosed the food like a box trap. Pretty tricky, Craig mused, and wondered where such a device could be used in Batta.
Then the willow branches snapped. He jumped at the sound. Steve was saying hello. He had pliers in his hand and Johnny had a shovel and some gunny sacks. They quickly got on the buggy and started the motor. It sputtered and hummed. Slowly it edged down the darkening reed canal. Craig felt the fright and worry of the afternoon disappear as the buggy toiled along. Ducks gabbled in the shadows, a muskrat swam ahead. Craig turned on his flash to light their route through the dark labyrinths of cattails. Johnny hummed a soft tune through his teeth and braces. Then he stopped. “Did I tell you what I discovered at the dentist’s yesterday?” he said.
“What?”
“Well, Doctor North was putting a new brace on me when it touched my back filling and I heard ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah; stomp stomp.’ I looked at the doctor. He wasn’t singing so I said with my mouth full, ‘ ’old it!’ He did and I heard the rest of the song. I told him, and was he amazed! He said he’d read about this at dental school. Certain kinds of fillings act like crystal sets. But he had never had a patient that got tuned in. He wanted to hear too, but of course he couldn’t.”
Craig looked back at Johnny. He had never heard such a wonderful story. “Wouldn’t you know it,” he said. “You get tuned in to the radio waves! Wow!”
Hold Zero! Page 2
