Hold Zero! (6 page)

“I didn’t say that!” yelled the officer. “I just said you ought to see it, too. You’d be proud! And I’ve just come to say,” his voice continued to mount, “that I think your suggestion of a committee of parents is good, and that you ought to get them together, because,” he rose on his toes so that he was a little taller than Phil’s father, “because I don’t understand one durn thing they’re doing.”

Mr. Brundage stared at him. Phil could see that Officer Ricardo had been heard. His father turned his back and paced again. “I’m in a lousy position,” he said quietly. “You understand, don’t you, Mr. Ricardo?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I really do. When can you get the committee together?”

“I’ll call them tonight.”

Phil stepped back as the two men strode toward the door.

“Of course,” said his father, “these members of the committee are busy. They are busy men. It may take some time before we can all arrange our schedules. But we will. Be assured.”

Officer Ricardo gestured with both palms open. “It’s your kid,” he said. “Let me know when you get the committee together.” He pulled open the door. Then he swung his big chin over his shoulder. “Sir, lemme tell you something. Committees and democracies are great in Albany and Washington, but they don’t have anxious kids waiting for decisions, and you know how slow committees in this town can be.”

“I am fully aware.”

Officer Ricardo put on his cap. Phil’s father walked through the doorway with him. He called to a small brown dog straining and barking at the end of a rope, “Chess, be quiet!” Mr. Brundage shook the officer’s hand, and Phil heard him say, “I’ll call you as soon as the committee is able to meet. And thanks for your concern.”

His father went back to his library. Phil sat down on the steps and said, “Phew!”

A
WEEK PASSED.
It was October first. The sugar maples were scarlet to their green-black trunks. The hickory leaves had fallen to the ground. The houses of Blue Springs emerged from the leafy camouflage of summer to show their sidings, bright and checkered with aluminum sashes.

Each day of the week Craig had waited for Phil at the swinging doors of the school. Craig did not have to ask whether Mr. Brundage had called the committee together. He could tell by the way Phil moved as he came up the walk. Monday he shrugged. Tuesday he turned the palms of his hands outward. Wednesday he walked up the steps with his head down. Thursday he revived and flung back his arms humorously. Friday he went in the janitor’s door.

By Saturday Craig was confused and letdown. He leaned on his window sill and felt coldness in the blowing wind. Winter was coming. The rocket was doomed to sit on its launching pad forever. Then he thought gratefully of the meeting he would have with Steve, Phil, and Johnny at three. They were going to go to Batta to sit. Meanwhile he had a football game to play. He got up and snatched his uniform.

As he walked out the door, his mother looked up from her account book, saw his helmet, and called, “Be sure to win!”

“Yeah,” he said, a little frightened because he knew his team probably would not and he hated to fail his mother. “I’ll try.”

Craig was tense all through the game. Parents were on the sidelines cheering, children were shouting, and upper classmen were telling them to “Go! Go!” When the game was finally lost, Craig hurried away, for he suddenly knew he hated these games. He was disappointed when they lost, sorry for the other team when they won. Yet he had been told over and over again that playing football was good for him. And he guessed it must be.

But he was glad when he got to Rushing Road. Steve and Phil joined him almost immediately.

“Where’s Johnny?” Craig asked.

“His father wants to play pitch,” said Steve. He dropped his hands to his sides.” ’Sfunny how fathers think that playing pitch is being a good father,” the older boy mused. “I wonder if fathers really like it?”

“I dunno,” Craig said. “But I know Johnny would really like his dad to see the rocket.” They walked to the wharf.

And there was Officer Ricardo sitting on the dock, a fishing rod in his hand.

“Thought you all might be going out in the swamp buggy this afternoon,” he said with a pleasant smile. “So I stopped by to hitch a ride and do some fishin’. Any cats or sunnies out there?”

“Plenty,” said Craig. “Guess we all might as well fish.” He hesitated to ask about the rocket because he did not want to hear the answer. But he had to know. He put it backwards. “They’re not going to inspect the rocket today, are they?”

“ ’Fraid not, everybody’s awful busy.” A silence fell. Officer Ricardo tried to fill it. “But something did happen,” he said. Craig and Steve looked at him. “I got a scientist, a man named Smith. He’s a model rocket expert.

The officer eased himself into the middle of the craft.

“Smith?” Steve sounded excited. “Mr. Casey Smith? Do you know if he has a daughter named Cathy?” Craig saw Steve redden. Officer Ricardo said yes, the man’s name was Casey Smith and that he had run a rocket club in Kansas. He didn’t know about a daughter.

Steve started the mower engine. “Kansas,” he said. “Yes, he does have a daughter. Her name is Cathy—Cathy Smith.” He was smiling. “And she’s in my class.” Something in Steve’s voice made Craig look at him again. The swamp buggy started off and he wasn’t sure what he saw.

The wheeling craft churned among the reeds. Over the far ridge a wet bank of clouds hung like a curtain. “Looks like rain,” Craig observed. “Should make the fishin’ good.” He pulled on the paddle and thoughtfully watched a green heron spear a frog. It swallowed the amphibian headfirst. A bump marked the frog’s trip down the long throat to the stomach.

Nobody talked. The buggy edged out into the black water. Craig watched a flock of Canada geese drop out of the low cloud. The birds circled the marsh. Their heads tilted sidewise as they surveyed the water and reeds. Satisfied, they skidded onto the lake, not far from the island. They preened, shook their tails, and honked softly to each other, a sound Craig knew to be a signal of satisfaction. He guessed they had found a good stopover on their way south.

The swamp buggy drifted toward them. Suddenly a large drake, neck back, wings beating, shot at them. The hissing noise he made was ominous.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Officer Ricardo. “Those things can be durn mean.” But the boys were not afraid and they steered closer.

Craig reached in his pocket for a few grains of seed. He threw them on the water. A female shot out and was about to snatch the food, when the male charged her. He chased her into the flock.

“Now, then,” said Craig, “that oughta be some sort of lesson to us—like ‘might is right.’ ”

“Or, as my father says,” cried Phil, “ ‘he who honks, gets.’ ”

“I thought ministers didn’t approve of things like that,” Officer Ricardo said.

“Oh, they don’t,” answered Phil. “But it happens all the time. What my father says is ‘that’s how it is, friends. Fight it as long as you can. Then live with it.’ That’s what he says.”

Craig turned the expression over in his mind. “I guess he feels it’s time for us to live with a grounded rocket.”

“Maybe,” said Phil.

“Not me,” said Steve.

The geese disappeared behind the island as the swamp buggy pulled up to the wharf. Craig ran into Batta to get fishing rods. He checked the rocket, covered the ignition panel with a sack, and came back. He noticed as they put out into the wide black water of the marsh that the cloud bank had lowered.

Three hours passed. Officer Ricardo caught two bass and one catfish. He was pleased. “I like to eat cats better’n any fish I know,” he said. “I lived all my life in the city till I was out of high school. Then my uncle took me on a boat trip down the Mississippi. We caught catfish and lolled around livin’ like kings. Those were the happiest days of my life; just driftin’ down the Mississippi from town to town, fishin’ hole to fishin’ hole for seven whole months!” He sighed and jerked up his line. It was empty. He dropped it back.

“Guess that’s why I like this place,” he went on. “It reminds me of the muck and mire and the bird-filled edges of that old river. If I were you fellows, I’d say to heck with the rocket and just come out here and sit and grow straight up.” Craig listened. The officer talked on about the night when a band of gypsies took all their food—and the day that he swiped it all back. It was an absorbing story.

Suddenly Craig noticed that the cloud had reached the water and the edges of the marsh were enveloped in fog. It was blowing toward them. “Hey,” he said. “We’d better get outa here. That’s a real fog.”

Steve agreed and pulled in his line, Phil hauled up the anchor, and the buggy labored slowly toward the channel and the wharf.

“It’s getting dark,” said Officer Ricardo. And then the motor coughed and stopped.

“My gosh, we’re out of gas!” moaned Phil. “Is there any in the emergency can?” Steve reached over the side and unhooked a plastic bottle. He shook it.

“No,” he answered.

“Well,” said Craig, “I was sure those geese had a better message for us than ‘might makes right.’ Everybody on your stomach and paddle like a goose.”

The three boys lined the edge of one side of the craft, balancing the huge officer on the other. They hollered in unison, “Stroke! Stroke!” The craft crept forward.

After a long time Officer Ricardo looked up. “Which way is the road?” The fog had enveloped them now. Steve lifted his head. “I dunno,” he said. “I don’t even know which way’s up. Looks to me like the sky has fallen.”

Darkness obscured everything but a circle of black water a foot from Craig’s face.

“Hush,” he said. “Listen! The geese are behind the island. Paddle toward that sound.”

Everyone strained to hear. Faintly to their right they heard a gabble as the geese kept in touch with each other in the fog. They paddled in that direction.

And at last the swamp buggy struck the island.

“Hoo-ray!” Officer Ricardo said. Craig felt his way ashore and tied up the craft. By the slope of the land, and by the size of the hawthorn bush under his hand, he knew they were about ten feet west of the launching pit. He put Officer Ricardo’s left foot on the shore, heard him ground his right, and, knowing he was safe, grabbed the fishing rods and led the way. “Come on,” he yelled, and groped his way by limb and stone to the pit. Shuffling and sliding, the others joined him. Then they sat down and rested.

“Now whattam I gonna do?” the officer said. “My wife is expecting me for dinner. We’re having guests, and I can’t even let her know I’m all right. She’s a worrier, too.”

“Gee,” said Steve. “I guess our folks will figure out where we are; but they don’t know you’re with us, so that won’t help you.”

“I’d better try to swim.”

“You can’t,” said Steve. “The water’s shallow, sticky mud. Besides, you can’t see where you’re going.” He felt for Craig’s knee and poked it. “There’s only one thing to do. Right, Craig?”

“Right.”

“Phil?”

“Uh.” His voice was almost inaudible.

“Officer Ricardo,” Steve said, to a blur in the fog, “you asked us why we don’t loll around and camp out here. We do. We have a secret hideout on the island. We all promised never to show it to anybody—not anybody. But it looks like we’ll have to take you there tonight.”

“Well.” The man hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I’d sure like to get out of this dampness.”

“Craig, lead the way. You’re the guy who knows the bushes by the fuzz on their leaves.”

Craig edged slowly down the path, past the fogged-in power plant and up to the boulder that loomed like a black behemoth in the mist. Steve turned to Officer Ricardo.

“The main reason we’re bringing you here,” he said, “is because we have a transceiver here in Batta—that’s the name of the hideout—and we might be able to reach the police station and tell them you’re all right.”

“Wonderful!” Officer Ricardo exclaimed in relief. “I’m really quite concerned about my wife. You see, she’s had a bad heart for some time now and I try not to worry her.”

“Gee, that is bad,” Craig said. “But don’t get too excited. We may not be able to reach them. Our range isn’t very far.”

“We could add some more antennas,” Steve suggested. “After all, this
is
an emergency.”

Craig fumbled in the dark, found the door to Batta, and whispered to the officer, “Not even your wife? Promise?”

“Not even my wife,” repeated Mr. Ricardo.

E
VERYONE WAITED WHILE
Phil groped his way back to the powerhouse and brought the lights. Then they went inside.

The light danced warmly on three walls of logs, chinked like the powerhouse, with clay from the beach. The fourth wall was the side of the boulder.

Craig saw Officer Ricardo glance at photographs of Titan III, drawings of the Batta booster, and the scale drawings of nose cones on the walls, then look around for something to sit on.

“This is only the chartroom,” Craig said. “Batta is this way.” Phil carried the light across the narrow room. It illuminated the steep spiral staircase that plunged into the earth. The hand-carved steps gleamed red-brown.

“Did you make these?” Mr. Ricardo asked.

“No,” Steve answered. “The staircase was already here. We dug into an old Revolutionary War ammunition shelter one day and moved in. Come this way.” Steve followed Phil down the steps.

“What have you got down here?” Officer Ricardo asked. “A bomb? Is that why it’s so secret?”

“No,” called Steve. “It’s just a place. You know ... a place to go to. There are no ruffly curtains, no
avant-garde
paintings on the wall, no Chippendale furniture. It’s just us.”

“I see,” the officer said, and he did.

Craig suddenly saw Batta in a new light. The warm brown color in the stones of the staircase shone out. He stepped proudly into the long narrow room, arched like an oatmeal box and sparkling with more gadgets than anyone could take in. Officer Ricardo stood at the bottom of the staircase in silent wonder. Craig crossed the room so he could watch his face.

He was pleased to see that it registered the proper awe. “Just Batta,” Phil said with restrained pride.