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  ROCKET JUMPER

  A RICK BRANT

  SCIENCE-ADVENTURE

  STORY, No. 21

  BY JOHN BLAINE

  RICK BRANT, son of a famous scientist, makes a dream of free flight come true when he fashions a rocket belt in the famed Spindrift Scientific Laboratories. Experiments with the belt are interrupted by summer jobs for Rick and his pal Scotty at a top-secret military project in Nevada .

  The boys are assigned to operate a missile tracking station, and to help counterintelligence find the spies who are collecting information about the missile project and selling it to Iron Curtain countries.

  A ring of ruthless espionage agents, the inferno of a raging forest fire, a dangerous and daring rocket jump-with the lives of two girls at stake-all go to make this a fast-moving, high-tension yarn of Rick Brant in action.

  CHAPTER I

  Page 1

  The Plumber’s Nightmare

  Rick Brant’s feelings were mixed. He felt partly like a human sacrifice, partly like an overloaded camel, partly like an idiot who had fallen into a plumber’s warehouse, and partly like an astronaut in his spacecraft waiting for the moment of lift-off.

  He was a tall, slim boy who usually moved with the controlled grace of an athlete. But anyone seeing him now would have had a hard time figuring out exactly what he did look like. He was dressed in coveralls over a suit of long Arctic underwear. The coveralls were tucked into high-laced boots. From feet to waist he looked reasonably normal, although somewhat overdressed for a hot June day. But from the waist up he was concealed by an apparatus that seemed to be a senseless maze of plumbing. On his head was a motorcyclist’s crash helmet.

  Rick couldn’t remember when he had been so uncomfortable on purpose. The weight on his back bent him slightly forward, and constricting straps around his chest and stomach prevented easy breathing. He was hot. Sweat matted the hair under his helmet and ran in steady rivulets down arms, legs, and back.

  Rick licked his dry lips and looked around, wondering if he seemed as nervous as he felt. His mother, standing with the wives of Spindrift scientists, looked frightened. His sister Barby was obviously excited.

  Next to Barby, pretty, dark-haired Jan Miller seemed calm enough, but she was twisting a handkerchief into a shapeless wad.

  The Spindrift scientists were calm and detached, as usual. Zircon, Gordon, Weiss, Miller, Winston,Shannon , and Briotti were discussing the latest Rick Brant project in technical terms, talking about thrust-to-weight ratio, specific impulse of monopropellants, and stability of a body moving in six degrees of freedom. Rick gulped. They were talking theoretically, but it was actually his body they meant.

  Rick staggered as his father, Dr. Hartson Brant, Director of the famed Spindrift Scientific Foundation, gave a last tug on the back of his harness. Rick looked over his shoulder. Hartson Brant and Don Scott were making final adjustments.

  In a moment Mr. Brant came around from behind with a sheet of paper. “Take places,” he called.

  “We’re ready for the check list.”

  Scotty handed Rick a handkerchief to mop his dripping face. “Feeling okay, ol ’ buddy?”

  Tm hot,” Rick said truthfully.

  “And a bit apprehensive,” Hartson Brant added.

  “Have confidence in your own handiwork, son. I’ve checked it thoroughly, and it’s a good, sound piece of work. You’ll fly like a bird.”

  Scotty, a husky, dark-haired boy, grinned. “With that Plumber’s Nightmare on his back he’ll be lucky to fly like a kiwi.”

  Rick knew that his pal’s joking reference to the flightlessNew Zealand bird was only a way of reassuring him. Scotty didn’t joke when he had doubts.

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  “Plumber’s Nightmare” was a good description of Rick’s invention. On his back, upside down, were two tanks that had begun their existence as compressed air tanks for scuba diving. The tanks terminated in bell-like nozzles mounted on swivels. From each nozzle a flexible cable ran up Rick’s back and into a pipe welded to the left tank. The pipe extended over Rick’s left shoulder, then curved downward to chest level. It ended in a motorcycle handgrip.

  From a valve just above each tank nozzle, two other flexible cables ran to a pipe extending over his right shoulder. This pipe also ended in a handgrip.

  The whole pipe and tank assembly was bolted to a stiff corset of fiberglass and epoxy resin. Rick wore the corset like a sleeveless, collarless jacket. Under his arms, the corset was padded with molded rubber tops taken from an old pair of crutches. A wide leather belt secured the corset firmly around his chest, and a telephone lineman’s safety belt held it to his waist.

  Half-inch nylon ropes were tied to safety rings on each side of the safety belt. From a heavy ring welded to the brace between the tanks on Rick’s back another nylon rope rose upward to a block suspended from a cable fifty feet over his head. The cable ran from the top of the Spindrift laboratory building to a tall steel tower that had once been the gantry for a great rocket. The nylon rope continued through the block to the ground again, its end held by big Hobart Zircon, a world-famous physicist.

  “Let’s go,” Hartson Brant called.

  Jan Miller stepped forward as most of the group moved back. She had put away the twisted handkerchief and now held a sprig of green in her fingers. She smiled at Rick. “I know you’re not superstitious, and neither am I, but this won’t hurt anything, will it?”

  Rick looked from the girl’s face to the green sprig. “It won’t hurt. It might even help. Thanks, Jan.” It was a four-leaf clover. Jan tucked it into his safety belt and stepped back.

  “Ground-tie safety lines,” Hartson Brant called.

  Tony Briotti and Howard Shannon checked the attachment of the lines to Rick’s belt, then took position holding the ropes, one on each side of Rick. “Ready,” they said in turn.

  “Harness safety line,” the scientist called.

  Hobart Zircon took up the slack on his rope and Rick felt himself lifted from the ground and lowered again. “Ready,” Zircon called in his booming voice.

  “Harness belts.”

  Scotty had already checked Rick’s belts, but he checked them again. “Ready.”

  “Crash helmet.”

  Rick tightened the strap under his chin. “Ready.”

  “Vector control.”

  Rick turned the left handgrip. It was a bit stiff, but all right. “Okay here.”

  Page 3

  Scotty had been checking the movement of the nozzles under the tanks. “Nozzles traverse all right.”

  Hartson Brant smiled at his son.“Final item, Rick. Thrust control.”

  Rick turned the right grip and heard the hiss of escaping steam. “Okay here.”

  Scotty called from behind him, “Both nozzles clear.”

  Hartson Brant nodded. “Take your time, Rick. The safety lines will hold you, no matter what happens.

  I’ll call out at thirty and forty-five seconds. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Rick waited while the group fanned out, leaving him alone in the center of a circle of watchers. The three scientists on the lines were just within the circle of well-wishers.

  Rick took a deep breath. Slowly and evenly he twisted the right grip. Steam hissed. As the valves at the bottoms of the tanks slowly opened, liquid hydrogen peroxide began to flow. The liquid struck screens of pure silver wire and instantly exploded into steam. This was the same reaction that had powered the Mercury capsule controls in the early days of the space program, taking advantage of the fact that hydrogen peroxide decomposes instantly upon striking a catalyst of platinum, mercury, or silver, breaking down into a powerful jet of steam.

  Thrust built up as Rick opened the valv
es. He felt the weight on his back lessen as thrust lifted the tanks, then the pressure under his arms as the corset lifted firmly under the thrusting jets.

  His discomfort was forgotten now. He balanced carefully, and kept adding thrust until he was on tiptoes, then six inches above the ground. According to plan, he kept the thrust constant and swung his feet slightly. His entire body rocked back and forth. Quickly he stopped the motion, then gave his body a twist. He turned in mid-air, like a trampoline jumper reversing direction, and was astonished at how rapidly and smoothly he moved. He twisted back again, brought himself to his original position, and drew his legs up. Above the noisy hiss of steam he heard the watchers laugh at the sight of Rick Brant sitting, apparently unsupported, above the ground.

  He lowered his legs again and increased thrust. He rose slowly to a height of thirty feet, then cut the thrust back just enough to hold that altitude.

  “Thirty seconds,” Hartson Brant shouted.

  Rick nodded. He was surprised that he had no feeling of height. He had a secret fear of high places, and climbing gave him the willies, but flying his plane gave him a feeling of exhilaration, and so did this new kind of lift.

  According to the program, Rick twisted his body and went into a full turn. Below him, Briotti and Shannon ran in a circle to keep the safety lines from tangling. Their job was to keep Rick from rising too high if he lost control of the thrust, and to balance him if need be. But he was balancing easily.

  As Rick turned in mid-air he had a panorama view ofSpindriftIsland . He faced into the cove off Pirate’s Field, then turned toward the back end of the island where tidal flats, exposed at low tide, connected the island to the mainland. Another quarter turn and he saw the farmhouse where the island’s tenant farmer lived, and the neat, plowed fields. Then the big Brant house came into view, and the smaller, newer houses of the married staff scientists. TheAtlantic Ocean swept into view beyond the orchard, then the long, low, gray laboratory building. When he was facing out from Pirate’s Field again, he gave his body a Page 4

  slight twist in the opposite direction and stopped his motion.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Hartson Brant called.

  Rick nodded to show he understood.Right on the button, in accordance with the practice program. He reduced thrust slightly and began to descend. At about ten feet he increased thrust again and checked the descent. He stayed in place for a five count, then reduced thrust slowly-too slowly, as it turned out. He reached a position three feet above the turf and the jets cut out, all fuel gone. Rick dropped like a lead sinker for a few inches, then the upper safety line caught him. The full weight of the back pack slammed down on his belts and made him grunt.

  Zircon lowered him to the ground, and the entire Spindrift group mobbed him.

  “It worked!” Scotty yelled, and pounded Rick’s shoulder, oblivious to the fact that he was pounding steel-hard fiberglass.

  Barby unbuckled her brother’s crash helmet and lifted it off, then gave him a big kiss. “You flew, Rick!

  You really did! It was sensational”

  Jan Miller handed him a freshly opened can of ice-cold root beer. “It was wonderful, Rick.”

  “The four-leaf clover did it,” he said elatedly.

  Scotty was already unbuckling Rick’s harness. Zircon and Hartson Brant supported the heavy load as Rick slipped out of it. They laid it on the ground, and both shook his hand.

  Mrs. Brant gave her son a hug. “All right, Peter Pan. You’ve shown us you can fly. Now off to the showers before you collapse from the heat.”

  Rick was more than willing, but it was a half hour before his friends and neighbors finished their congratulations, and another half hour before he and Scotty finished cleaning the nozzles to be sure none of the corrosive hydrogen peroxide remained to corrode and clog them.

  When he and Scotty emerged from the lab building, Barby and Jan were waiting. Together, the four walked toward the big house facing theAtlantic , past the orchard, past his Sky Wagon four-seater plane.

  A shaggy little dog ran to meet him, sniffed his hand carefully, then rolled over and played dead.

  Rick scratched the dog’s ribs. One hind leg flailed in ecstasy. “It worked, Diz ,” Rick said. Dismal had been locked in the house during the experiment so that he would not be upset at seeing his young master sail into the air.

  “It worked like a dream,” Jan added.

  “I can hardly wait to try it myself,” Scotty said.

  Barby looked at her brother anxiously. “You’ll let Jan and me try it, too, won’t you, Rick?”

  “As soon as all the bugs are ironed out and I’ve learned how to work it safely,” he promised. “One control is still a little stiff. I’ll have to smooth it out.”

  “What will you call it?” Barby asked.

  Page 5

  Rick hadn’t thought about a name. He had referred to it only as “the rocket belt.” He asked, “Any ideas?”

  “How about Rick Brant’s Bird Belt?”

  Scotty objected. “Sounds like something to tie dead ducks onto.”

  “Call it the Ribroc ,” Jan suggested. “Short for Rick Brant’s Rocket Corset.”

  Rick chuckled.“Nope. Scotty had the right name for it-Plumber’s Nightmare.”

  No matter what it was called, it worked. That was all that really counted. Rick was already looking ahead to the next steps. Another tethered flight for control practice after lunch, and a third tethered flight in the morning. Then-if all went well-the first free flight tomorrow afternoon. He could hardly wait.

  CHAPTER II

  Free Flight

  Spindriftisland , off theNew Jersey coast, was the only home Rick Brant remembered. He had been born on the mainland, and so had Barby, who was a year his junior. But Hartson Brant, seeking a quiet place in which to do original research, had found the island and purchased it.

  Rick’s earliest memories were of playing on the beach at Pirate’s Field on the south shore of the island while his father sat on the bank with pad and pencil and worked out the fundamental theory that had helped to open the age of electronics.

  Later, Hobart Zircon and Julius Weiss had come to the island to work with Hartson Brant, and had stayed. By then Rick’s own bump of curiosity had grown large, and the three distinguished scientists had encouraged it, taking time to answerhis questions-usually with questions of their own that forced him to think and to arrive at an answer himself. A daring space project, launched from Pirate’s Field, had won a grant that resulted in creation of the Spindrift Scientific Foundation. The staff expanded during various projects, and new houses were built to accommodate them, although Zircon and Weiss still lived in the big old main house.

  Now the Foundation was well established and world famous. Rick had literally grown up with it, taking part in projects and expeditions when not in school, and always getting help from the scientists on his various projects.

  The rocket belt was the latest in a long line of Rick Brant experiments. He planned to get an early start on next fall’s high school science project-and he had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations, thanks to some enthusiastic assistance from the staff scientists. The assistance was perfectly fair, since it had been in the form of advice and help with computations, but the project was practically finished before the summer season was well under way.

  Page 6

  The belt wasn’t an original idea with Rick. The first rocket belt had been built by a scientist at Bell Aerosystems . Rick had read about it, and began dreaming of one of his own. The question was, could a rocket belt be built with ordinary tools and equipment? He planned to call his project “Design and Operation of a Homemade Personal Rocket Lifting Device.”

  Rick had learned a lot, very quickly. He grinned when he thought of his first design. He had planned to use two tanks, one for kerosene and one for liquid oxygen, and by really poring over some of the technical data in the Brant library, he had satisfied himself that it would work.

  Hobart Z
ircon went over the design with him, then looked at Rick quizzically.

  “It will work, won’t it?” Rick asked.

  “Indeed it will,” Zircon boomed. “Like a Saturn with eight engines flaming. It will get you at least one foot off the ground.Maybe two.”

  Rick started in disbelief. “My figures can’t be that wrong.”

  “Oh, your figures are all right, as far as they go, but you haven’t calculated the payload properly. You’ve allowed only your own weight.”

  “But what other payload is there?” Rick demanded. “I’m not going to carry anything heavy.”

  “How about your water supply?I estimate it will take about fifty gallons.”

  “For what?”Rick demanded.

  “How do they cool the launch pads atCape Kennedy when a kerosene-oxygen rocket takes off?”

  The light dawned. “With water,” Rick said unhappily. “Thousands of tons of it, pouring likeNiagara Falls

  .”

  “Yes. And that’s what you’ll need to cool the seat of your pants when that rocket blowtorch hits.Only in smaller quantity, of course.”

  Rick sighed. “Well, back to the old drawing board.”

  “Take a different tack, Rick. A burning bipropellant isn’t the answer. You need a monopropellant that produces thrust by decomposition. The heat production is less.And another thing. Your thrusters shoot straight down at the seat of your pants. Angle them outward.”

  “But it will be less efficient,” Rick protested.

  “And also cooler.You’d need only a little padding, not asbestos shorts and a hip-pocket cooling system.

  So you’ll gain in payload weight what you lose in efficiency.”

  Rick settled finally on hydrogen peroxide as a propellant, although there were other possibilities. The reason was a practical one. He could buy peroxide. He couldn’t buy the others. The rocket belt was designed around the common chemical, and the tanks allowed one minute of flight. He could have purchased larger tanks, but there was a limit to the weight he could carry. The fully fueled belt finally ended up weighing one hundred and twenty pounds. It had to be lifted onto his back, although he could Page 7