Phil expounded. “One day,” he said, “Craig was fooling around with a bunch of snails and discovered they spun little threads as they walked under the water. He was sorta crazy about environments then—on changing the environment of animals to see if they would change—and he wondered if the snails would spin at a high altitude. That got Steve to thinkin’ and he suggested we build a rocket and shoot them up there and find out.”
“Sounds more like a weed growing than anything dangerous,” said Mr. Cooper. “Let’s have a look at this controversial instrument.”
The men filed out of Batta and walked in good spirits to the rocket. Steve took over and explained the details, speaking mainly to Mr. Smith, who was interested in the command center and the launching pit.
“Nice design,” Mr. Smith said of the rocket. “It’s original, isn’t it? I’ve not seen one like it.”
“Sort of. It’s a copy of Titan Three.”
When Steve had finished showing off the rocket, the men sat down in the meadow and began to talk. The conversation rambled from how beautiful the island was to the rules and regulations about rockets. Craig listened, growing impatient. No one was talking about setting it off. Finally he had to ask:
“Well, can we launch her?”
A silence followed. He was on his belly and he rolled to his knees and stared at the men.
“I guess what’s bothering me, Craig,” said Mr. Brundage, “is really two things. A scientist I talked to in Albany said there’s always a risk in these things no matter how perfect they are; and”—he cleared his throat—“I don’t like being forced.”
“Forced?” said Phil. “Whattaya mean?”
“I mean, your running away from home and scaring us to death to force us out here. I don’t think this is the proper way to handle things.”
Craig slumped in misery. The minister, of course, was right. They had done exactly that. He wanted to say that it at least got them out there, but he felt that was not quite the right thing to say, so he remained quiet. So did Phil, Steve, and Johnny. There was nothing to argue about. If they had been wrong, that was that.
“Well, let’s talk it over,” said Mr. Cooper. “I feel a little pressured, too.”
Officer Ricardo started to say something but apparently changed his mind. “Let’s get back,” he said. “I’ve gotta get to work.”
The last words Craig heard as the men boarded the motorboat were Mr. Smith’s. “Maybe we can clear this up,” he said. “They have done an admirable job.” But the roar of the engine choked the answer.
“Let’s cover the rocket and go,” said Steve. He pulled in the swamp buggy and grabbed the nearest paddle.
14 THE INTERVAL
CRAIG WAITED. HE FELT too discouraged all week to visit the island. Sunday came and went without a mention of the rocket, then Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—the week. He saw the weather change from the bright clearness of Indian summer to the gray-blue of late autumn, and he knew that the island in the marsh was as cold as the November air. He imagined leaves blowing, grass bending over beneath the trees. Only the sturdy pipsissewa and the hemlocks, he thought, were green, and he realized that by now the wind had filled the launching pit with leaves and jammed the wings of thistle seeds into the command center. It would shove broken stems under the door to Batta and shake the hemlock needles over the rocks above the subterranean room.
Friday morning he looked out his window and knew the winter had sealed the island in sleep. The raccoon and the chipmunks would be dozing, the crickets would come into the shelter of Batta.
Saturday passed without a word from the committee.
On Monday, down the hill and beyond the marsh the school bell rang to call the students to classes. Craig was still on the athletic field when he heard it. He ran to make the deadline, swung through the oaken doors, and burst upon Steve and Cathy. Steve was carrying her books.
“ ’Scuse me!” he blurted and hurried past them in embarrassment. From a safe distance he looked back and saw Steve grinning happily as he held the inner door open for the young lady with straight black hair that bounced against her slim neck. Craig looked away. He could not understand why Steve smiled. She combed her hair too much, she snickered and laughed with the other girls too much. On the whole, he thought, she was about as interesting as a mop and a bucket.
He strode down the hall. Fortunately Phil and Johnny were ahead of him and Craig forgot the ruined Steve as he saw them. “Phil!” he called. “Has your dad changed his mind?”
Phil slumped expressively. “He’s working on a play with the church drama group. I haven’t seen Dad to really talk to him since the sit-out.”
Craig hit his books with his fist. Johnny blew his breath out slowly and loudly. The three climbed the steps to their homeroom. As they turned at the landing, Craig saw Steve and Cathy again. Steve was laughing with her, his hand on her shoulder. The three boys exchanged glances and hurried ahead.
Tuesday passed, then Wednesday. At midnight on Thursday Craig heard his radio buzz. He heard it first in a dream. In the dream he was tied in a web of ropes, being yanked over a field of flowers. Many people were pulling on the ropes, some he didn’t even know. He was thoroughly frightened. Then Cathy came over the field and sat down at a machine. She began to spin. The machine whirred and buzzed. The noise went on and Cathy kept smiling and holding up the rope she was making. With a jump of fright Craig woke up. Shaking, he stared at the dark ceiling. The whirr and buzz sounded again. He laughed with relief. It was his radio. Rolling to his belly, he opened the switch and fumbled for the mike. “Craig to Steve, whatdaya want?” he said sleepily. “Over.”
“Steve to Craig. I’ve just come in from a date. Cathy said her father had called the committee together. They’re gonna meet Friday and decide something. Over.”
“Swell. Wonderful. Great. Over. Over and out!” Craig leaped back into bed and pounded the pillow with excitement. He thought about the snails and where to find some new ones for the payload. They had been left out ten days ago in the rush to get the rocket launched. Now he could think about them again; but instead, he fell asleep. He did not dream.
On Friday Craig blasted his saxophone through band practice, then he ran all the way home and down to the cellar for his hip boots. Before sundown he was wading at the edges of the marsh, gathering the winter-retreating water snails. They were black and spiraled. Their feet were pulled high up in the shells. He carried them home and put them in the bathroom sink, with a trickle of water running to give them oxygen. In the warmth of the bathroom they began to crawl, and when he reached his hand into the water, he could feel the invisible threads of mucus they spun as they moved. He watched one stop. Its shell lifted as it ate its trail again.
He wondered what they would do at two thousand feet.
Friday evening was long. Craig stayed near the telephone. But the telephone did not ring. A flock of swans flew over the house, crying their recognition notes as they maneuvered the cloudy sky, and a fox called from the ridge. Slowly the hands on the clock moved around until it was morning.
Craig called Steve. Steve called Johnny. Johnny called Phil. Phil called Craig. His voice stayed on one note as he excitedly announced that the committee had met, and might let them put off the rocket, but they weren’t sure. Craig called Steve.
Then it was Sunday and Monday again.
On Tuesday afternoon Craig joined his friends on the wharf at Rushing Road. It was cold and the first snow of the season was falling. The thin flakes slipped off the limbs of the trees and melted on the ground. A few hung on Steve’s dark eyelashes, but they, too, disappeared when they touched his skin. Phil checked the tank of the swamp buggy. “We’re out of gas,” he said.
“And we’ve got no money,” added Johnny. “I guess we’ve had it. I guess we might as well go home and join the world. We’ll polish our shoes and go to dancing class and Boy Scouts, and school sports and paddle tennis and—”
“Write book reports and bibliographie
s,” added Phil.
“Steve,” said Craig, trying to control his voice, “you should’ve let us put the rocket off. You shouldn’t have stopped us. Now we’ll never see ’er go.”
“Yeah, Steve,” agreed Phil. “I think we’ve had it. I’m still for launching ’er. Who’ll know?”
“We can’t,” said Steve firmly. “I’ve given Mr. Smith the engines to check out.”
“Well, let’s get ’em back,” Craig said. “You get ’em back, you know him best.”
“I can’t,” Steve mumbled.
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause, he’s busy.”
“So what? We’re your best friends.”
“It’s different. Mr. Smith is trying to help us, it’s just that ... ”
“Nobody cares,” boomed Johnny and picked up a stone. He skipped it across the water.
“No,” Steve mused, “it’s not that, I don’t think. It’s something else. Something else is bothering everybody and I don’t know what it is.”
Craig looked at his watch. “It’s four o’clock. I’ve gotta go home.” He jumped for a tree limb and swung on it. Dropping lightly, he trotted down the path. At the road he turned and came back. “Steve, if you’d stop running around with girls, things would be all right. We could do it!” He was hurt and furious at everyone and everything. He kicked a tree.
Johnny turned to Steve. “He’s right. You’ve chickened out on us all because of a girl!”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like that, John.” He shoved the boy’s shoulder. Johnny swung his fist. It struck Steve across the face. Steve punched him back and jumped on him. Their fists thudded against chins and chests.
Phil stepped back to watch the fight. Craig came closer. He wanted to punch someone, too. He felt frustrated and disappointed in everyone. Suddenly Phil rushed Steve and Johnny and shoved them into the water with his shoulder. They went under, then struggled to their feet, wet and angry. They stared at Phil. They stared at each other. Johnny felt a lump in his throat. “The dickens with all of you!” he cried, climbed ashore, and ran home through the woods.
Steve crawled up on the wharf, slowly, his rage obvious. He stood right in front of Phil and with a powerful swing punched him hard in the chest. “This is it! I’m through!” he cried.
Phil curled over. He grabbed his ribs. The tears welled in his eyes, and Craig, unable to watch him cry, turned and ran.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Craig learned that Phil had broken a rib. The dean called him and Steve and Johnny into his office and told them. Steve sank into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.
“How did it happen?” the dean asked. “Apparently Phil won’t tell his parents.”
Steve looked up. “We got in a fight. I socked him.” He lowered his head again. “It’s the rocket,” he whispered. “It’s the dumb, foolish rocket. I wish we’d never built it.”
The dean lectured them for a few minutes on friendship and sent them back to their classes. Craig took the back stairs to his homeroom. He didn’t want to see the others. There was nothing left.
15 THE TEACHER
THANKSGIVING CAME. CRAIG STOPPED by to see Phil, but felt too guilty to stay more than a few minutes. He played the last football game, went to the Sports Banquet and listened while the best players got awards. Johnny went with his family to his Aunt Mary’s again. Steve saw less and less of Cathy. He didn’t touch the radios or go to Batta, and the wind blew over the island in the marsh and froze the ground around the rocket.
On a snowy December afternoon Craig was walking down the corridor of the second floor of the school by himself when he saw Johnny coming toward him. Noticing that the door to Mr. Brian’s science lab was open, he slipped in. “Can I help you?” The teacher was putting away Bunsen burners.
“Sure, come in.”
Mr. Brian’s red hair began far back on his forehead and his eyes drooped slightly. His rounding waist gave a mature contour to the energetic figure. Mr. Brian unhitched a Bunsen burner and wrapped the rubber tubing around it, while Craig disconnected a burner, blew into its sooty pipe, and carried it to the cabinet.
“I haven’t seen you with your friends lately,” Mr. Brian said. “Did something happen?”
Craig found the question hard to answer. He walked quietly to the lab table and picked up another Bunsen burner. “Yes,” he said. It was a curt answer that implied, “Period. Don’t go on.” He put the burner away.
Fifteen minutes passed. Mr. Brian went to his desk. Craig glanced at him from time to time.
Finally he made a wide circle of the lab, remembering the teakettle, the experiments in mixing chemicals, the lecture on aeronautics. He could stand his inside ache no longer. He walked across the room to the teacher’s desk.
“I’ve got to talk to someone,” he said. “Everybody’s so durn miserable.”
Mr. Brian put down his pencil. He smiled. “It seems so,” he said.
Craig fingered a paperweight. “At first I thought it was because of Cathy and the fight, and because Phil got hurt. But that isn’t it. Heck, we weren’t all mad at each other the day we sawed Johnny out of a tree and broke his leg. I dunno what’s the matter, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about it. I think I do.”
“It’s the rocket, isn’t it?” Craig welled out. “It’s the rocket and all the parents that want to be our buddies. They say they want to help us, but they don’t, do they?”
“They can’t.”
“Why?”
“They’re parents, not buddies, not teachers, not best friends—but parents.”
Craig frowned and tried to understand.
“When parents get into roles—like buddies, teachers, doctors, psychologists—they get confused and don’t know what to do.”
Craig thought about that. “You mean parents act differently toward their kids than teachers do?”
“Shouldn’t they?” Mr. Brian picked up his pencil. His hand moved swiftly over an exam, checking the trues and falses. Craig listened to the soft sound of the lead.
“Well, then,” he said slowly, “I know what to do.” Mr. Brian glanced up.
“You’re a teacher. We run experiments in the lab. Why can’t we run one outdoors? Could you make the rocket a class project?” He watched Mr. Brian’s face as the teacher put his pencil down and folded his arms.
“Yes, I could,” Mr. Brian said. “Yes, that would make sense.”
“Will you?” Craig grabbed the desk. “Will you do it?”
“Why not? I’d have to be filled in on your plans and the instruments you’re using,” Mr. Brian said. “But you and Phil and Steve and Johnny could help me. In fact, you could lecture on its construction to the whole class.”
Craig described the three stages and the kind of engines they were using.
“Hold on. Let’s have it all tomorrow,” Mr. Brian said. “I’ll turn over the class to you fellows.”
“Okay.” Craig rushed for his books, adjusted them against his side, and threw his back against the door.
“This is so simple,” he said.
“Two more things,” Mr. Brian said. “I’ll call Mr. Brundage and see if it’s all right with his committee if I take this over. Is that okay?”
“I guess so,” Craig said. “But it kinda scares me. Maybe there’s another principle involved here, like going over people’s heads, or something like that.”
Mr. Brian laughed. “I don’t think so. They’re all anxious to find the best way to solve this.”
“Oh sure,” Craig finally agreed. “And the other thing?”
“I understand the engines need to be approved. How can I get them?”
“Mr. Smith has them. Maybe if you called him he’d give you an okay.” Craig turned to leave. He came back. “By the way, I can understand now why our parents couldn’t decide this matter; but why couldn’t Mr. Smith? Why couldn’t he approve it?”
“Aw, come on, Craig. Haven’
t you heard? Cathy doesn’t want her boyfriend blowing himself sky-high.”
“I see,” said Craig. “So that’s it!” He made a wry face and pushed through the door.
16 THE ROAD OUT
AT FIVE O’CLOCK THAT same night Steve was in his room painting the walls. He had no desire to see his friends or Batta, so when his mother mentioned that his room needed repainting he had offered to do it. He knew that concentrating on getting a brushful of paint against the wall without dripping it would help take his mind off the whole confusing autumn.
He moved carefully down the west wall where the transceiver sat. The circuit was still open, though no messages had come over it since the fight. He thought he might as well turn it off and disconnect it. He could do a better paint job if it were removed. He climbed down the ladder and walked to the receiver.
“Craig to Steve. Craig to Steve. Over.”
Steve was startled at the sudden blare. For a moment he stared at the receiver. Then he smiled. It was good to hear the familiar voice again. He almost tripped as he ran to his transmitter, picked up the microphone, and switched the button to broadcast. “Steve to Craig. Hi! Over.”
“Craig to Steve. Mr. Brian is going to help us put the rocket off. We’re gonna get to Zero after all!” Steve sat down on his bed and grinned as he listened to the description of Craig’s discussion with Mr. Brian. The story ended as his friend said, “So get the scale drawings and data of the Batta booster, and bring them to school tomorrow with a speech. Over.”
“Roger, over and out!” Steve switched off his speaker, closed the bucket of paint, ran to the basement, and washed out the brush. “So one wall’s yellow and the others are green,” he said as he dashed up the flight of stairs three at a time and over to his files. He took out a folder marked “Batta Booster” and spread out the drawings, measurements, and a photograph of the Titan III rocket which had inspired the design.
Hold Zero! Page 8
