Rick Brant 1 The Rocket's Shadow Read online

  THE ROCKET’S SHADOW

  A RICK BRANT SCIENCE-ADVENTURE STORY, No. 1

  By John Blaine

  1947

  CHAPTER I

  The Unforeseen

  Rick Brant, being tall for his age, had no trouble making the final connections on his latest invention. He screwed the bell on solidly, then stepped back to view his handiwork.

  The doorbell was now in an unusual position. Instead of being at waist level, it had been moved to the inside of the doorframe and placed up high.

  It looked fine. A stranger might have to hunt a little before he saw the push button, but he’d find it all right. Rick went inside and threw the switch that would send electricity into the gadget and then went to collect the family.

  Mrs. Brant was in the kitchen, supervising the supper preparations for the family and for the scientists who made their home onSpindriftIsland .

  Rick sampled the cake frosting in a near-by bowl and invited: “Come out to the porch for a minute, Mom? There’s something I want to show you.”

  Mrs. Brant looked up from the roast she was seasoning, a twinkle in her eyes. “What is it now, Rick?

  Another invention?”

  “Wait and see,” he said mysteriously. “I’ll go get Dad and Barby.”

  He hurried into the big front room that Hartson Brant used as an office. It was filled with books written in several languages, ah1 of them on scientific subjects. One wall was covered with framed degrees stating that Hartson William Brant was an engineer, a Master of Arts, a member of numerous scientific societies, and a Fellow of the American Institute of Atomic Scientists.

  In the center of the room was a massive desk, littered now with blueprints, wiring diagrams, and stacks of paper that were covered with obscure mathematical figures.

  Hartson Brant, clad in an unprofessorlike slack suit, and with his brown hair mussed, was scowling over an intricate equation.

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  Rick waited until his father looked up, not wanting to break into his train of thought.

  In many ways, Rick Brant was a younger edition of his famous father. Both were slender, with brown hair and eyes, and Rick had inherited his father’s dislike of “dressing up.” He was usually dressed in a pair of worn slacks and a sweater, with moccasins for footgear.

  “What is it, son?” Hartson Brant asked finally.

  “I have something to show you if you’re not too busy, Dad.”

  Hartson Brant rose, pushing back his chair with relief. “Just for a minute,” he agreed. “It will give me a chance to rest before I go back to this confounded equation.”

  “Is it tough?” Rick asked sympathetically.

  “Worse than that. It’s the blast-reaction equation for the rocket. I’m rechecking Zircon’s figures. Well, what is it this time? A new electric shoe polisher?”

  Rick’s shoe polisher was a standing joke in the family. It had worked, all right, but too well. The clamp that held the shoe in place while the automatic brush went over it had stuck firmly, but by the time the power could be cut off, most of the leather had been worn from the shoe he had borrowed for a demonstration.

  “This one works,” he promised. “It’s on the front porch. I’ll get Barby; then we’ll try it.”

  He went to the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Hey, brat! Come on down.”

  His mother appeared from the kitchen. “Isn’t Barby at the telephone switchboard?”

  “She never is,” Rick said. “A fine telephone operator she is.”

  He grinned as a slender, blond girl, a year younger than he, came down the stairs. She walked with a conscious effort at gracefulness, her head held high and her face set in a frozen expression that seemed to indicate worldly boredom.

  “Did someone call me?” she asked languidly.

  “Today she is being Ethel Barrymore,” Rick told his smiling parents. “I recognize the pose. Come on, brat. I have something to show you.”

  The pose was dropped instantly and Barbara Brant came down the remaining stairs in a rush. “Is it a new invention, Rick?”

  “The Brant Identification Panel,” he replied. “Wait till you see it.”

  “Lead us to it, Rick,” Hartson Brant said dryly.

  Rick led the way to the front porch, closing the door behind him.

  Mrs. Brant looked closely at the door. “Rick, what on earth-“

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  “Watch,” he said. “Barby, ring the doorbell.”

  The girl’s hand reached out toward the spot where the button had been, but stopped short. “It’s gone!”

  she exclaimed.

  Rick pointed to the new location, high on the doorframe. “There it is.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Brant exchanged glances.

  Barby looked doubtful, but by standing on tiptoe she could just reach it. As her finger touched the button there was a sharp crash and a panel about six inches square swung out of the door. She jumped back with a little squeal of fright.

  The shaggy little dog that had joined them, and was watching curiously, let out a surprised yelp. Barby bent down swiftly. “Did I step on you, Diz?”

  Dismal, pleased with the attention, promptly rolled over and played dead, all four legs in the air.

  “See?” Rick said, grinning. “Even Diz is impressed.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Mrs. Brant said doubtfully. “What is it?

  “Suppose you’re upstairs. Someone comes to the door and rings the bell. The panel drops out.” Rick opened the door and pointed to a mirror. “The reflection is picked up. There’s another mirror on the landing, and still another one at the head of the stairs. It’s like a periscope. You can see who’s at the door without coming down.”

  His mother was puzzled, his father amused, and Barby looked pleased.

  “What a wonderful idea!” she exclaimed. She ran up the stairs and in a moment called down excitedly,

  “I can see all of you. It’s perfect, Rick!”

  Mrs. Brant shook her head. “But wouldn’t it be much easier just to look out the window?”

  Hartson Brant spoke up. “We mustn’t discourage him, dear. This thing has definite possibilities, especially the new bell location. Just think, if a midget brush salesman comes, he won’t be able to reach it.”

  Rick looked sharply at his father. It was hard to tell when the scientist, usually serious, was joking. Then he saw the suspicious twinkle in Mr. Brant’s eyes.

  “Aw, Dad, that isn’t the idea at all.”

  “I’m not poking fun at your invention,” Hartson Brant assured him. “It’s very fine. Or it would be, if we ever had strangers calling at the house.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Rick answered, abashed. It was true that strangers never rang the doorbell. That was because the location of the big Brant house onSpindriftIsland made it almost impossible for casual visitors to drop in. They had to be brought by boat from the town ofWhiteside , on the mainland.

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  Barby came back downstairs and hurried to her brother’s defense. “I think it’s wonderful. Why, Rick is just like-likeEdison , or something.”

  “I’ve never doubted it,” Hartson Brant assured her with a smile. “Incidentally, this clears up a mystery.

  I’ve wondered what happened to that spare photoelectric cell we had at the lab.”

  “I meant to tell you I borrowed it,” Rick confessed. “Want to see how the panel works?”

  He explained it with a certain pride. The photoelectric cell was set just below the doorbell. When the button was pushed it turned on a small light that operated the cell, which in turn released the catch that held the door panel in place.

  “It’s very ingenious,” Mrs. Brant sa
id. “Thank you for showing me, Rick. Now, you’ll have to excuse me or I won’t have supper ready on time.”

  As Mrs. Brant went into the house, she looked at the hole in the door panel, but she didn’t say anything.

  “What’s for supper, Mom?” Barby called after her.

  From inside came a sudden loud buzzing. “The switchboard,” Barby exclaimed, and hurried off. She had volunteered to handle the island’s switchboard, but after a week of sitting at the board, she had persuaded Rick to install a buzzer that could be heard all over the house. Now it was a usual sight to see her running for the board from some remote part of the house.

  Rick and his father were left alone. Even Dismal had gone, sniffing his excitement at the scent of the roast.

  “I guess it isn’t very practical, Dad, but I had fun figuring it out,” Rick said.

  “That’s the idea, son. A scientist has to be practical, but only up to a point. You’ll probably work out dozens of ideas before you find a useful one. And even the biggest thing you ever do might not seem practical to some people.”

  “Like the rocket, Dad?”

  “That’s right. Sending a rocket to the moon probably seems like an impractical stunt to most people.”

  Rick walked with his father back to the office. “Maybe they’ll change their minds when they see what happens. It won’t be long now.”

  “A week should do it, always barring the unforeseen. We’re right on schedule in spite of the trouble we’ve had.”

  As they crossed into the big office, Rick’s thoughts were on his family. They were swell. No matter how silly his tinkering seemed, they were always enthusiastic and considerate. Even his mother had said nothing about the hole he had cut in the front door. And his father, in spite of the many things on his mind, had taken the trouble to look and comment.

  The telephone jangled sharply and Hartson Brant picked it up.

  “Yes?”

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  Rick saw his father’s face tighten as he replaced the receiver and ran for the door.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “The unforeseen,” his father answered grimly. “The control panel at the lab just blew out.”

  CHAPTER II

  The Men in the Gray Sedan

  Rick hurried after his father through the apple orchard, which separated the stone laboratory buildings from the house.

  “What did they say, Dad?”

  “Weiss didn’t give any details; he just said the panel had blown and to hurry over,” Mr. Brant replied.

  In a moment they were through the orchard and crossing the lawn in front of the long, low stone building.

  As they entered the main door, a small, stoop-shouldered man hurried to meet them, rubbing his hands nervously. This was Dr. Julius Weiss, whose undistinguished appearance hid one of the keenest scientific minds in the country.

  “It was the relay,” Weiss announced. “It failed to throw out and the overload burned out everything on the board.”

  Rick followed into the inner workroom where the scientists had been working on the rocket-control panel. An electrical relay, he knew, served the same purpose as a fuse. But where a fuse would blow out, the relay would just open the circuit. Only the relay hadn’t worked.

  In the workroom, two men looked up from their inspection of a blackened mass of glass and wiring. The air was heavy with the odor of burnt insulation.

  The two men were of about the same height, but there the similarity ended.

  Hobart Zircon, famed electronic scientist, was a huge barrel of a man, bearded of face and bushy of hair. His voice rolled out of his massive chest with the emphasis of a bass drum. He was big, but not fat.

  His strength was legendary.

  John Stringfellow fitted his name. He was lean to the point of gauntness, precise of speech and neat of dress. Even the shapeless laboratory coat he wore seemed to have been tailored for him. The gray eyes set in his thin face were keen and perceptive. He was a wizard at mathematics and a skilled radio technician.

  “Take a look at this mess, Hartson,” Hobart Zircon boomed. He indicated the burnt panel.

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  Hartson Brant probed into the wreckage with skilled fingers. “What happened?” he asked.

  “We were making a routine test,” John Stringfellow explained. “Julius threw the switch and the panel burned out before we could get to it. If the relay had thrown out when the power overload hit, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Rick spoke up, framing his question out of the suspicions that had leaped into his mind. “What caused the overload?”

  He knew that the electric current generated at the powerhouse next to the lab was a constant 440 volts.

  It must have risen to a terrific voltage to do so much damage.

  “I wish we knew,” Stringfellow told him. “I went out and checked the generators as soon as it happened. They registered normal.”

  “Possibly a power surge on the line from the mainland,” Weiss said.

  “But there wouldn’t be a power surge unless there was a storm, would there?” Rick asked.

  “That’s beside the point,” Hartson Brant said. “Why didn’t the relay throw out?”

  “We’ll soon see,” Stringfellow assured him. He was already at work, disconnecting the mechanism. Rick watched as the technician placed the relay on the bench and began tearing it down. The scientists had gathered around and were inspecting each part curiously as it was removed.

  Hobart Zircon’s sausagelike fingers swooped down suddenly on a silvery piece of metal. He held it up triumphantly. “Here it is,” he exclaimed. “Melted! Defective manufacture. That’s what it was!”

  He passed the bit of metal around and the scientists nodded in agreement.

  “But why didn’t it burn out before?” Rick put in hesitantly.

  “Questions!” Zircon bellowed. “Always questions from this young man. Why should it burn out before?

  Under a normal electrical load it would operate. Under an overload, the flaw gives way and it melts.

  What else?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Rick agreed grudgingly. But he couldn’t help thinking that this accident followed closely the pattern of similar mishaps that had taken place during the work on the experiment. The blame had always fallen on defective parts. None of the accidents had been serious, but they had all resulted in lost time-and time was important, now that the experiment was almost at an end.

  “John, take a look in the stock room, if you please,” Hartson Brant said. “See if we have enough replacements to rebuild this panel.”

  Stringfellow nodded, and hurried to the small room where extra parts were kept. In a moment he was back.

  “We have everything,” he announced, “except that triode rectifier tube.”

  “I can send Rick in by plane for that,” Hartson Brant said.

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  “Maybe we can save him a trip,” Stringfellow replied thoughtfully. “I just possibly may have a triode rectifier in my office.”

  “Would you look and see, John?”

  The tall scientist hurried off toward his office and Mr. Brant turned back to the group around the panel.

  “We’ll have to work this evening to make up for the lost time,” he told them. “Hobart, will you tear down the panel? Julius, I think well want extra relays in the circuit from the powerhouse, in case there is another surge in the main line.” He turned to Rick. “I hope John can save you that trip in, son,” he said. “These time losses are becoming serious.” He looked down the hall toward Stringfellow’s office as he spoke, but there was no sign of the thin scientist.

  Rick bent low to watch Zircon tear down the panel. As the minutes ticked away, his father paced the floor impatiently.

  It was a full twenty minutes before Stringfellow returned. He walked into the room, shaking his head.

  “I was sure I had a tube in my office, but I was mistaken. I guess Rick will have to make the trip in, after all.”r />
  Hartson Brant gave a shrug of disappointment. “Make it as fast as you can, will you, Rick?” he said, reaching for his wallet. He peeled off a few bills and handed them to his son and then he scribbled the name and the manufacturer’s number of the triode tube on a scrap of paper.

  “It’s a standard type of tube,” he remarked. “Any of the supply houses near by should have them in stock. Better pick up three or four. We want a good supply on hand.”

  “Okay, Dad. I should be back by suppertime.”

  “Be careful,” his father admonished, “but don’t waste time. We’ll need that tube tonight.”

  Rick ran through the orchard to the house and picked up his flight jacket. Then, telling his mother that he was going on an errand, he hurried to the seaward side of the island.

  There on the grassy strip that flanked the orchard sat his pride and joy-a trim, yellow Piper Cub airplane.

  He checked it over carefully, tested the controls, and took a look at the fuel stick. Then, after pulling the little propeller through to prime the cylinders, he reached into the cabin to advance the throttle and turn on the switch.

  He snapped the propeller down and, thanks to the care he lavished on it daily, the little engine roared into life at once. While the engine warmed, he untied the ropes that protected the plane from sudden winds and kicked the chocks from under the wheels. Then he climbed into the cabin and, with a glance at the homemade windsock dangling from one of the orchard trees, he rolled down the grassy strip and was airborne.

  SpindriftIsland fell below as he climbed, heading toward theNew Jersey shore. The island was roughly oval, except for a hook-shaped cove where two fast motorboats rested against the pier. On the seaward side, on opposite corners, were the house and laboratory, the orchard between them. On the south side of the island, about halfway between the sea and theJersey coast, was a field surrounded by heavy Page 7

  woods, except where it fronted on the water.

  Rick’s eyes grew speculative as he looked down at Pirate’s Field-so named because island legend had it that the woman pirate, Anne Bonney, had once picnicked there with her gang of cutthroats. In the center of the field was a tall, canvas-covered structure from which the moon rocket would be launched. Already the base was in place. In a few days, if all went well, the rocket would speed moonward.