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                           THE SCARLET LAKE MYSTERY

                     A RICK BRANT SCIENCE-ADVENTURE STORY

                               BY JOHN BLAINE


GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1958
NEW YORK, N. Y.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

_Printed in the United States of America_

[Transcriber Note: Extensive research did not discover a U.S.
copyright renewal.]




[Illustration: _Grim-faced men came running to help still the
holocaust_]




Contents


       I SPINDRIFT

      II ASSIGNMENT: ROCKET BASE

     III LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

      IV SCARLET LAKE

       V PROJECT PEGASUS

      VI SIGN OF THE EARTHMAN

     VII CARELESS MESA

    VIII PROJECT ORION

      IX GHOST TOWN CLUE

       X STRANDED IN STEAMBOAT

      XI DEADROCK OGG, MAYOR

     XII SERVOMOTORS MISSING

    XIII FLY THE WINGED HORSE!

     XIV CHECK PILOT

      XV THE OPEN HATCHWAY

     XVI THE BOARD SHOWS GREEN

    XVII WEIGHT, ONE TON

   XVIII OUT OF CONTROL!

     XIX THE UNYIELDING GROUND

      XX THE EARTHMAN




List of Illustrations

_Grim-faced men came running to help still the holocaust_

_Etched on the bar was a puzzling inscription_

_A bullet whined off the top of the rock pile, and then there was
silence_

_"What are you doing here?" the man demanded_

_Rick hung in the air, as though suspended by some weird magic_




CHAPTER I

Spindrift


Rick Brant released the sling pouch with his left hand and let it drop
smoothly to the end of its double string. The sling swung through a
complicated arc, out to its full length, down again behind his back,
then, with rapidly increasing speed, over his right shoulder. With a
final whip he swung the pouch forward and released the free end of the
string at precisely the right moment.

The rock left the pouch at astonishing speed, whistling as it traveled
out to sea. Over fifty yards from shore it slapped into the water only a
few feet from a bottle that bobbed there as a target.

Don Scott, nicknamed Scotty, nodded his approval. "Okay, David. Another
hour of practice and you can go hunting Goliath."

Rick grinned. "I'm getting the hang of it," he admitted. "Let's see you
heave another one out there."

The boys had collected a pile of assorted water-polished stones from the
beach near Pirate's Field, and brought them to the front of the big
Brant house facing the Atlantic Ocean.

Scotty selected one of the larger ones, then checked his sling. The
sling was simplicity itself. Two pieces of strong cord were connected to
each side of the pouch, made of heavy canvas about four inches long and
three wide. One string ended in a loop, which Scotty slipped over his
right forefinger. The other string ended in a large knot, which Scotty
held between his forefinger and thumb.

Scotty placed the stone in the pouch and gripped it in his left hand,
holding the stone in place with thumb and forefinger. He took throwing
position, left hand holding the pouch slightly lower than shoulder
height while his right held the strings in the center of his body just
above his belt buckle.

He released the pouch and put his solid weight into the throw.

Rick's lips pursed in a silent whistle. The stone sang shrilly as it
flew up, up, up and far out. Then the trajectory dropped off rapidly and
it fell into the sea.

"Bless Bess!" Rick exclaimed. "Three hundred yards if it was an inch!"

Even Scotty looked a little surprised. "I'm going to quit while I'm
ahead," he announced.

Barbara Brant, a slim, pretty, blond girl a year Rick's junior, hailed
them from the porch, then ran down and joined them. "Hi! What are you
two doing?"

"Scotty just won the rock-throwing championship of the East Coast," Rick
told her.

Barby looked surprised. "He did? I thought you were waiting for Dr.
Gordon?"

"We are, but we decided to try out Scotty's new sling while we were
waiting."

The boys, and in fact the entire scientific staff of Spindrift Island,
had been in a state of excitement for the past few days because of a
telegram received from Dr. John Gordon. Dr. Gordon had been on leave for
some time, working on a special project at a rocket experimental station
in the West. A few days before, Dr. Hartson Brant, Rick's father and
head of the Spindrift Scientific Foundation, a world-famous research
organization, had received word from Gordon that Rick and Scotty were
needed for a special assignment. Gordon had not given any details in his
wire.

This morning Dr. Gordon had phoned that he had been delayed, but would
arrive by Navy plane around noontime. Long before noon, Rick and Scotty
had moved Rick's four-passenger Sky Wagon off the grassy runway that ran
along the seaward side of the island, then settled down to the
rock-throwing session.

Barby said, "I'm pretty good with a slingshot. Let me try."

Scotty handed her the sling. She looked at it dubiously. "What's this?
It isn't a slingshot."

"It's a sling," Rick explained. "Not a slingshot. You know--like David
and Goliath."

Barby looked her disbelief. "You mean David killed Goliath with two
pieces of string and a piece of canvas?"

"He probably used leather thongs and a leather pouch," Scotty said, "but
the idea is the same."

"Show her," Rick suggested.

Scotty picked up another of the larger stones and let fly. It dropped
short of the earlier throw, but the effect was enough to make Barby's
blue eyes open wide.

"Where did you get it?" she asked excitedly.

"Made it. Steve Ames showed me how, and how to throw."

The Spindrift Scientific Foundation, located on Spindrift Island off the
New Jersey coast, had been called upon several times to assist the
United States Government. In many of the cases, the scientific staff
worked under the direction of a topnotch intelligence agent by the name
of Steven Ames. Rick and Scotty had taken an active part, in spite of
the fact that they were only in their teens.

Working for JANIG, the intelligence group that Steve Ames represented,
had taught both boys a great deal about intelligence procedures. This
training was a major reason why John Gordon had called on them for
assistance.

"Isn't it a funny weapon for Steve Ames to use?" Barby asked. "I mean,
after all, spies are supposed to use guns or knives, aren't they?"

Rick grinned. "Sure. They carry knives between their teeth, and they
have at least two guns each. Walking arsenals, that is what they are. It
takes a strong man to be a spy, on account of all the heavy metal he has
to lug around."

Barby ignored him. "Scotty, how come Steve knows about slings?"

"It's a hobby. He and a few others are trying to keep the art of using
slings alive," Scotty explained. "It's been nearly forgotten."

"I see." Barby glared at Rick. "If you can't give me a civil answer when
I ask a question, I won't ask you any more!"

Rick pointed out, "You'll have to stop for now, anyway, because Scotty
and I have to leave on this special job of John Gordon's. Besides, the
only reason you're mad is because you can't go."

Barby always felt cheated when Rick and Scotty left the island on some
exciting expedition or job. She had vowed to be a boy in her next
reincarnation.

Scotty stepped in as peacemaker. "Barby won't mind," he said. "After
all, Jan Miller will be here in a few days."

After completion of _The Electronic Mind Reader_ case Hartson Brant had
persuaded Dr. Walter Miller, an expert who had worked with the Spindrift
staff, to join the Foundation permanently. That meant Barby would have
Miller's daughter, Jan, as a companion, and Barby was delighted beyond
words. The boys were pleased, too. Not only was Jan nice to have around,
but her presence--they hoped--would mean less trouble from Barby when
they were going off somewhere.

The Millers would move into one of the new cottages behind the orchard,
next to Parnell Winston, the staff cyberneticist. Howard Shannon, expert
in the natural sciences, and his family would be their other neighbors.

At the moment, however, Shannon and Tony Briotti, the staff
archaeologist, were away on an expedition in the Sulu Sea. Rick and
Scotty had been keenly disappointed at being left behind. But Dr.
Gordon's offer of a new job had cheered them up considerably.

"Shouldn't Dr. Gordon be arriving?" Barby asked.

Scotty looked at his watch. "He should. But he didn't give any definite
time."

Barby poked at a sling stone with one slipper. "Where are you supposed
to go?"

"Somewhere in Nevada, Dad says," Rick replied.

"I thought Dr. Gordon was at White Sands Proving Ground in New Mexico."

"So did I," Scotty remarked. "The telegram was the first I knew about
his working in Nevada."

Barby held up her hand. "Listen!"

A plane was in sight! Rick identified it as a prop-driven Navy utility
job. No doubt of it, Gordon was arriving!

They watched eagerly as the plane lost altitude, flaps and wheels
lowered for the landing. The pilot brought it in over the big radar
antenna on the laboratory roof, then dropped onto the runway for a
three-point landing opposite the orchard.

The three ran around the wing, bracing themselves against the prop
blast. Rick took the suitcase that was handed to him by Dr. Gordon, who
leaped lightly to the ground after his luggage.

The scientist, a short, wiry man with gray hair cropped crew-cut
fashion, waved to the pilot, then motioned the young people back as the
pilot turned with a blast of his prop and taxied to take-off position in
front of the lab.

Because of the racket, no one tried to talk until the plane was nearly
out of earshot. Then Barby spoke for all of them as they walked to the
house. "We thought you'd never get here!"

Dr. Gordon smiled his pleasure at being home again. He shook hands with
the boys. "You've no idea how nice and green this island looks after the
Nevada desert. And you've no idea how hungry I am! Is it too late for
lunch?"

Mrs. Brant answered him from the porch. "You have just two minutes to
wash up and come to the table, John!"

Hartson Brant appeared behind her. He shook hands with Dr. Gordon as the
three young people escorted him to the porch. "Welcome home, John."

"Thanks, Hartson. It's good to be back. Where are the others? Zircon,
Weiss, and Winston? I know Tony and Howard are off on an expedition, but
I thought the others were home."

"They are. Parnell Winston is probably having lunch at his cottage.
Hobart and Julius are in New York, examining some new equipment for the
lab. They'll be back tonight."

Rick was dying to ask questions, but he knew this was not the right
time. At lunch, perhaps, they might be given some details.

John Gordon looked at him and grinned. "Here's Rick Brant," he declared,
"politely holding his tongue when he's about to pop like a firecracker
with questions. Your self-control does you credit, Rick. Want one bit of
data to chew on while you're waiting?"

Rick gulped, then returned the grin. "Yes, sir!"

John Gordon lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. "We have an
enemy," he stated. "What kind of enemy may be seen clearly in the name
by which he goes." He paused.

"What name?" Rick asked impatiently.

"_Homo Terrestrialis._"

John Gordon turned and hurried upstairs to his room to wash up for
lunch.

Rick stared after him. What in the name of a simple-minded spacefish did
that mean?

_Homo Terrestrialis._

Man of Earth.

Earthman!




CHAPTER II

Assignment: Rocket Base


Rick turned the phrase over and over in his head, trying to make sense
out of it. Earthman? Who wasn't an earthman? The whole human race was
composed of them. Of course ordinary people didn't refer to themselves
as _homo terrestrialis_, but that's what they were just the same.

Scotty was just as puzzled. "Do you make anything out of it?" he
inquired.

Rick shook his head mutely.

As Barby made a beeline for the library, Scotty called after her, "Where
are you going? It's lunchtime."

She answered without pausing. "I'm going to consult the dictionary
before Dr. Gordon comes down."

"Maybe she has something there," Rick said. "Let's go."

But the dictionary gave no clues. _Homo_ was simply "man," and
_terrestrial_ was simply "of earth."

"Terrestrial is in here, but not terrestrialis," Barby complained.

"Same thing," Rick said. "Adding 'is' just makes it a Latin form. No,
there's nothing strange about the term, except it's strange that anyone
should use it."

"We'll find out," Scotty reminded him. "John Gordon was just teasing us.
Let's go eat. Maybe he'll break down at lunch."

Rick realized the sense of what Scotty said, but he couldn't stop
worrying the problem as his dog, Dismal, might worry a bone. Then, when
they all sat down to lunch, his father effectively blocked discussion of
it, and their new assignment, by talking with Dr. Gordon about mutual
friends out West.

Finally Mrs. Brant came to her son's rescue. "Now, Hartson, and you too,
John. You've teased Rick and Scotty enough."

Mr. Brant chuckled. "I wondered how long he was going to put up with our
reminiscences before blowing a fuse or something."

Rick grinned sheepishly. He should have guessed that the two scientists
were deliberately keeping the conversation off the main subject just as
a joke.

John Gordon took a generous helping of salad. "All right. I'll talk, but
you'll have to excuse me if I mumble a little. I intend to go right on
eating. I've been looking forward to this for months!"

"We'll excuse you," Barby said quickly. "Only please start!"

Gordon smiled at her. "Can you keep secrets?"

"I always have," Barby retorted.

"All right. Then you can listen. But what I say must not be repeated."

The scientist paused long enough to drain his glass of milk and refill
it from the pitcher.

"Well, to begin with, we moved from New Mexico to Nevada only a short
while ago, in order to separate our work from military research. We
created a new test base in Nevada, not too far from the Atomic Energy
Commission's Nevada Test Site, although we have no connection with it."

"Then you're not on a military project?" Scotty asked.

"Yes and no. The work is sponsored jointly by the Department of Defense
and some other agencies, including the National Science Foundation.
However, we are not working on military projects, in the sense that our
rockets are not weapons. They're for research purposes. Of course some
of the things we're doing will be valuable for military application
later, and so our test base is closed to the public and most of our work
has a high classification. Usually the work is secret, but sometimes
it's top secret. Is that clear?"

Scotty and the Brants agreed that it was.

"Very well. Since we operate under security, every person who works on
the base is fully investigated and cleared for top secret. This is an
important point. You know how thorough these investigations are. Once a
security check for top secret is completed, there is literally nothing
of importance that isn't known about a person. But in spite of the most
careful security work, there is someone on our base about whom we do not
know everything.

"It's absolutely baffling," Gordon continued. "Our first project was a
simple one, with a tested rocket system. Actually, we used a modified
Aerobee, a rocket of proven dependability. Nothing should have gone
wrong. But when we fired, the rocket exploded at the top of the
launcher. We investigated thoroughly, of course, and found someone had
cleverly sabotaged the shoot."

"The what?" Barby asked.

"The shoot. When we launch a rocket we simply call it a shoot."

"Oh. Now I understand."

"Ask any questions you want. Well, we discovered that someone had rigged
a steel bar at the top of the launching tower. It was spring-loaded and
triggered to move right across the path of the rocket when we fired."

"What does spring-loaded mean?" Mrs. Brant asked.

"The bar was activated by a spring. The spring was under tension. The
steel bar lay along one of the pieces of the frame, and was held by a
latch. When the trigger withdrew the latch, the spring pushed the bar
across the path of the rocket. That's what spring-loaded means in this
case."

"Couldn't anyone have found the steel bar?" Scotty wanted to know.

"Yes, if anyone had looked for it. But once the launching tower was
erected, there was no reason for anyone to go to the top for an
inspection."

Scotty nodded his understanding.

"To go on, as soon as we found the bar and the spring mechanism we knew
we'd been sabotaged. But that wasn't all. Etched on the bar was a rather
good picture of a knight in armor, in the process of driving his sword
through a rocket. Underneath was the inscription: _Homo Terrestrialis_."

[Illustration: _Etched on the bar was a puzzling inscription_]

"I don't get it," Rick complained.

Gordon grinned. "Neither did we. And we still don't get it. But you can
be sure we started a few balls rolling. First, Security checked every
man's file again. They missed no one. Even the security officers and
guards were rechecked. Then they started a program to find out who on
the base had any talent as an artist. Nothing was found. The security
chief sent photos of the etched picture and the whole bar mechanism to
every security agency in the government, including the FBI, Central
Intelligence, and the military. He drew a blank. No one had ever heard
of anyone calling himself the Earthman, and the technique wasn't
familiar."

The scientist paused long enough to eat a little more, then resumed.

"Meanwhile, we were getting a Viking rocket ready to launch. We checked
it from nose to fins. We didn't miss a thing. Then we posted a guard
around it, and a guard to watch the guard. We took no chances at all.
The project engineer even slept near the rocket where he could keep an
eye on it."

"Did anyone climb the tower?" Barby asked.

"There was no tower. A Viking rests on its fins. Anyway, it took off. It
climbed ten miles, then went on an erratic course. We couldn't control
it. Fortunately it crashed on the Las Vegas Bombing and Gunnery Range,
which is a closed military area nearby, so no one was hurt. At first we
thought it was just one of those typical accidents that happen during
rocket research. Even the best-performing rockets sometimes go haywire.
But when we got into the wreckage, we found the steering vanes had been
tampered with, in a way that inspection couldn't have disclosed."

"Was there a picture?" Scotty asked.

"Not in or on the rocket. But when we got back to the base after
inspecting it, everyone was excited. Someone had sketched a knight in
armor with crayon right on the concrete of the launching pad."

Rick said thoughtfully, "Then you can eliminate those who went to
inspect the crashed Viking."

"Unfortunately, no. We have no way of telling when the picture was
drawn. No one was seen near the launching pad between the time the
rocket was fired and the discovery of the sketch on our return from the
gunnery range."

"Do you think this sabotage is the work of an enemy agent?" Hartson
Brant inquired.

John Gordon shrugged. "Perhaps. Yet we don't really think so. In the
first place, an enemy agent would probably not leave a calling card. And
second, we're reasonably sure no agent could have gotten past the
security check."

There was silence while Scotty and the Brants thought over what Gordon
had said. The scientist busied himself with the excellent food, and
finally accepted a cup of coffee.

Rick voiced aloud the angles that puzzled him the most. "If not an enemy
agent, then why the sabotage at all? Who would have anything to gain but
an enemy?"

"If we had the answers, we could find the saboteur," Gordon pointed out.
"If we knew why he calls himself 'The Earthman' we might also have a
lead. But as it is, we're stumped. It could be anyone on the base,
including me."

"Is it you?" Barby asked in a stage whisper.

Gordon looked around, as though to make sure there were no
eavesdroppers. "I don't think so," he whispered, "but I'll have to admit
I haven't looked since yesterday."

"What do you want the boys to do?" Mrs. Brant asked.

The scientist became serious again. "It's a desperate hope," he
admitted, "but there is always a possibility they might turn up
something if we plant them as undercover agents. Rick and Scotty not
only have good sense, but they're lucky. Maybe they'll be lucky enough
to stumble over or sniff out a lead."

"How do we do this?" Rick wanted to know. He was definitely interested
in the job. Just the idea of witnessing a big rocket shoot was exciting
enough, even without the added attraction of a saboteur to be uncovered.

"You get jobs," Gordon stated. "But you'll have to get them on your own
merits, because if I intervened in your behalf that would be a tip-off.
Only I and the Chief of Security will know about you."

"Can you trust the Chief of Security?" Barby asked.

Gordon smiled. "A fair question. All I can say is, trust must start
somewhere. If Tom Preston is the Earthman, I'll turn in my spaceman's
suit and proton disintegrator and resign from the human race."

Rick grinned. "All right. We'll trust the Chief of Security on your
say-so. What's the next step?"

"Well, you're not old enough to have much of a work history, so we'll
have to exaggerate your ages and the time you've worked. It will be safe
enough, so far as being found out is concerned," Gordon said. "Security
makes all reference checks, including employment, and Tom Preston will
handle your cases personally."

Dismal rubbed against Gordon's leg. The scientist slipped him a scrap of
cheese from the salad, then looked guiltily at Mrs. Brant.

"John Gordon! How many times have I told you not to feed Dismal at the
table?" she exclaimed in mock anger.

Gordon looked sheepish and hung his head. "I'm sorry. Anyway, boys, I'll
advance you funds. You fly to Las Vegas as soon as possible and apply to
Lomac for jobs."

"To who? I mean, to whom?"

"Lomac, Rick. The base is run by a contractor, an engineering firm by
the name of Logan and Macklin, Lomac for short. They hire all but a
handful of scientific personnel, like project directors and their chief
assistants, who come from a variety of places, including government
agencies, universities under contract to the government, and so on."

"Do we apply in Las Vegas?" Scotty asked.

"Yes. Lomac's recruiting office is there. I'll give you the address.
However, the base is some distance away, so you'll need transportation.
I suggest a jeep. You can pick one up secondhand after you arrive. I'll
give you sufficient funds. Also, prepare to hang around Las Vegas for a
while. It will take at least a week to process your papers."

"Are we supposed to know you once we get there?" Rick queried.

"Only casually, because of the Spindrift connection. You know who I am,
but you don't know me well because you've never worked on a project of
mine. I'll find occasion to talk with you privately as needed."

"Another question," Rick said. "Have there been any more sabotage
attempts besides the two you mentioned?"

"No. Those first projects went off in fast order, but the next shoot
isn't scheduled for about two weeks."

Scotty asked, "What's the name of this base? You haven't told us."

Gordon looked grim. "I hope the name isn't prophetic," he said. "The
base was named for the dry lake where the rocket pads are located:
Scarlet Lake."




CHAPTER III

Las Vegas, Nevada


Rick and Scotty picked up their luggage at the baggage counter, then
paused to survey their surroundings. McCarran Field, the airport for Las
Vegas, Nevada, was modern and attractive. But there was no mistaking
that this was desert country. Beyond the airport they saw the barren
mountains of the Charleston Range, and behind the motels clustered
around the airport, they saw flat desert, thinly populated with mesquite
and creosote brush.

"Welcome to the wild West," Rick said with a grin.

"Not a cowboy in sight," Scotty commented. "Plenty of dudes, though." He
gestured at a group dressed in loud sports clothes. "What now?"

"Let's take a taxi into town, register at the hotel, and then go to
Lomac."

"Okay." Scotty hailed a cab from the front of the taxi line. They loaded
their baggage and climbed in.

"El Cortez," Rick directed. John Gordon had suggested that hotel, since
it was close to Lomac's office in downtown Las Vegas, and the food was
good and not expensive.

The taxi rolled through the gateway of McCarran Field and turned toward
town. In a few moments they began to pass the fabulous resort hotels on
the famous "Strip."

"Wow!" Scotty exclaimed. "Some bunch of fancy shanties!"

The taxi left The Strip, traversed the long lines of motels on Fifth
Street, and emerged on Fremont a block from the Cortez. A few minutes
later they had checked in and were unpacking their bags in a comfortable
room in the Cortez Annex.

Scotty picked up the telephone directory and leafed through it until he
found Logan and Macklin. "We have to go to Sixth Street and First
Avenue. Any idea where that is?"

"Just a couple of blocks from here." While riding in the taxi, Rick had
watched street signs and quickly figured out the simple street plan of
the town. "Let's go."

The Lomac offices were on the second floor of a building less than five
minutes walk from the hotel. The boys received application forms from a
bored clerk and sat down at a table to fill them out according to
previous plan. In his application Rick emphasized his experience with
electronic equipment and in wiring circuits. Scotty stressed his
mechanical experience with standard machine-shop equipment, and with
motor repair. This had been John Gordon's suggestion, since it would
result in their being placed in different departments at the rocket
base, thus enabling them to cover more ground.

The clerk checked their forms, then nodded. "Okay. We can use both of
you, if you pass the security check. Ever been cleared?"

"We're both cleared for top secret," Rick told him.

"What agency?"

"JANIG."

The clerk glanced up but made no comment. Rick guessed that JANIG
clearances were not common. He was a little surprised that the clerk
knew the agency; not many people did, because JANIG's activities were
never publicized.

"It will take anywhere from a few days to two weeks to get your
clearances verified and your files transferred. We can't do anything for
you until then. When we want you, we'll call you. That's all."

Rick hesitated at the door. "Where are the used-car dealers located?"

"Fifth Street and Main Street."

Rick thanked him and the boys walked out into the brilliant sunlight.
"Feel up to getting the jeep?" Rick asked. The boys had taken off from
New York shortly after midnight and had ridden all night on a plane
that, as Scotty had said, "landed in every cow pasture west of Chicago."
They had not slept much.

"Let's get the jeep," Scotty replied. "We can catch up on our sleep
after lunch."

However, getting the jeep was not as simple as they had expected. Not
until they reached the fifth used-car dealer did they find one for sale.

Scotty put the jeep through its paces, then drove it back to the car
lot. He looked at it thoughtfully and shrugged. "I wouldn't call it a
pile of junk, but that's only because I'm polite."

The salesman, a lean Westerner, looked pained. "What do you want for the
price? A Jaguar?"

"No," Scotty said. "Just something that runs."

"This runs."

"Not exactly. It limps. Put a new timer in, replace the front-wheel
bearings, grind the valves, and we'll take it."

Rick smothered a grin. Scotty's wink had told him the jeep would do. His
pal was trying to get the price down.

The salesman sighed. "How are you going to pay for it?"

"Cash. Either repair it, or knock off the cost of repairs, and it's a
deal."

"You named it. We'll knock off the repair costs."

In another hour the jeep was theirs and the boys had obtained a vehicle
registration and Nevada driver's licenses. As they drove to the hotel,
Rick asked, "Is it really in good shape?"

"Not bad. It does need some work, but we can do it in a few hours
ourselves."

"Now that we have wheels, let's get cleaned up, have a nap, and then see
the town," Rick suggested.

"I'm with you," Scotty agreed.

It was lunchtime when they returned to the hotel. They settled for ham
and eggs in the Cortez Coffee Shop, then stopped on the way through the
casino to watch the gambling. Even at noontime the dice table was jammed
with customers, and the blackjack tables were nearly full. The roulette
table was not getting much play, however, and they watched for a few
spins of the wheel.

"At least you get an even break on this one," Scotty said. "The odds are
thirty-five to one, and there are only thirty-six numbers."

Rick grinned. "How'd you like to have your life hanging on odds of
thirty-five to one?"

Scotty chuckled. "Anyway, you don't have to play numbers. You can play
black or red, or odd or even. That gives you fifty-fifty odds."

Rick shook his head. "You forgot something. The wheel has zero and
double zero, and they're green, and neither odd nor even. That makes the
odds less than fifty-fifty. You can't win, Scotty."

"Kill-joy. How about the one-arm bandits?" He pointed to several rows of
slot machines.

"No help there, either. It depends on how they're set, but usually out
of every four coins you put in, one drops out of play completely. The
only one who ever sees it again is the man who owns the machine. So, if
you keep feeding money in, eventually the machine will take it all.
Sometimes the machines are set to take one coin out of every three, or
even one out of every two."

"But people do win, gambling," Scotty objected.

"Sure they do. That's why people gamble--and hope. But the great
majority lose." Rick waved at the luxurious casino. "If most people
didn't lose, these casinos couldn't operate."

"Maybe I'd be the lucky one," Scotty said.

A deputy sheriff had been listening to the conversation with amusement.
He tapped Scotty on the shoulder. "I said that once, son. I was going to
be the luckiest ringdangdoo that ever hit Vegas. And what happened? I've
been working in this hotel as a guard for two years, trying to make a
stake big enough to go back home and start where I left off when the bug
bit me."

"Tough," Rick murmured.

"The town is full of people like me. Besides, you lads can't gamble,
anyway. The legal age is twenty-one. Come back in a few years if you
feel rich and foolish, and try bucking the tiger. You'll see what I
mean."

"We'll take your word for it," Scotty assured him. "Come on, Rick. Let's
hit the hay. I can use a nap."

If Las Vegas was spectacular by day, it was a neon nightmare after dark.
The boys dined well, and more than sufficiently, at El Rancho Vegas,
then got in the jeep for a ride around town.

Scotty loosened his belt with a groan. "For once," he admitted, "I
overdid it. Did you ever see so much chow?"

"Not outside of a supermarket," Rick agreed. He let his own belt out a
notch or two.

The boys drove to Fremont Street, past the incredible gambling halls
with their elaborate signs and miles of neon tubing.

Scotty remarked, "I guess you and that deputy sheriff were right. It
takes an awful lot of lost money to keep all these places going."

Tiring of the neon wilderness they turned north on Main Street and
headed out toward Nellis Air Force Base. For a brief stretch the neon
glow faded, then resumed again as they reached North Las Vegas.

Suddenly Scotty pointed. "Hey! We're on another planet."

Rick stared. Towering into the sky was a huge, illuminated figure clad
in a spacesuit. The transparent helmet glowed red, then blue, green,
yellow, and finally red again. In one colossal hand was a supermodern
pistol. Colored flame spurted from the muzzle.

Rick laughed as he noticed another figure in front of the establishment.
"Look! He's got a pup."

Acting as a doorman was another figure, human size, clad in a similar
getup.

Across the building which served as a base for the giant spaceman was a
glowing sign:

    THE SPACEMAN CASINO

"What say we drop in?" Scotty suggested.

"Sure," Rick replied, falling into the role of a science-fiction
spaceman. "We might pick up the latest gossip on that uranium strike on
Venus, or the discovery of live prodsponders on Mars."

Scotty swung into the parking lot. "Tell me, Space Commander, what are
prodsponders?"

"A subspecies of sponprodders. Your ignorance surprises me, Cadet
Scott."

"I haven't been to the inner planets for a week," Scotty apologized. "I
lose touch."

They walked across the driveway, noting that the customary shrubs and
plants were replaced here by artificial ones, made in a form that
represented someone's idea of what plants from other worlds must look
like. The effect was actually pretty good. The place had been built with
imagination.

The spacesuit-clad doorman nodded, and they saw that he was perspiring
freely inside the transparent helmet.

"Who ever heard of a non-airconditioned spacesuit?" Rick murmured. "Bet
he couldn't survive the Venus-Mercury run in that rig."

Inside were the inevitable slot machines, in banks of fifty or more.
Rick decided the objective must be one slot machine for each person in
town. Behind the slot machines were the dice layouts, roulette tables,
and blackjack tables.

Beyond the casino proper, however, was a pleasant lounge that included a
snack bar and tables for dining. The boys wandered over to the snack bar
and sat down on stools, looking around with appreciation. The walls were
decorated with murals--photographic reproductions of a famous artist's
conception of other planets.

"This is nice," Rick said appreciatively.

"Best place I've seen since Callisto Connie's joint on Jupiter," Scotty
agreed whimsically.

A waiter, not much older than they were, wandered down the counter. He
was dressed in a loose tunic that glittered.

"Howdy, fellas," he greeted them.

Rick and Scotty "howdy'd" back.

The counter clerk eyed them with interest. "Haven't seen you in here
before."

"First time," Rick admitted. "Nice place."

"We like it. You from Scarlet Lake?"

The boys stiffened. "What gave you that idea?" Scotty asked quickly.

The waiter admired his fingernails. "Easy. You're not local folks and
you don't look like tourists. So, you came here to work. Maybe the
atomic test site, maybe Nellis, maybe Scarlet Lake. I said Scarlet Lake
because a lot of people from there come in to eat when they're in town.
Some of 'em here right now."

"Where?" Rick asked.

"At the tables over against the wall. What are you going to have?"

Neither boy wanted any more food at the moment, and said so. They agreed
on coffee.

"Here or at a table?"

"Table," Rick said. "Might as well move in with the people from Scarlet
Lake, starting now." He led the way across the room and picked out a
table next to two men in loud sports shirts. One man was big, nearly the
size of Dr. Zircon of the Spindrift staff. He had red hair and a curly
red beard. His eyes were dark and penetrating under bushy red eyebrows.
He looked the boys over with slow deliberation, as though memorizing
what they looked like.

The second man was big, too, although he didn't approach the redhead in
size. He was slightly over six feet, Rick guessed. He was
dark-complexioned and clean-shaven. His eyes, a light blue, were a
surprising contrast to his dark hair and heavily tanned skin.

The redhead leaned over as the boys sat down. "I haven't seen you kids
before. You from Scarlet Lake?"

"We hope to be," Rick replied civilly. "We've applied for jobs at Lomac,
but now we have to wait for a security check."

The redhead turned to his friend. "Catching 'em kind of young these
days, hey, Pancho?"

Pancho showed white teeth in a smile. "Looks like it."

"We can do a day's work," Scotty said shortly.

"Never doubted it for a minute." The redhead thrust out a massive paw.
"I'm Mac McCline. Big Mac, they call me. This here is Pancho Kelly."

The boys shook hands and gave their names.

"Any idea what you're getting into at Scarlet Lake?" Big Mac asked.

"Not much," Rick said truthfully.

Big Mac guffawed. "Well, I'll tell you. Heat, dirt, sidewinders, and
crazy rockets. And if they don't get you, one thing will."

"What's that?" Scotty asked.

"The Earthman."




CHAPTER IV

Scarlet Lake


Rick and Scotty never found out what Big Mac meant by his crack about
the Earthman. He evaded their questions, apparently feeling that he had
said too much. Otherwise he was cordial enough. As the days of waiting
to hear from Lomac passed by, the boys made the Spaceman Casino their
headquarters, hoping to pick up information from the Scarlet Lake people
who hung out there.

Men came and went, but Mac and Pancho were there every night. Once, Rick
commented on their nightly presence at the casino and said jokingly that
work on the base seemed to allow plenty of free time.

"We don't go back to the base every night," Big Mac said. "Pancho and I
do our job when there's work to be done. Other times we do what we want.
If anyone at the base needs us, they know where to come."

Rick thought that over. It seemed reasonable. He asked, "Is it okay to
ask what you do?"

"Sure it's okay. We're radar operators. We track the rockets on a radar
set from a field station." Big Mac pulled a red-checkered handkerchief
from his pocket and blew his nose violently. "Good operators are scarce.
That's why no one bothers us, so long as we're on the job when we're
needed."

[Illustration: no caption - spread over two pages]

Scotty leaned over and picked up something that had dropped to the floor
when Mac pulled out his handkerchief. "You dropped this, Mr. McCline."

Rick identified it easily. It was a tiny transistor, an integral part of
modern electronic apparatus.

Mac took it in his big fingers. "Thanks. I must have stuck it in my
pocket absent-mindedly while we were repairing the equipment."

"Where do you go when you're on a field radar job?" Rick asked. "Just
tell me to mind my own business, if I get into anything classified."

"There's no classification on what we do," Pancho Kelly said. "Only the
results. We go to Careless Mesa. Everyone knows that."

The boys let the conversation lag and ordered dinner. They didn't want
to seem too inquisitive. Constant questions would only make Mac and
Pancho suspicious.

Later, as they rode through the star-studded night in their jeep, Scotty
suddenly asked, "What do you think of Big Mac and Pancho?"

Rick shrugged. He knew what had prompted Scotty's question. He had the
same feeling himself. "They're friendly enough, but I think it's an act.
What I mean, is ..."

"That they haven't any real interest in being friendly, they're just
cordial for the sake of appearances," Scotty concluded.

"On the nose, pal. I get the feeling they could switch from casual
conversation to mayhem without batting an eye."

Scotty thought it over for a moment. "Mac's the driving force of the
pair, but I'd say they're equally tough. I'd guess Pancho is a
combination of Irish and Mexican, both from his looks and his name."

"Is Pancho a name? Or a nickname?"

"Nickname. Usually short for Francisco."

Rick thought back over the past few days, and their meetings with Big
Mac and Pancho. "Funny thing, Scotty. The casino is usually pretty busy,
and mostly with men from Scarlet Lake. But instead of getting acquainted
with many of them we always seem to sit near those two."

Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "What about it?"

"I think we do it instinctively," Rick went on. "Every time we walk in,
they're deep in conversation. There's a kind of atmosphere about them,
as though the talk is always very secret. None of the other men seem
like that. They're more--well, open. No secrets. Know what I mean?"

Scotty nodded. "Now that you point it out, I do."

"So I think we sort of gravitate toward them automatically. On a hunch
that we haven't even recognized, so to speak."

"Because there's more to be learned from them than from the others?"

"That's it!" Rick was glad he had finally put his feelings into words.
"We'll keep an eye on those two," he said emphatically.

On the sixth day of their stay in Las Vegas, Lomac called. The boys
hurried to the office and were told they could report to the base
personnel office at once. They were given a map showing the location of
the base. Scarlet Lake, they learned, was about two hours' drive
northwest of Las Vegas.

They packed hurriedly, checked out, and loaded the jeep. After a brief
stop for gas, they headed out Route 95. Within a few minutes they had
left Las Vegas behind and were in open desert country.

The jeep was not capable of fast travel, and nearly an hour passed
before they saw signs of civilization. It was the air force base at
Indian Springs. They stopped for a coke, and topped off the gas tank.
Rick bought a canteen and a desert water bag at the general store, and
filled both.

A few miles beyond Indian Springs they saw the entrance road to the
Atomic Energy Commission's Nevada Test Site, and the Sixth Army's Camp
Desert Rock. After that, there was no sign of civilization for miles.

A few miles before the town of Lathrop Wells, Scotty spotted their
turnoff. The sign was small and inconspicuous. It simply read: "_Scarlet
Lake_," and an arrow was painted underneath the name.

The paving ended after a mile or two and became a very good dirt road.
The jeep was climbing steadily now, and in a short time Scotty shifted
to second gear.

"We must be nearly out of Nevada and into California," Scotty commented.

"Almost," Rick agreed. "According to the map, the base is right next to
Death Valley." Suddenly he leaned forward as the jeep rounded a turn.
Far below and still many miles away was the pinkish gleam of a dry lake
bed. Scarlet Lake!

"I see where they got the name," Scotty said.

Rick grinned. "Scarlet Lake makes sense but some of the other names
around here don't. Did you notice the town marked 'Steamboat' on the
map? And not enough water to float a bar of soap."

"See anything of the base?"

"Not yet."

Five miles later they began to see signs that Scarlet Lake was occupied.
Black strips indicated aircraft runways. Then, tiny concrete squares
came into view. But not until they were in the valley, only a mile from
the base, could they see buildings.

The buildings turned out to be a few single-story administrative shacks
clustered around a check-in point. A uniformed guard waved them into a
parking lot and told them to report to Security for badges.

They walked into the building marked "_Security Office, Badge Division_"
and found a counter with another guard behind it. He took their names
and asked for identification, then directed them to stand with chins
resting on a tray. He slipped plastic letters into slots and formed
their names, then took pictures with a fixed camera.

"Sit down and wait," he said. "We'll have these for you in five
minutes."

Rick looked his surprise. "Can you process the pictures that fast?"

"Don't have to. This is a Polaroid camera."

Rick joined Scotty on a wooden bench. "I expected a barbed-wire fence.
But there's no fence at all."

"The whole desert is a fence, I guess," Scotty surmised. "The only
access roads are probably guarded, and the only other ways to get into
the base would be by foot or horseback. No one could make it on foot,
and anyone on horseback would attract instant attention."

Scotty probably was right, Rick thought. Still, it wasn't at all what he
expected.

In a few moments the guard was back. He handed them laminated plastic
badges with their names and pictures. At the bottom of Rick's were the
numbers one, two, and three. Scotty's badge had only the numbers two and
three.

"What do these mean?" Rick asked.

"Those are the areas where you're allowed to go. Area One is the
blockhouse. Area Two is the main base and firing pads. Area Three is the
machine shop and maintenance depot. You can go anywhere. Scott can go
anywhere but inside the blockhouse. Sign these, please." He handed them
forms in which they agreed to be bound by all security regulations,
under penalty of the Espionage Act. They signed, and returned the forms.

"Go through the gate," the guard directed, "and report to the reception
desk in Building Five. That's personnel. They'll take it from there."

They returned to the jeep and drove to the gate. The guard inspected
their badges, compared the pictures with their faces, then waved them
on.

"Taking no chances," Rick remarked. "There's Building Five."

The personnel office gave them another map, showing installations and
buildings on the base itself, and assigned them to bunks nine and ten in
Barracks Seven. Rick was told to report at eight in the morning to Dr.
Gould in Building Twelve, while Scotty was told to report to Mr. Rhodes
in Maintenance Building Twenty-three. They received a leaflet marked:
"_Read This_."

They followed the map for another three miles, leaving the gate
buildings out of sight behind a ridge of rock. Their map showed that the
main cluster of buildings was three miles from the gate and nine miles
from the blockhouse and the firing pads on the dry lake bed. Again, Rick
began to appreciate Western distances.

The boys found their barracks without difficulty, and moved into a room
containing four bunks. It wasn't elaborate, but it was adequate for a
camp of this kind. It was clear that the other bunks were occupied, but
at the moment their bunkmates were apparently out.

Rick stowed his gear in the locker with his bed number on it, then sat
down to read the leaflet. It was a directory of camp facilities, plus a
written lecture on security. He was allowed to say what kind of work he
did, and that was about all.

"Let's look the place over," he suggested.

They located the mess halls, the base movie house, post exchange, and
post office. There was also a laundry and a snack bar. Set off by itself
was a recreation hall, equipped with TV sets, comfortable chairs, card
tables, and pool tables.

Rick followed the map to the laboratory buildings, and was surprised to
find that they were enormous sheds, like hangars. Most of the doors were
wide open, and he caught glimpses of shapes that could only have been
rocket sections. His pulse quickened. There was an atmosphere of
excitement, of big jobs being performed. At least his quick imagination
told him there was.

Then, in one shed he saw the broken remains of a rocket. From its size
he concluded that it must be the Viking that had crashed. The sight
brought sharp realization of the real job he and Scotty were here to do.

Rick checked his map. "Our barracks has space for eighty bunks. And,
according to this, there are twenty-eight barracks."

"Interesting facts about Scarlet Lake," Scotty declaimed. "What about
it?"

"That's over two thousand men."

"A lot of men," Scotty agreed. "What are you getting at?"

"Needles in haystacks. Out of more than two thousand we're supposed to
pick one--the Earthman!"




CHAPTER V

Project Pegasus


Dr. Gerald Gould, known to the staff as "Gee-Gee," looked more like a
high school football coach than a scientist. His blond hair was cropped
short, and his face was boyish except for a beautifully waxed
military-style mustache. His speech was a remarkable combination of
slang and rocket jargon.

He asked, "Do you know vector analysis?"

Rick shook his head. "No, sir."

"Hmmm. Well, boy-oh, we'll plant you with the electronic cooks in the
spaghetti department. It says in your job application that you've had
plenty of experience in circuit wiring. Roger?"

"Yes, sir." Rick understood that he was to join the technicians in the
wiring department. His eyes kept wandering into the huge shed that
housed the project on which he was to work. He identified rocket
sections, and pretty big ones at that. The rocket was not assembled, but
apparently it would tower several stories into the air when assembly was
complete. One thing puzzled, him, however. One section obviously had
wings. They couldn't be anything else, even though they were tiny and
thin as knives. He hadn't heard anything about rockets with wings.

Dr. Gould saw that he was staring with interest at the activity in the
shed and grinned sympathetically. "Ever see a big rocket before?"

"Only in pictures," Rick replied.

"Well, you'll see plenty of them before we're through here."

Rick hesitated. "Sir, is it okay to ask what this is all about?"

"Sure it's okay. We have three projects underway at present. In the shed
on the left is Orion, which is a two-stage rocket for deep penetration
into the exosphere. It's about ready to shoot. In the shed on the right
is Cetus, a sounding rocket for ionospheric measurements."

Dr. Gould paused. "If you don't get me, speak up and I'll scoop you the
answers. Roger so far?"

Rick nodded. "I'm with you." He understood from the scientist's
explanation that Orion was to travel far into the exosphere, actually
beyond the atmosphere, while Cetus was a smaller, single-stage rocket
for research in the ionosphere, the ionized layer of atmosphere just
beyond the stratosphere. The projects, he realized, were named for
constellations.

"In this shed we have Pegasus."

"Pegasus was a winged horse," Rick commented, "And aren't those airfoils
on that rocket section near the back of the shed? Is that the
connection?"

Dr. Gould chuckled. "Sharp-oh! Those are indeed airfoils. Wings for
Pegasus. Now make with the reason, if you can."

Rick pondered. He knew rockets achieved stability through fins, or
steerable motors, and that wings were no help. Furthermore, there wasn't
enough air for wings to be of use beyond the atmosphere where the big
rockets traveled. He could see no reason for wings, and said so.

"You're not looking far enough ahead," Dr. Gould said severely. "Put on
your spaceman's helmet. Connect up and think. You're on Space Platform
Number One and you want to come home to Terra. What are the wings for?"

Light dawned. Rick's chin dropped on his chest and stayed there. Finally
he gasped, "You mean the wings are to turn the upper section into a
glider in order to land it again?"

Dr. Gould put a hand on his shoulder and nodded gravely. "Ole Gee-Gee is
pleased with you. You have demonstrated something between the ears
besides strawberry Jello. You have just described the objective of
Project Pegasus. We intend to shoot the beast into space and bring the
top stage home again by drone control."

The scientist grew serious. "It's not an easy thing, young Brant. No one
has yet succeeded in getting a big rocket down in one piece. If we can
do it, we'll be one step through the biggest barrier to manned space
flight.

"You will work on wiring in the drone control section. Just remember
that every touch of your soldering iron is critical. Take no chances at
all; everything must be perfect. Do your job and do it well, and someday
you'll be able to say that you made the big horse's wings work when it
really counted. Now come on, and I'll introduce you to Dick Earle and
you can get started."

Dick Earle turned out to be a bigger and darker copy of Gee-Gee. He had
the same crew cut and mustache, but his hair was jet black.

Rick also met Dr. Carleton Bond, a tall, slender man of advanced years
who was a consultant on drone controls, and Frank Miller, a studious,
rather curt young man who was an electronics design engineer.

He began to make some order out of the organization. Gee-Gee Gould was
electronics chief for all three projects. Dick Earle was electronics
chief for Pegasus, under Gould, and there were also electronics chiefs
for Orion and Cetus. Similarly, the projects had air-frame departments,
propulsion departments, instrumentation departments, and administrative
departments.

Each project also had a technical director, who was a sort of
co-ordinator, trouble shooter, and general expert. The technical
directors reported to Dr. John Gordon, on loan from Spindrift, who had
the title of Senior Project Engineer.

Later, Rick explained it to Scotty. "Each project has its own staff, but
there's a top staff that is responsible for all projects. I'm making a
little sense out of it, but people keep showing up that I can't fit into
the organization."

"They're probably support people," Scotty explained. "Seems the base is
divided into two groups; the scientific gang and the support gang. I'm
in support, in the vehicle maintenance section. Lomac runs the whole
support group. Besides transportation, there's the tracking and
monitoring gang--that's what Big Mac and Pancho are in--the machine-shop
gang, and all the housekeeping facilities like the fire department, the
security force, housing and feeding, and so on."

The boys' roommates turned out to be a security officer named Hank
Leeming and one of the janitors, an elderly man of Mexican descent named
Maximilian Rodriguez.

On the second day of work Rick met another interesting character,
although a nonhuman one, and got an additional duty imposed on him.

He was at work installing a tiny servomotor in the drone control unit
when something landed on his head and gripped his hair firmly.
Instinctively he started to swing at it, but Dr. Bond's voice stopped
him in time.

"Easy, Rick! He won't hurt you."

Rick reached up carefully and his hands met fur. He lifted the little
creature down and stared at it, his lips slowly parting in a grin. It
was a tiny monkey no larger than a squirrel, with soft brown fur and
tufted ears. The little animal pulled free, jumped onto Rick's shoulder
and kissed him ecstatically, making happy chirrupy noises.

"What on earth is a monkey doing here?"

Dr. Bond smiled. "Prince Machiavelli is more than a monkey," he replied.
"Actually, he is a true marmoset of the genus _Callithrix_. He is also a
genuine spacemonk."

"A what?"

The elderly scientist smiled. "Spacemonk. The simian equivalent of
spaceman. The Prince has been into space twice now. Fortunately, the
nose section was parachuted down intact both times, so he survived.
Other spacemonks have been less fortunate. He will be our surrogate for
Project Pegasus."

Rick stared at the little creature with increased interest. The marmoset
was to substitute, then, for human occupants of the big rocket. His life
would depend on their ability to get the winged nose section down in one
piece. He stroked the tiny spacemonk gently, and got a contented series
of chirps in response.

Dick Earle walked in and smiled as the monkey snuggled down happily in
Rick's cupped hands. "Looks as if you've made a friend, Rick. Good. In
addition to your other duties you can take over as the monk's keeper. He
won't be any trouble. Sometimes I think he has better manners than some
of the staff." Earle turned and walked out again.

Rick stared after him. "What was that last crack about?"

Dr. Bond smiled. "Dick has his problems. I won't gossip, but you'll soon
see what I mean."

The elderly consultant's prediction came true in short order. The next
day, Rick ran headlong into an unwarranted and particularly nasty
dressing down at the hands of Frank Miller. Rick, annoyed with himself
for having done a rather poor job of connecting up the servomotor, was
busily ripping it out when Miller came over to see what he was doing.
Without waiting for an explanation, the design engineer launched into a
tirade. Rick's face slowly reddened and his temper grew frayed. It was
so completely unjust that he was on the verge of swinging at the
engineer when Dick Earle walked in.

Earle asked crisply, "What's this all about?"

Miller turned on him. "You're supposed to be in charge here, but you let
sloppy work like this go on! What good does it do for me to design
circuits if--"

Earle cut him off. "Shut up, Frank. Rick, what's your story?"

Rick clenched his hands. "I installed this servo, and didn't do a clean
job of it. It was pretty sloppy. So I pulled it out to do it over again.
I won't settle for anything less than perfect work. But he came along
and jumped on me without letting me explain what I was doing."

Earle nodded. "All right. Go ahead with your work. Frank, you are not
this boy's supervisor. Let him alone."

Miller glared at the electronics chief, then turned on his heel and
stalked out of the shop. Earle watched him go, his pleasant face sober.
"I'm sorry, Rick. Frank is like that, and I don't know why. I suspect he
has troubles of some sort and takes it out on us. Try to overlook it,
because he's an extremely competent engineer. We'd have great trouble
replacing him."

Rick nodded. "Yes, sir."

The work progressed smoothly. Rick finished the part he was working on
and was assigned another. He met other members of the project, including
Phil Sherman and Charlie Kassick who, like himself, were technicians at
work on wiring and assembly. He met Cliff Damon, chief of the
instrumentation section, who showed him the intricate devices used to
track the big rockets and to record just about everything that went on
inside them.

It was pleasant and exciting, and only the incident with Frank Miller
marred the contentment Rick felt at being a part of Pegasus. Then, near
the end of his first week on the job, Miller dropped in and watched Rick
at work for a moment. The boy tensed, but said nothing beyond a civil
good morning.

Miller cleared his throat. "Brant, I want to apologize."

Rick looked up in surprise.

"I'm known as a crank, and I guess I deserve the reputation. But just
because I feel rotten doesn't mean I have to take it out on you. I'm
sorry."

Rick looked at the engineer thoughtfully. Miller was apparently sincere.
"That's all right," he said. "Why do you feel rotten, if you don't mind
my asking?"

"Ulcers. The doctor says the only way to cure them is to get out of this
business, and go into something with less stress and strain. But I
can't. I've been a rocketeer ever since I graduated from college, and I
can't leave. So if I snap at you, please forget it."

Rick nodded. "I'll play it that way if you say so."

"Thanks." Miller turned and walked out.

The design engineer was polite enough after that, and Rick discounted
the few times when he appeared too curt. So, with pleasant working
conditions all around, the work fell into an exciting routine. The days
passed and the drone control began to shape up as a complete unit.
Meanwhile, other sections of the big rocket were readied, and the first
two stages, now completely assembled, were loaded on their special
trucks and taken to the firing area.

In the next shed, Orion was almost ready. The rocket stages were trucked
to the firing pad assigned to the project and the staff vanished from
next door. They had moved their base of operation to the blockhouse and
the pad. Time for the Orion shoot was only two days off.

Rick saw little of Scotty. His pal was at work in the vehicle
maintenance shed, and making friends of his own. The two met only at
night, usually at bedtime, because the entire base was working overtime.

The work was so absorbing that Rick actually forgot for long periods the
reason for his presence on the base. To be sure, he heard much about the
mysterious Earthman, but it was all a rehash of the earlier sabotage
attempts, mixed with pretty wild speculation. Scotty reported that among
the mechanics, machinists, and housekeeping staffs, the Earthman was
regarded with considerable fear and superstition.

Then, with shattering impact, the Earthman returned from the realm of
legend to stark reality!




CHAPTER VI

Sign of the Earthman


Dick Earle handed Rick a series of requisition forms. "We're running out
of parts. Take this to Warehouse Eight and get the requisitions filled.
The clerk will lend you a hand truck to bring the stuff back."

Rick found the warehouse, handed the forms to a clerk, and waited at the
counter for the supplies. The clerk moved from bin to bin, collecting
the variety of electronic parts. The pile in front of Rick grew.

The clerk returned the last two sheets and scanned them. "All
transistors. And not the cheap kind, either. Just a minute and I'll have
them for you." He vanished behind the tiers of shelves. Rick waited.

The wait grew longer and the boy fidgeted. Couldn't the clerk find them?
Rick hoped the base hadn't run out, because that would mean a delay on
his project. Already he thought of it as "his," and he was impatient as
any of the project staff to push the work to completion.

The clerk reappeared, a single carton and a sheet of paper in hand. The
man's face was white and his eyes looked as though they were about to
drop out. He grabbed the phone on the counter and dialed, missed because
his hand was shaking so, and dialed again. This time he got the number.

"Security? Is this security? Get over here, quick! Warehouse Eight.
Hurry! The Earthman has been here!"

Rick stared, popeyed. The Earthman! He asked quickly, "What happened?"

The clerk swallowed hard. Obviously he was scared stiff. "They were
empty," he said. "All of them. Empty! Honest! And in one I found this."
He handed Rick the scrap of paper he carried.

Rick smoothed it out on the counter and his pulse speeded. It was a good
sketch, done in ink, of a knight in full armor. Crushed under one mailed
foot was a rocket. The knight carried a shield, and emblazoned on it
were two words.

_Homo Terrestrialis._

The mark of the Earthman!

Hank Leeming, Rick's security officer roommate, and an older man he
identified as Colonel Tom Preston, Chief of Security, pulled up at the
door in a jeep and hurried inside.

Preston took over. "All right, Jimmy. What's this about the Earthman?"

The clerk silently handed him the slip of paper.

The Security Chief examined it. "His mark, all right. Where did you find
it?"

The clerk was still shaky, and he had a hard time putting his discovery
into words. Rick tried to help him out. "He found some cartons that were
empty. Transistor cartons, I guess. This was in one of them."

Preston's eyes fixed on him. "Who are you?"

"My name is Brant, sir. I'm with Pegasus."

Preston's eyes acknowledged Rick's name, but he turned to the clerk. "Is
that right, Jimmy? Transistors missing?"

Jimmy found his voice. "Yes, Colonel. At first I thought it was a
mistake--a few empties put back on the shelf by accident. But they were
all empty, sir. All of them! There isn't a transistor in the warehouse!"

Preston nodded. "Take over, Hank. Shake the place down. Get one of the
boys with a kit and check for fingerprints on the stacks and empty
cartons. Jimmy, come with me. We'll check your inventory with Pat
O'Connor."

Pat O'Connor was the base supply officer. Preston and the clerk
departed. Hank paused long enough to say, "Better take the stuff you
have, Rick. Looks as if you'll have to wait for the transistors."

Obviously there wasn't anything else to be done. Rick found a hand
truck, loaded on the supplies, and went back to his shed.

By dinnertime the base was one solid mass of rumor. Rick heard variously
that the Earthman had been found, that he had stolen an entire rocket
assembly, that the warehouse had been loaded with dynamite triggered to
explode, that he had killed the clerk, that the clerk had seen him just
before he flickered into invisibility, and so on.

He phoned Scotty and found that his pal was hearing equally wild rumors.
The boys set a time and place to meet, just outside the main project
building at five-thirty. Scotty was there when Rick arrived.

"John Gordon come out yet?" Rick asked.

Scotty shook his head. "Any news? I've got a million rumors more or
less, but nothing solid."

Rick told him in detail of the incident at the warehouse, and concluded,
"Beyond that I don't know a thing. But Gordon will probably know
something if we can catch him."

"We'll wait. We can pretend it's the first time we've seen him here and
talk for a few minutes about old times at Spindrift. That shouldn't make
anyone suspicious."

Rick agreed. It would be natural enough, and if anyone came within
earshot they could make the conversation sound harmless.

Scotty grinned. "How's your pal and special charge?" At least once a day
he kidded Rick about becoming nursemaid to a monkey.

"Fine," Rick replied. "He asks for you every day. After all, he knows
you're the only other ape on the base."

Scotty ignored the crack. "When do I get to see this beloved child of
yours?"

"Come on over to the project any time. He'd like to meet you."

"I'll do it, first time I can get away from those doggone trucks. Seems
like they break down every hour."

At that moment John Gordon came out of the project building. Rick, who
was facing the door, pretended surprise. "Aren't you Dr. Gordon," he
called.

The scientist turned and hesitated. "Yes. You're ... let's see ... you
were at Spindrift for a while. I'm afraid I don't remember your names."

Rick introduced himself and Scotty, for the benefit of a few men who
were passing by, en route to the mess hall.

"Ah, yes. I remember now. Going to eat? So am I. Come along and tell me
where you're working now. Obviously you're employed on the base, but on
what projects?"

They chatted idly as they walked slowly toward the mess hall. Then, when
no one was in earshot, Rick said swiftly, "I was at the warehouse when
the mark of the Earthman was found. Any developments we should know
about?"

Gordon answered softly, "Yes. Inventory showed nearly a quarter of a
million in transistors missing. Also, no one had called for transistors
in nearly three weeks."

"Isn't that unusual?" Scotty asked.

"Not particularly. Each project has its own stock-room. Since we're a
new base, the projects have been working from an initial supply."

"So the transistors may have been missing for some time?"

"They could have been missing since the last requisition, exactly
nineteen days ago. But they probably were stolen during the Viking
shoot."

"Is the warehouse guarded?"

"No. A clerk is on duty at all times when the warehouse is open. At
night it's locked. There was no sign of tampering, and anyway, the locks
are tamper-proof."

Scotty said warningly, "Company coming." Then, in a louder voice, he
continued, "Of course we worked for Dr. Zircon."

"Very capable man, Zircon," Gordon said, taking Scotty's cue. "We could
use him here. Any idea where he is now?"

"No, sir," Rick replied. "We haven't seen him since we left Spindrift."

At the door of the mess hall Gordon left them with a polite handshake,
explaining that he had to eat with someone else by previous arrangement.

During dinner Rick thought over the events of the day. But not until the
meal was ended and he and Scotty wandered on foot toward the edge of
camp could he put his idea into words.

"This business today puts a new light on the Earthman, Scotty."

"I read you loud and clear. A quarter of a million bucks makes a little
sabotage worth while, huh?"

Rick nodded. "We can't know, of course, but if you were a warehouse
clerk and a big rocket went haywire, wouldn't you be out watching it?"

"I'd be out where the view was best. So would you," Scotty replied.

"Remember where we saw a transistor recently?" Rick asked.

Scotty reached in his pocket, brought out his sling, and unwrapped it.
He picked up a stone, tested it for weight, then reconsidered and put
the sling back. "I remember. Big Mac and Pancho. Mac said he must have
stuck it in his pocket absent-mindedly while repairing his equipment."

"That's what he said," Rick agreed. "Only transistors aren't like radio
tubes. They don't need replacing often."

"Meaning?"

"He might have been telling the truth or he might not."

Scotty tossed the stone away. "How much space would that many
transistors take up?"

"Hard to say. We could find out, I suppose. But transistors are small,
and they don't weigh much. Besides, some of the types used here are
fantastically expensive. A couple of hundred dollars might pay for a
transistor the size of a kidney bean."

Scotty whistled. "They must be made of diamonds! Anyway, a quarter of a
million is a lot of money, and even at two hundred bucks each the
transistors would make quite a bundle. The Earthman would have to hide
them, and then get them off the base. And I'll tell you one thing: If
Big Mac stole them, he didn't take them off the base in his own car."

"How do you know?" Rick challenged.

"He's got a Porsche. There's about enough room in the luggage
compartment for a spare handkerchief."

"I'll buy it." Another idea hit him. "But he has some other
transportation, hasn't he? How about the radar unit he and Pancho run?"

Scotty snapped his fingers. "Now you're cooking! It's a panel truck,
loaded with equipment, and they pull the radar antenna behind it on a
trailer. There would be plenty of room in the truck. Only he doesn't
take it into town, remember?"

"Would he need to? He could drop the transistors somewhere to be picked
up later."

"Careless Mesa."

"What?"

"That's his station. Come on. Let's look at a map of the area." Scotty
turned and led the way to their barracks.

One thing about the robbery was a major puzzle to Rick. He could see
that a rocket shoot might provide the opportunity to commit the theft,
and he could see how use of a radar van might get the stolen goods off
the base. But the thief had carefully emptied cartons, leaving the
cartons as camouflage. That took more time than any thief would have. He
considered various ways in which it might have been done and rejected
them all.

Tacked up in the entryway of their barracks was a large-scale map.
Scarlet Lake was marked with crayon. The boys studied the area, looking
for Careless Mesa. Finally Scotty found it, almost due north of the
base. "About twenty miles. Only one road to the mesa, but two roads lead
away from it. Let's see where they go."

The first road from Careless Mesa ended at a point in the mountains
marked "_Dry Spring_." The second road led to the town marked
"_Steamboat_," where the road forked again. One branch eventually joined
other roads in Pahrump Valley, the other led to Death Valley.

The boys looked at each other triumphantly. Rick said, "So you can get
from Careless Mesa to state highways without returning to the base."

Scotty scratched his chin. "Any idea what's at Careless Mesa?"

"Not the slightest."

"Neither do I. Maybe we'd better have a look."

That was fine with Rick. "When?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"I'll have to check. Suppose I wander over to the project? If Dick Earle
is there, I can sound him out."

"Okay, and I'll check with my people."

The boys parted, and Rick walked to the Pegasus shed. Dick Earle and Dr.
Bond were in the cubicle where the project paper work was done. The
marmoset was with them, perched on top of the file safe. As Rick
entered, the little spacemonk jumped to his shoulder and caressed his
cheek.

"Come in, Rick," Dr. Bond said. "We're just having a gloom session."

"Gloom? What about?" Rick petted the marmoset, then put him back on his
file-safe perch. "Is something wrong?"

"Transistors," Dick Earle stated flatly. "No transistors left on the
base. That means we come to a grinding halt until we get supplies."

"The whole project?" Rick asked in astonishment. He hadn't realized a
few parts would mean so much.

"Not all of it. Just our part. The air frame and propulsion people can
keep on, because they don't use the gadgets. But we'll be tied up for a
few days until a supply can get here."

Dr. Bond added, "An order has been placed, Rick. By telephone. But the
supplier can't possibly make delivery until after the Orion shoot."

Dick Earle nodded. "Correct. So you might as well plan to loaf for a day
or so, Rick."

The trip to Careless Mesa would be no problem now, Rick thought. He
wouldn't even need to ask permission.

"Strange that anyone would steal a whole supply of transistors," he
commented.

Dick Earle shook his head. "Not particularly. The transistor is still a
critical item in electronics and production isn't up to demand,
especially for special designs. That means the stolen transistors can be
sold fairly easily, once the proper channels to get them into the market
are found."

"What kind of channels?" Rick asked.

Earle shrugged. "Anything to hide the fact that the transistors are
stolen stock. The Earthman could make a deal with some jobber who
handles electronic materials, and feed the transistors into regular
trade channels through the jobber."

"But aren't they numbered, or trade-marked, or something like that?"

"Numbers and trade-marks can be changed," Dr. Bond reminded him.

As Rick walked back to his barracks he pondered over the meaning of the
day's development. For one thing, theft of the transistors put a new
light on the Earthman's activities. It added a profit motive to whatever
else motivated the mysterious saboteur. Or did it?

How Big Mac and Pancho fitted into all this remained to be determined.
Rick could easily imagine that the two would take considerable risk for
big profits, but it was harder to imagine them acting from any other
motive. Somehow, he just couldn't believe that money was the underlying
reason for the Earthman's actions. Sabotaging research rockets just to
provide a diversion that would allow a theft did not make sense.

The Earthman's activities had become more than just a challenging
puzzle, too. Rick's work on Pegasus had become important in its own
right. He was excited at being a part of something so dramatic, and with
such far-reaching consequences for the whole future of space travel and
high-altitude research. He had become a part of Pegasus. Perhaps he
wasn't an important part, but he was making at least a small
contribution to the project's success. That made it _his_ project, and
the Earthman was interfering with it.

Somehow, he and Scotty had to find the Earthman--for personal reasons
now, as well as official ones!




CHAPTER VII

Careless Mesa


The boys climbed in the jeep early the following morning.

Scotty shifted into gear and drove through the base. "The time is now
zero minus twenty-two hours."

Rick looked at him. "What does that mean?"

"Firing time for Orion is tomorrow morning, twenty-two hours from now.
That must be the reason for the balloon that we just saw go up. The
weather group is starting to watch winds and visibility. Something else
I picked up at maintenance, too. There's going to be a dry run today."

"Spell it out," Rick requested.

"As I get it, all hands go through the same procedures they'll follow
tomorrow morning. The Orion group will fire a small weather rocket to
check the circuits, and to allow the tracking and monitoring group to
check their equipment. And do you know what that means?"

Rick saw it at once. "Mac and Pancho will be going to Careless Mesa!"

"Yep. But the dry run doesn't start until ten this morning. That gives
us plenty of time to get there, look around, and shove off before Mac
and Pancho show up."

"Suppose they get there early?" Rick asked.

"They probably will. We won't hang around, though. According to the
control board in the vehicle shop their truck isn't supposed to be ready
until eight, which is an hour and a half from now."

Rick thought that was cutting it fine, but he made no further comment.

Both boys had checked the map again, and knew the route to follow.
Scotty drove through the base and onto the access road that led to the
firing areas. In a short time they had a clear view of Orion waiting on
its pad, project personnel swarming over the gantry crane as they
performed a variety of last-day chores. The sight filled Rick with
excitement. To-morrow he would see the big rocket go up.

"Pretty," Scotty said.

Rick nodded. Orion was a beautiful sight. Its lines were clean, and its
paint job was colorful, mixing white with high-visibility colors to
allow greater ease of visual tracking.

"Blockhouse ahead," Scotty pointed out.

It was the first time either of them had seen the blockhouse, the
control point from which the rockets were fired. It was within a mile of
the concrete firing pads, close enough to be in great danger from wild
rockets that had gone out of control. For that reason it was made of
heavily reinforced concrete, several feet thick. It could take a direct
hit from even the biggest rockets without harm to the personnel inside.

Then the firing area was passed and the jeep sped along next to the
miles-long black, oiled path of the airstrip. Soon the strip was behind,
then the level floor of the dry lake bed became rough terrain and the
jeep began to climb toward the foothills.

"Isn't there a guard post this way?" Rick asked.

"Should be."

There was, a few miles beyond, as the jeep mounted the foothills and
went through a pass. The guard inspected their badges, then waved them
on. They were outside of the base area now.

The dirt road led them across a valley and up a gradual slope to another
pass through the mountains. This time, as they emerged, Rick pointed to
a flat-topped mountain directly ahead. "That's a mesa," he declared.
"Suppose it's the right one?"

Scotty squinted against the glare. "Probably. I don't see any others on
the horizon."

"What are we going to do when we get there?" Rick asked.

Scotty waved a hand. "Look, and hope there's something to see."

"Okay. Let it go. We'll wait and see." Rick fell silent, watching the
desert. It was odd, he thought, that most people thought of deserts in
terms of sand. It was a fact that some deserts were sandy, but this one
was composed of hard-packed earth and stones in which plants struggled
for survival. It was more like smooth clay. Then, as the desert rose
from smooth plain to mountains, the ground became simply broken rock,
sparsely dotted with creosote bush and cholla.

Once or twice he turned and looked back at the road over which they had
come. The jeep left a trail of dust behind it, but he could see no dust
from any other vehicle. Apparently they were well ahead of Big Mac and
Pancho. He hoped they would stay ahead.

"If Mac and Pancho do catch up," he said thoughtfully, "we can always
say we just came out for the ride, to see a little of the country."

Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "Think they'd buy it?"

"Could be. They have no reason to suspect us. We're just a couple of
kids who work on the base."

The road was steep now, and Scotty shifted into second to take some of
the strain off the engine.

Careless Mesa loomed ahead. Rick wondered if the road led all the way to
the top. Apparently it did, because the trail twisted and turned,
climbing constantly. He closed his eyes and visualized the map.
Somewhere up there the road split.

Suddenly Scotty pointed. "Look!"

In a shady spot just off the road two sidewinders were coiled on a rock,
beady eyes watching the jeep's passage. The snakes were the color of
mottled sand, the "horns" on their diamond-shaped heads clearly
identifiable. Their tails were a blur, and he knew they were rattling a
warning, but the distinctive buzz couldn't be heard above the jeep's
engine noise.

Rick restrained a shudder. Although he had no particular fear of snakes,
he had an inborn dislike of the creatures. He had read that the
sidewinder, or "horned" rattlesnake, was common in the Western deserts.

Then the jeep rounded a turn with a sheer drop of several hundred feet
on Rick's side, and the sidewinders were lost to view. Rick looked down
at the steep slope and said, "Nice place to meet a car coming down."

"Let's not meet one," Scotty replied. He had to drop back into first
gear now, because the climb was very steep.

The road cut through a notch and emerged onto a relatively level area.
Rick tried to get his bearings. The road had twisted and turned so much
he had lost his sense of direction. The sun's position helped him to get
oriented again, and he realized they were high on the side of Careless
Mesa, overlooking the road across which they had just traveled.

"Clearing ahead," Scotty said. "Bet we've reached the station."

He was right. The road led across a wide shelf, perhaps fifty feet below
the top of the mesa. On the far side of the shelf the road dipped again.
Scotty let the jeep roll to the edge of the dip and they looked down the
roadway which twisted and turned and finally forked a thousand feet
below.

Scotty put the jeep in reverse and backed to the center of the shelf. It
was about two hundred feet wide, the road hugging the inner cliff.
Toward the edge of the shelf the ground was disturbed by vehicle tracks.

"Stop here," Rick said.

Scotty killed the engine, and pointed to a pile of cans near the remains
of a fire. "This must be where Mac and Pancho set up their radar gear."

Rick looked around him appreciatively. In the direction of Scarlet Lake
there was a clear view for miles. Only the low ridges of intervening
hills prevented them from seeing the base itself. A radar outfit could
track the rockets from here with no interference at all, once the rocket
had risen above the range of low hills.

Scotty indicated the scenery with a wave of his hand. "Plenty to see.
But twenty tons of transistors could be in plain sight and we'd never
know it. How would you hide stolen goods, if you had to do it?"

Rick turned and surveyed the base of the cliff that led to the top of
the mesa. "I'd probably hunt for a space between two big rocks, pack it
in, and load rocks on top."

"And that ain't stuff and nonsense," Scotty agreed. "Come on. Let's
start moving boulders."

Rick shook his head as his eyes encompassed the more than a hundred
yards of strewn rocks at the cliff's bottom. "Shall we move them a ton
at a time?"

Scotty grinned helplessly. "At that rate we'd be here six months." He
kicked an empty beer can. "Maybe we'd better look in the cans instead."

As though by magic the can flew into the air, flashing in the sunlight.
At the same instant they heard the spiteful crack of a rifle.

Scotty reacted instantly, and Rick was only a fraction of a second
behind. They dashed across the road and dove for cover in the rocks
behind the jeep.

The rifle cracked again. A slug whined into space a few feet from their
noses, leaving a silvery streak of lead on a rock.

The boys moved again, closer into the face of the cliff, and took
shelter under a slight overhang.

"Now what?" Rick asked.

Scotty surveyed the situation, estimated the line of fire from the lead
smear on the rock, then shook his head.

"We can't get in the jeep and make a run for it, because we'd be right
in the line of fire. He's on top of the mesa, whoever he is. He can't
reach us here, but he can reach us if we move, or if he moves."

The rifle punctuated Scotty's estimate of the situation. This time the
slug slapped rock close enough to spatter sandstone chips in their
faces.

"We can't stay here," Scotty said grimly. "I'm going to see what I can
do."

"How?" Rick demanded.

Scotty was busily picking up stone fragments, choosing them by weight
and shape. "I can move along the face of the cliff, staying under cover.
At least I think I can. If I reach the place where the road drops, I can
get up to the top. With luck, I won't be seen. Besides, you can distract
him."

"How?"

"I don't know. Put the Brant brain to work and figure out something."
Scotty unrolled his sling, slipped the loop over his index finger, and
gave Rick a tight grin. "Keep the boy busy, chum. Here I go."

Scotty moved rapidly but silently, across the bottom of the cliff,
taking advantage of every overhanging rock. When Scotty was perhaps ten
yards away, Rick moved into action. He picked up a rock, hefted it, then
threw it into the pile of cans. They scattered noisily, bringing a rifle
shot in reply.

Rick thought swiftly, then peeled off his shirt and wrapped it in a
good-sized rock. He gauged the distance and heaved it in the direction
opposite the one Scotty had taken, aiming for a niche under an overhang
six yards away. He hoped the motion would be mistaken for one of them.
Evidently he succeeded, because a rifle slug chipped rock a foot away
from the shirt as it rolled under the overhang.

Raising his head cautiously, he saw a rock perched precariously on the
steep slopes. Evidently it had come to rest there, or the rains had
washed away much of its support. He found a rock to throw, sighted with
care, and tossed it underhand. It struck directly under the balanced
rock and dug away enough dirt to upset its equilibrium. The rock tumbled
down, bringing a tiny landslide of other rocks and dirt with it. There
was no response from the rifle this time.

Rick turned to see how Scotty was doing, but his pal was out of sight,
behind some boulder along the way. Now what? His bag of tricks was
almost exhausted.

He looked outward, across the road. A few yards to the right of the
campfire and cache of cans was a rock pile. It was big enough to shield
him, if he could make it. He took a deep breath. If he dodged and
twisted fast enough, the rifleman probably couldn't hit him, and he
would certainly have the man's full attention. That would give Scotty a
better chance.

He chose a rock, hefted it, and got up into a sprinting position. He
made sure of his footing, then simultaneously tossed the rock sideways
to attract the rifleman's eye, and charged out of the niche.

Ten feet and he jumped sideways, took two forward leaps, and went
sideways again. The rifle barked and dirt spurted where he had just
been. But by then Rick was within reach of the rock pile, and he went
over it in a headlong dive, rolling like a tumbler as he landed. Quickly
he flattened out, as close to the rocks as he could get. A bullet whined
off the top of the pile, and then there was silence.

Rick's heart pounded and his breath came in gasps. He had made it! But
how about Scotty? He risked a push-up that brought his head to the level
of the upper rocks in time to see Scotty fire his first sling stone. His
pal had reached a position just below the top of the mesa, where his
stones would clear the top without exposing him. As Rick watched, Scotty
put another stone in the pouch and let fly. The stone smashed into rock
on top of the mesa. A third stone, and Rick suddenly caught a glimpse of
motion on the mesa top, directly above him. The rifleman was changing
position! Evidently Scotty's stones were coming too close!

"Watch it!" he yelled. "Watch out, Scotty! He's moving!"

Three closely spaced shots sent Scotty to the ground as slugs whined off
the mesa rim directly above him. Then there was silence. Rick heard, as
though from far off, the clatter of rock. He waited. Scotty was waiting,
too.

[Illustration: _A bullet whined off the top of the rock pile, and then
there was silence_]

Minutes ticked by. Then, faintly, Rick heard a sound that could only
have been a horse whinnying.

Scotty stood upright and climbed to the very top of the mesa. Rick
started to yell, then choked it back. Scotty must know what he was
doing. He saw his pal walk leisurely out of sight. Rick stood up,
watching. In a moment Scotty reappeared, climbing down the incline he
had used to get to the top. In a moment the boys were face to face.

"He's gone," Scotty announced. "Had a horse staked out below the
opposite side of the mesa. I saw him ride off. He was too far away for
me to get a good look at him."

"Mighty strange," Rick said with a sigh of relief.

Scotty nodded. "Strange is right. You know what? He saw me standing
there on the rim. He turned and looked at me, and he waved."

"Waved?" Rick asked.

"Yep. It was a real jaunty wave."

Rick shook his head in bewilderment. "My, that was friendly."

"I thought so," Scotty agreed. "Come on, boy. We've got to make tracks
out of here. Time is running out."

Rick collected his shirt and jumped into the jeep. Scotty backed around
and headed toward the base as fast as the road allowed. Not until they
were down on relatively level ground did they try to converse.

"The rifleman must have read about David and Goliath," Rick said. "Why
else would he run off?"

Scotty chuckled. "He was helpless. He was in deadly peril, as the
storybooks say. Seriously, I think he _was_ helpless."

Rick stared at his pal. Scotty could mean only one thing. "Then he had
no intention of hitting us?"

"I doubt it. He was shooting at short range, and even a poor shot
couldn't very well have missed as often as he did. Besides, I don't
think you'd find many poor shots with rifles in this country."

"Then he must have been trying to scare us off," Rick said thoughtfully.
"When you started heaving rocks at him, he knew we weren't scaring very
much."

"Not much," Scotty said ruefully. "I don't know about you, but my
innards turned to custard."

Rick grinned. He knew exactly what Scotty meant. "If things had happened
a little more slowly, I'd have dropped dead from sheer fright. But I
didn't have time. Anyway, when you started with your sling, he had a
choice of shooting for keeps or getting out of there. So he got. Is that
how you figure it?"

"Exactly right. What other explanation is there? Stones against rifle
slugs isn't much of a contest. I only tried it because there wasn't
anything else to do."

"We could have stayed under cover until Mac and Pancho arrived," Rick
pointed out.

"Negative. All he had to do was shift position and he'd have had a clear
shot at us."

That was true, Rick realized. "But why did he try to scare us off?"

"It beats me. He wasn't a guard, I'm sure. If he was guarding something,
he wouldn't have ridden off and left us there. And there wasn't anything
personal in it, because he waved at me like an old pal. It was a kind
of humorous wave. You know? Real jaunty."

Rick asked the obvious question. "Was it the Earthman?"

And Scotty made the obvious answer. "I didn't have a chance to ask him.
Anyway, he didn't wear armor."

Rick had been keeping his eye on the road ahead. "Pull over," he said
quickly. "Let's get out and be looking at cactus or something. I think
Mac and Pancho are coming."

Scotty complied quickly and shut off the jeep engine. The boys got out
and walked quickly into the desert, found a barrel cactus, and began
dissecting it with Rick's scout knife.

The dust cloud that marked an oncoming vehicle grew larger, and in a few
minutes they saw the panel truck and the trailer with radar dish mounted
on it. As the truck drew nearer they stood up, Rick holding the cactus
impaled on his knife. It was a natural action; simple curiosity would
require that they pause to see who might be in a passing vehicle.

The truck drew abreast and slowed. Big Mac was driving. Pancho leaned
out and waved. "Hiya, kids!"

They echoed him. "Hiya, Pancho." Then the truck was past, en route to
the mesa for the day's dry run.

Rick drew a deep breath. "In the clear," he said with relief. Suddenly
he grinned. "This is what I call progress. We go to Careless Mesa. We
find nothing. We get shot at. We add to the mystery without adding a
single thing to the puzzle. One more day like this and we'll have to put
our Junior G-man badges back in the cereal box where we got 'em."

"I beat you," Scotty said unhappily. "I left mine under a rock at the
top of the mesa."




CHAPTER VIII

Project Orion


There was an air of anticipation everywhere at the Scarlet Lake rocket
base. Rick, who was sensitive to such things, felt it keenly. He also
recognized that under the anticipation, like thick, stagnant water under
the bright surface of a pond, there was fear.

The anticipation was spoken; the fear was not.

By mutual agreement, Rick and Scotty parted soon after their return to
the base. Each went back to his own unit, more on guard then ever before
for the slightest hint of irregularity in personnel or equipment.

The electronics group of Pegasus was just about at a standstill. Dick
Earle and Frank Miller had gone to the firing area, to lend the Orion
group a hand. Dr. Bond remained, along with Kassick and Sherman. The
three were amusing themselves with a game of three-handed bridge, while
the marmoset occasionally made things lively by stealing cards.

Rick watched for a few minutes, then wandered into the empty Orion shed,
abandoned now that its crew and rocket had moved to the firing pad and
blockhouse. As he stood looking at the complex test equipment a sedan
pulled up and Gee-Gee Gould got out. The electronics chief waved at him
and trotted by into the project office. He returned in a moment with a
portable tube and circuit tester under his arm and paused to ask,
"What's up, boy-oh?"

Rick answered briefly, "No transistors, no work."

"Bored?"

"Not exactly, sir. But I wish I could do something useful instead of
just hanging around."

Gee-Gee stroked his magnificent mustache. "I'm with you," he said
finally. "Jump in."

Rick needed no further invitation. He took the tester from the scientist
and climbed into the sedan, holding the gadget on his lap. "Where are we
going?" he asked.

"Pad. Work to do, and you can help. Do a good job with me and I'll give
you a special reward. Check?"

"Check," Rick agreed, grinning. "What's the reward?"

"Watch Orion from the blockhouse with me. Good?"

"Plenty good," Rick said, pleased. "What's the work?"

Gee-Gee drove the way he talked, at high speed and with a flourish. Rick
held his breath as the sedan skidded around a gasoline truck, then
leveled off. Gee-Gee gave him a long glance and almost went off the road
in consequence.

"You're fairly new, Rick. But you know about this Earthman?"

"I've heard plenty of rumors," Rick agreed, "but I can't say I know many
facts about him. He's a big, noctilucent mystery to me." He thought,
"Now he's got me doing it!"

"I like that," Gee-Gee said appreciatively. "High, rare, and mysterious.
Like noctilucent clouds high above the cirrus belt. I can use it."

Rick chuckled. "You were talking about the Earthman," he prompted.

"Yes. You weren't here for the first two shoots, so you are not this
Earthman. And I'm not. No one knows this but me, on account of everyone
suspects everyone. So far, only the Earthman knows who he is. But I'm
telling you, it's not me. You don't have to believe this, of course,
but, young Brant, I'm going to check every electronic circuit in Orion
myself. And you're not only going to help me, you're going to check what
I check. Roger?"

"Roger," Rick replied grimly. "How long will it take?"

"All night. We'll live on sandwiches and coffee and get no sleep. But
when we're through, we'll both be satisfied that all electronics in
Orion are correct and functioning."

"But hasn't the rocket been checked already?" Rick asked.

"Twice. Every circuit in it. The critical circuits have been checked a
dozen times. But is ole Gee-Gee satisfied? Negative, young Brant.
Gee-Gee is not going to be satisfied until he personally rechecks and
locks all access doors and ports himself."

Rick sat back in the seat, smiling to himself. He had no doubt that Dr.
Gerald Gould meant every word of it. If Orion failed tomorrow, it would
not be the fault of the electronics department.

The sedan pulled up at the pad and Rick got out, staring at the great
rocket. Myriad cables dripped from various parts of it, and he thought
of Gulliver tied down by the threads of the Lilliputians. There was
something magnificent about the clean, towering shape that stirred his
imagination. In the jargon of the rocketeer the great missiles were
called "beasts" or "birds." The former was because they sometimes acted
"beastly." The latter was a tribute to their beautiful flight when they
ran true.

Rick thought, "How could anyone sabotage a thing like that?"

Gee-Gee brought him back to earth. "Ever climb a gantry?"

"No, sir."

"Well, start flying, young Brant. We go to the top and work down."

Rick went. He was too excited to be afraid. The first stage was by
elevator. Then he and Gee-Gee climbed thin steel rungs to the very tip
of the great rocket. Not until he reached the shaky, wind-blown,
postage-stamp-size platform at the top did he take time to look down.

The thin steel web was no barrier to vision. He was on top of the world,
at the doorstep to space, looking down on fantastic activity below. The
rocket curved sweetly away below him, down to the sharp lines of the
great stabilizer fins. He noted the breakaway zone where the first stage
and second stage were joined. He could see, as one perched on a cloud,
the tiny, busy forms of men below.

For an instant, as the nose access port yawned before him, Rick had a
vision of himself in pressure suit and plastic helmet, mounting the
rocket as a pilot mans his plane, anticipating the signal for blast-off.

Gee-Gee brought him back to earth with a prosaic, "Let's get at it,
boy-oh."

It was the beginning. The picturesque but highly competent and efficient
electronics chief hadn't exaggerated. The fabulous world of rocketry
narrowed to a maze of wiring, circuit after circuit, checking, testing,
and calling for test signals from the blockhouse. Rick checked and
rechecked, following closely on Gee-Gee's heels. He missed nothing, took
nothing for granted. Once he snapped, "Wait a minute! You didn't check
that circuit properly. Check for polarization as well as contact."

Gee-Gee looked at him in astonishment, then slowly grinned. He thrust
out a grimy hand. "You're my boy, young Brant. Who taught you about
polarization?"

Rick was about to say, truthfully, "My father." But he caught himself in
time. "A boss I had at Spindrift."

"He taught you well, and you're right. I did goof on that one. I'll
check, and you recheck."

They went at it again, inch by inch through the incredible maze of
wiring in the rocket's innards. By very accurate analogy, they were
probing the rocket's brains. The circuits, like nerves, carried messages
to and from the central rocket control. One would signal "_Rocket
starting to yaw_," and another would reply to the servomotors that
activated the gimbal-mounted motor, "_Compensate! Two degrees correction
azimuth 350!_" and the great rocket would steady on course again. There
was a circuit to carry the heartbeats of the monkey caged in the nose
cone, and another to carry his skin temperature, and dozens more.

Rick didn't even notice when it grew dark. Sometime during the night
someone thrust ham sandwiches and a cup of steaming coffee into his
hands and he ate and drank without taking his eyes from Gee-Gee.

Then, what seemed only minutes later, someone yelled, "Zero minus three
hours!"

Gee-Gee looked up. He glared at Rick from red-rimmed eyes. "Quick!
What's left to check?"

Rick stared at smudged, much-handled circuit diagrams through eyes that
refused to focus sharply. "Only the control circuit for the pumps."

They were low on the crane now, working at the last access port. These
were the electronic nerves of the great pumps that would force fuel into
the rocket motor. Gee-Gee checked them, spoke into a walkie-talkie he
had carried through the night, and Dick Earle's voice came back from the
blockhouse. "The board is green."

Rick took over and checked again. And once more Earle's voice sounded,
harsh and definite. "The board is green."

Gee-Gee slammed the access port door and locked the patented fasteners
with a few turns of his screw driver. "We're done," he said flatly.
"Come on down."

Rick followed, jumping to the ground from the lowest platform. He looked
around, dazed. The sky was pink in the east. It was dawn. Where had the
night gone? He stared amazed at grotesque figures that waited, silent,
patient, like beings from another world. Then he realized it was the
fueling crew dressed in protective clothing, swathed like strange
cocoons in plastic that would keep their vulnerable human skins from the
harm of corrosive liquid and fumes.

Gee-Gee led him to the blockhouse, and the walk across the barren plain
cleared the mists from Rick's head. He knew, as clearly and finally as
anyone can ever know anything, that the electronic circuits were all in
order and functioning.

The massive door of the blockhouse was open. Inside were two dozen men,
each with his own place and his own job. Rick knew some of them by
sight, but he knew few names. This was the Orion crew. He looked at them
with respect. They had made the great rocket on which he had worked all
night. They had created it from sketches on paper, followed it through
all the stages of construction until now it was ready.

A loud-speaker crackled, then boomed, "The time is now zero minus ninety
minutes."

They were the fastest ninety minutes Rick had ever spent. He was
enthralled by the activity in the blockhouse, and, careful to keep out
of the way, he walked from station to station. Now and then he looked
through the thick glass ports, and he saw the green mist of boron
hydride as fuel throbbed slowly into the rocket's tanks.

A thin, bald scientist in a scarlet sports shirt picked up a microphone
and spoke into it. "Tracking stations, report your readiness. Stand by.
Lathrop Wells, report."

A loud-speaker over his head replied instantly. "Lathrop Wells ready and
tracking."

Tonopah, Indian Springs, Mercury, Death Valley Junction, Shorty's Well,
Chloride Cliff, Jubilee Pass: All ready and tracking. Then:

"Careless Mesa."

Big Mac's voice boomed forth. "Careless Mesa ready and tracking."

The time: "Zero minus thirty minutes!"

One by one red lights on the main board winked out and green lights came
on in their places, showing circuits and controls in operation. Only a
few red lights remained now. Rick looked through the glass ports and saw
the gantry crane being wheeled away. Jeeps, trucks, and private cars
were moving out of the area, haste evident in their spinning wheels and
hunched drivers. The movement was like a scurry of ants. Rick watched,
taking in everything. He didn't even notice when the massive door was
swung shut, closing against its airtight cushion with a sibilant hiss.

"Zero minus five minutes."

At last the frenzied activity ceased, and the rocket stood alone, clean,
beautiful, and awesome, only the instrument cable tying it to earth.

Rick couldn't tear his eyes from the rocket, even to watch the last of
the red lights flick out, the green glow showing readiness.

Then, zero minus five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...

FIRE!

A steady hand threw the final switch.

Green flame stabbed from Orion's tail, grew to white intensity. The
instrument cable dropped from the rocket's nose and writhed to the
ground. Even through the thick walls of the blockhouse Rick heard the
mighty rocket's voice, an ear-shattering roar of triumph that sent
lancing pain through his head. The rocket shuddered, eager to be away.
Thrust built up, and up, and up, and the exhaust light grew until it was
like staring into the heart of a green sun. Then the great voice
faltered, the shuddering increased.

A yell of pure horror burst from Rick's throat. High on the rocket's
side, metal slowly peeled back like obscene steel lips opening, and
green fire gushed forth. The shuddering ceased, and he knew the rocket
was dead. The gash opened wider ... wider ...

The blockhouse door swung open and men poured out--silent, horrified
men, helpless to do anything but watch, oblivious to the danger. Rick
went out with them.

The desert was alive with sound now, with the roaring torch of rocket
propellant and the scream of sirens. Speeding down from the base camp
came the fire engines, to save what could be saved, to help still the
flames so the Orion crew might find out what had gone wrong.

Behind the fire engines were jeeps, trucks, and cars, loaded with grim
men who carried picks, shovels, anything to help still the holocaust.

Scotty arrived right behind the fire engines and ran to where Rick
stood, still stunned by the shocking turn of events.

"What happened to it?" Scotty asked hoarsely.

Rick shook his head. He couldn't talk.

The firemen were already at work. Crews from the trucks, protected by
asbestos and plastic, carried hoses to the very edge of the roaring
propellant and began to smother it with mounds of foam. The men who had
followed with shovels and picks were also at work, hastily digging a
trench to prevent the spread of the fiery liquid.

Someone yelled, then another yelled. Rick looked up in time to see the
rocket split wide open and most of the remaining tons of propellant gush
out. The firemen saw it, too, saw that they would be engulfed. They
turned and ran.

Horrified, Rick saw a fireman, clumsy in his protective suit, trip and
fall before the oncoming flood of flaming boron hydride.

Scotty moved, instinctively, his finely trained body responding with
perfect co-ordination. Straight toward the oncoming flood he ran, into
the edge of the flames, leaping the rapidly widening trench. Rick ran,
too, but Scotty's fast reaction had carried his pal beyond reach. He saw
the husky ex-marine stoop into the flames, pick up the fallen fireman,
and literally throw him across the trench to safety.

Then Rick was at his friend's side, slapping at the burning places on
his clothes, rushing him away from the spreading propellant. But Scotty
wasn't through. He helped the fireman to his feet and pulled at the
protective suit. Rick saw instantly what had happened. The suit had been
torn in the fall, and some propellant had gotten in through the rents.
The fireman was burning under the protective cover!

Other hands came to help and they got the man out of his cover, out of
his burning clothes. Then the first-aid squad moved in.

Not until the fireman had been cared for did Scotty say, almost
apologetically, "Any of that stuff left? I've got a couple of burns."

Then Rick noticed for the first time that his own hands were scorched
and in need of the soothing unguent. By the time he and Scotty were
smeared with the ointment, the fire was out.

The boys watched as water was sprayed over the white-hot wreckage until
at last the safety officer pronounced the torn remnants cool enough for
inspection. Then John Gordon and the senior staff moved in.

It was past noon before they emerged from their inch-by-inch examination
of the rocket, but no one left to eat, to change clothes, or even to sit
down. No one thought of it.

John Gordon motioned to Dr. Albert Hiller, the Orion project officer.
Hiller nodded. He spoke quietly, but not one of the hundreds watching
missed a single word.

"Apparently a fuel-pump bearing froze at the critical moment. With an
unstable fuel like boron hydride, that made the difference. Internal
pressure was too much for the shell to take."

The engineer paused, and the tense, waiting silence became almost too
much to bear. Hiller knew what the men were waiting for.

"We found no pictures," he said. "We'll continue the examination in the
laboratory, of course. But as of this moment we cannot say whether it
was the kind of accident that rocketeers always have to expect, or
whether someone tampered with the pump. By someone, I mean--the
Earthman."




CHAPTER IX

Ghost Town Clue


Rick refused point-blank to go to bed. He wasn't tired, he insisted, and
he meant it.

Scotty yielded. "Okay. I see your point. It's hard enough to sleep in
the daytime anyway, but when you're all keyed up, it's impossible.
Didn't lunch make you sleepy at all?"

"A little, but that shower and change of clothes woke me up again.
Scotty, I'll never forget that horrible instant when I realized that
Orion wasn't going to take off. Honest, it was like watching something
beautiful die. It..."

Hank Leeming, their security officer roommate, came into the bunkroom in
time to hear Rick's last comment. Hank was young, usually smiling. He
wasn't smiling now. "I was in the blockhouse when the first one blew. I
know how you feel, Rick. It makes you want to lay violent hands on the
man responsible."

The security officer changed the subject abruptly. "Luis Hermosa wants
to see the boy who saved his life, and the one who helped."

"You mean the fireman who fell in the propellant?" Scotty asked.

"That's the one. He's in the infirmary. Can you both go?"

Scotty shrugged. "Sure. If he wants us to. But he doesn't owe us
anything. Someone else would have dragged him out if we hadn't."

"If _you_ hadn't," Rick corrected. "I didn't move fast enough."

"Neither did anyone else," Hank pointed out. "Don't be overmodest about
it, Scotty. Go and see him."

The infirmary, operated by Lomac, was only a block away. Rick and Scotty
walked over and checked in at the reception desk.

The infirmary clerk directed them to one of the four rooms in the little
base hospital. "Go right in."

Luis Hermosa was awake. Rick knew he must be in pain from his burns,
which were extensive, but his smile gave no evidence of it. It was a
warm smile that demanded a smile in return.

"This morning there was no chance to give you my thanks," he greeted
them. "I asked for you to come so that you may know how I feel."

Scotty put a hand gently on one of the bandaged ones. "No thanks are
necessary."

Luis shook his head. "It was a brave thing. You might also have been
caught by the fuel, and you did not even have a suit such as I wore.
When I and my family light candles to thank God and to ask His blessing
for you, we will want to give Him your names."

They told him their names, and his lips moved as he repeated them. Then
he waved them to chairs. "Please sit down and talk with me for a few
minutes. This is not a place where one can extend the hospitality of his
house, but I can at least offer you chairs."

Keen brown eyes surveyed them. "You are both very young, eh? What are
you doing here?"

"Working," Scotty answered. "I'm in vehicle maintenance and Rick is in
Pegasus electronics."

"So? It is an exciting place in which to work. Even I, a fireman, feel
this excitement. Tell me, do you think this _hombre de terra_, this
Earthman, was the cause of the tragedy this morning? I call it a
tragedy, because it was so. So much work, so much love went into that
rocket! _Sangre de Cristo!_ It was a terrible thing."

"No one seems to know for sure," Rick replied. "The project officer
couldn't say. But there was no Earthman picture."

The bandaged hands spread expressively. "A picture could have been
burned. Now perhaps we will never know. You understand, I have thought
much about this thing. Once I believed this Earthman made the rockets go
bad because he must think such things are against the will of God. But
when I heard of the thefts, I no longer thought so. I thought about how
a thief could take his stolen wealth from this guarded place."

"We've wondered about that, too," Scotty said.

"You decided something?"

Rick leaned forward on his chair. Luis Hermosa had started him thinking
again.

"The thief couldn't get his stolen goods from the base if he went
through a gate in his own car, could he?"

"He would not dare," Luis replied, "because he knows the guards check
the trunks of cars, and sometimes even look under seats. He might be
unlucky. He would know this."

"Spot check," Scotty nodded.

Rick hadn't known about the spot check, but it made sense. He continued,
"So there's only one way. The thief has to take the stolen supplies from
the base in an official vehicle."

"Such vehicles are not checked," Luis agreed excitedly. "But also, such
vehicles are not taken far from this camp. If a truck, say, were gone
too long, would it not be noticed?"

"It certainly would," Scotty stated.

"There must be only a few places where the thief could go," Rick said
thoughtfully. "When he reaches one, he must hide his stolen goods and
leave them. Later, by traveling a long way to reach the spot from the
main road, he could get the stolen stuff with his own car. Or, maybe
someone from outside who doesn't work on the base at all could go to the
hiding place and pick them up. Can you think of any other way?"

Luis and Scotty couldn't, and said so.

Rick asked, "What are the possible places?"

"What would such a place need to be like?" Luis asked, then answered his
own question, "It would need to be on a road, not only leading from the
base, but to the outside. Also, it would need to be a lonely place,
would it not? And it would need to be a place where the things could be
hidden and not be seen, but where a helper from outside could find them
easily. You see, I follow your reasoning. Where is such a place?"

The boys waited. Luis knew the area. He might have a good idea.

"There is one which is perfect. It is called Steamboat."

"But that's a town," Rick objected. "People would notice a truck from
the base."

Luis chuckled. "People, yes. Ghosts, no. An evil man like this Earthman
would not care what a ghost saw, would he? Ah, but you are new here, and
you do not know. Steamboat is a town without people. No one has lived
there for forty years."

"A ghost town," Scotty said in surprise. "But don't tourists go to ghost
towns?"

"They do," Luis agreed. "They go to Searchlight, and to Rhyolite, and to
Calico, and other ghost towns near here. But they do not go to
Steamboat. It is on bad roads, many miles from the nearest good highway.
Besides, who has heard of Steamboat? No newspaper writes about it, and
no one advertises it. You cannot even buy a souvenir at Steamboat. There
is no one to sell them. Ghosts do not peddle souvenirs."

Luis chuckled at his own joke. "You have a good head, Mr. Brant. I will
think about this. Perhaps you will think some more, too, and we will
compare notes later. Will you come to visit me again?"

"We'll come," they promised.

Outside in the brilliant sunlight, Rick said to Scotty, "You bet we'll
go to see him again! How did you like his idea about the ghost town?"

"It can be reached from Careless Mesa," Scotty pointed out. "I wish we'd
known it was a ghost town. We could have explored it some afternoon."

Rick said what had been on his mind since Luis made his suggestion. "I
think we'd better pay it a visit."

"When?"

"What's the matter with right now?"

"Nothing, I guess. But why the rush?"

Rick wasn't sure himself. "Maybe there isn't any rush. But on the other
hand, maybe there is. Look, we've kind of assumed Mac and Pancho are in
on this, haven't we? Well, their movements must be pretty well known, at
least while they're at work."

"They have to check their truck in and out. Why?"

"Let's talk about it over a coke. It's hot."

They hiked to the recreation hall and got cokes from the automatic
dispenser. Rick set his thoughts in order.

"I'm not so sure about Mac and Pancho. They were at Careless Mesa this
morning. At least I'm certain Mac was, because I heard his voice when he
checked in by radio. And probably Pancho was, too, because it takes two
men to handle a radar unit. One of them might have been able to sabotage
a rocket, although I doubt it, but how could they take advantage of the
confusion to steal the transistors when they're not even on the base?"

Scotty finished his coke and banged the bottle on the table for
emphasis. "Okay. They couldn't. But why are you so sure they couldn't
sabotage a rocket?"

"I'm not sure," Rick replied. "But now that I've seen how the base
works, it seems to me that only someone who works on the rockets could
sabotage one."

"Careful," Scotty said with a groan. "You're dumping the only suspects
we have."

Rick grinned ruefully. "I know it. Anyway, we have to keep moving, even
if it means starting all over again. So let's start at Steamboat."

"Okay. And just for the fun of it, I'll check the vehicle board. It
won't hurt to know how much time Mac and Pancho have spent off the base
in their truck. Suppose I gas up the jeep and meet you at the barracks?"

"I'll check out with Pegasus. Will you have any trouble?"

"No. Everything just about closes down the day of a shoot. I'll be there
in ten minutes."

The boys parted at the door of the recreation hall and Rick started back
to the barracks. As he passed the main administrative building, John
Gordon fell in step.

"If I knew you two, I'd be mighty proud of both of you," the scientist
said whimsically. "You for the job you did with Gee-Gee last night, and
Scotty for pulling that fireman out this morning."

Rick smiled his thanks. "Anything new?"

"Not so far. Tom Preston is having the warehouses checked, just in case.
But it's a terrific job going through an inventory item by item."

"Can you find out if the clerks leave the warehouses during a shoot?"
Rick asked.

"Tom has already gone to work on that. I'll find a way to let you know.
Keep in touch, Rick."

Rick continued on to the barracks, mind churning with confused thoughts.
If only they had a few hard facts to work on! There wasn't a single
definite clue to anyone. And, after last night, how could he suspect any
of the dedicated, hard-working rocketeers? Impossible to imagine that
anyone who had worked so hard on one of the projects could deliberately
sabotage it. Yet, there was no other answer. No one outside the
technical and scientific staff would have the opportunity or knowledge.

"At least," he concluded ruefully, "if we assume it's someone with ready
access to the projects, we've cut down the size of the haystack. We're
looking for one man out of only about five hundred!"




CHAPTER X

Stranded in Steamboat


The road to Steamboat led by Careless Mesa, then through a series of
twists and turns down to comparatively level country again. According to
the map, the ghost town was in a valley next to a dry lake bed.

Rick glanced at his watch. "It's going to be late when we get there."

"Maybe that's good," Scotty returned. "If anyone is in the town we'll
see lights. This country is so wide open it would be hard to sneak up on
the town in daylight."

"It would, if there was anything to sneak up for. Haven't you got the
feeling this is a wild-goose chase?"

Scotty dodged a deep hole in the road. "It could be. But we can't just
sit around waiting for the Earthman to hand us a calling card. Besides,
Mac and Pancho were gone long enough to reach Steamboat and return to
base this morning." That was what the vehicle-control board had shown.

"They might have been just waiting at Careless Mesa," Rick pointed out.
"We have no evidence they went to Steamboat. Besides, if anything was
stolen during the shoot this morning, they couldn't have been in on it."

"That's true. But we can't lose by looking the town over. Besides, I've
never seen a real ghost town."

Rick watched the desert go by, his mind busy with the problems. As
Scotty had said, if Mac and Pancho weren't in on the thefts, someone
was. That someone had to get the stolen goods off the base and to a
location from which it could be carried to civilization. He toyed with
the idea that the stolen transistors might simply have been destroyed or
hidden by the Earthman in order to hold up work at the base. That didn't
seem likely.

The facts of time and distance certainly eliminated Mac and Pancho.
During the shoots they were miles away. They had little or no
opportunity to get close to the rockets. It was only reasonable to cross
them--and all other radar-tracking teams--off the suspect list. Yet,
Rick couldn't forget his initial feeling about the pair.

Scotty pointed. "Isn't that a town?"

The jeep had topped a gentle rise. Below lay a small, dry lake bed. At
one edge of the dry lake, nestled in low foothills, were gray, weathered
buildings. It was almost certainly Steamboat.

Scotty stopped the jeep and they surveyed the countryside with care.
There was no sign of movement, no sign of a dust cloud from any other
vehicle.

The sun was low in the west. In a short time it would be out of sight
beyond the mountains, then darkness would close in. Rick reached into
the jeep's glove compartment and found the flashlight he had stowed
there. He checked it, then asked, "What are we waiting for?"

"Ideas," Scotty replied. "What say we roll right on through the town
without stopping, then turn and come back through that wash at the base
of the hills?"

Rick looked to where the dark-haired boy pointed. He saw the shadow of a
gully that followed the foothills closely.

"Think it's necessary?" he asked.

Scotty shrugged. "Probably not. But it's better to be careful than sorry
later."

"Okay with me. Let's go."

Scotty put the jeep in gear and they rolled swiftly down to the level of
the dry lake bed and toward Steamboat. A few minutes later they entered
the town.

Rick inspected the buildings with care. It looked like the setting for a
Western motion picture, except for the lack of people and horses, and
the lack of paint. He identified a pair of stores, a two-story building
that could only have been a hotel, a livery stable, and several
buildings without identification of any kind. There was only one street,
and they were on it. Nowhere was there a sign of life. Then they were
through the town, and the road climbed gently toward the foothills.

Scotty held the jeep at a steady speed for over a mile. As the road
gradually curved around a rock outcropping, he said, "Look behind and
tell me when the town is out of sight."

Rick turned in his seat in time to see Steamboat vanish behind the
outcropping. "Now."

Scotty brought the jeep to a halt. "The road should fork pretty soon,
shouldn't it?"

"That's right. Left fork to Pahrump Valley, right fork to Death Valley."

"Let's hit the ditch." Scotty reached down and put the jeep into
four-wheel drive, then turned left off the road.

The bottom of the dry wash was alternately sandy and studded with
boulders. Scotty picked his way with care, but it was a rough ride. Once
or twice he stopped while Rick climbed the slope of the wash for a
survey of the situation. Finally they pulled to a halt and both boys
reconnoitered ahead, to find a good way out of the wash and onto the
road. Satisfied that getting from the wash onto level ground would pose
no problems, they turned off the jeep engine and settled down to wait.

Again, Rick felt the futility of what they were doing. They might wait
for weeks without ever seeing another human being.

"There's going to be a moon," Scotty remarked.

Rick looked up at the slim crescent. "Yes, but not much of a moon. I'd
rather depend on a flashlight."

Scotty stirred restlessly. "Maybe we should have explored the town."

"Maybe. It's too late now, except to explore by flashlight. We can
always come back during daylight."

They fell silent while darkness settled in. Rick began to feel drowsy
now that the excitement was at an end. He let his head droop. Presently
he slept.

Suddenly he realized Scotty was shaking him. "I'm awake," he whispered.
"What's up? What time is it?"

"Nearly nine. I was going to let you sleep for a while before starting
back." Scotty's voice was low. "A car came along the road. Not from the
base. The other way. It was traveling without lights. It stopped in
town."

"Let's go," Rick whispered. He got out of the jeep, Scotty on his heels.
They moved carefully up the slope of the wash and emerged on the open
desert behind the town.

Scotty took his arm. "Follow me." The dark-haired boy moved into the
lead.

They moved in a bent-over position, making their way from bush to bush,
careful to move silently. Rick's pulse began to hammer. Why should
anyone come to the ghost town, especially in a darkened vehicle? For the
first time he felt hope. They might find out something of importance
after all!

Scotty led the way, taking advantage of every bit of cover, and in a
short time they emerged from the desert behind the row of ghostly,
abandoned buildings. Rick recognized the hotel, the only two-story
structure in the town. It was directly in front of them.

"Wait here a minute," Scotty whispered. He moved quickly and silently
into the shadow of the livery stable. Scotty was skillful at this kind
of work, and Rick knew it was best to let him reconnoiter alone.

Presently Scotty materialized from the shadows and moved to Rick's side.
He whispered, "They came in a sedan. I couldn't see any lights, but I
heard voices. They're in the hotel."

"Let's get closer," Rick replied softly.

Scotty plucked at his sleeve and Rick followed, moving swiftly into the
shadow of the livery stable. Scotty moved slowly along the wall, then
crossed the narrow alley between the stable and hotel with one long
step, hesitating at the hotel corner. Rick followed silently. There was
a window. Scotty crouched, so he would be below the window, and scuttled
past it. Rick was right behind him.

The rear door of the hotel was next. Scotty's gesture told Rick they
would stop there and try to listen. Scotty moved a few steps and stopped
once more. He was in position. Rick crowded close behind him, then moved
out from the wall a little so that he, too, could hear directly through
the door.

From almost under his foot came a strident, warning buzz, and an icy
ripple moved down his back. A snake! And he couldn't even see it! He
froze where he was, muscles tense for the shock of needle-sharp fangs.
He waited an eternity, not even daring to breathe. There were voices
from within the hotel, but he didn't hear what they were saying. At that
moment he couldn't possibly have cared less.

Then, his probing eyes saw the faint outline of the creature, half
coiled, flattened head weaving. It was barely beyond striking distance.
He watched it, not daring to look away, not daring to move.

Had Scotty heard the snake? But of course he must have. Rick reached
with infinite caution and tugged at his pal's sleeve. Scotty would have
to move first. Then Rick could move slowly to a position tight against
the wall, where Scotty was now. Only by moving into the wall could he
get away from the snake.

But in that moment the rattler apparently decided it had waited long
enough. The evil head moved slowly toward Rick's foot.

Rick couldn't help it. He let out an involuntary yelp and jumped
sideways, into Scotty. Scotty had no place to go but through the hotel
door. He crashed into the rickety, partly hanging door, Rick on top of
him.

Rick tried to get to his feet, sensing sudden noise and movement within
the hotel, but he wasn't fast enough. A hand grabbed him by the arm and
hauled him upright, and a fist glanced off his cheek-bone, snapping his
head back.

Scotty, underneath, gathered his feet under him and charged like a
plunging fullback, directly into the hotel. There was a grunt as the
boy's head met yielding flesh, then a powerful arm circled his neck and
he was lifted off his feet, fighting for breath.

A hand yanked Rick forward. His arms were twisted behind him. A pencil
flashlight flicked on briefly and a voice muttered, "It's a couple of
kids!"

Rick struggled, but subsided when it became clear that he could do
nothing but wrench his arms out of joint.

A man muttered, "Rope in the car trunk."

Feet sounded on the boards of the hotel. Rick tried to pierce the gloom,
to see his captors, but there wasn't enough light to see more than vague
shapes. He had never heard the voices before. The feet came back. The
voice said, "Lash 'em tight."

Rick was dumped face down on the dusty floor. Expert hands tied his
wrists and ankles tight and lashed them together, with his knees bent at
an acute angle and his shoulders pulled back. Next to him he sensed that
Scotty was getting the same treatment.

A voice whispered, "Wonder who they are?"

"Doesn't matter," the first voice said. "We'll be out of here in fifteen
minutes, if the others keep to schedule, and we won't be back. We can't
use this place again."

A third voice broke in. "I didn't see a car. They must have cached it
somewhere."

"You're right," the first voice agreed. "Find it, and fix it. Where'll
we put these kids?"

The second voice had a suggestion. "The old jail across the street. We
can lash 'em to the bunks."

Rick felt himself lifted like a sack of grain. He swayed as the man
lugged him through the front of the hotel, across the porch, and into
the street. His captor rounded the car that was waiting there and Rick
strained to turn his head, to try to see the license plate, but couldn't
catch a glimpse of it.

A creaky door was swung open and he was carried into an inner room and
dropped face down. It knocked the breath out of him for a moment. When
he recovered, he was tightly lashed to a rusty iron frame. His groping
fingers felt the frame and the rope, but the knots were beyond his
reach.

A voice asked, "Will we turn 'em loose later? We don't want 'em to die
in here."

"They won't. They can get loose, but it will take a while and we'll be
long gone. Come on."

The door creaked again. Rick listened to the sound of footsteps across
loose boards, then there was silence.

Scotty whispered, "What do we do now? Wait for the Lone Ranger and
Tonto?"

Rick had to grin, in spite of their plight. "Looks like it," he agreed.
There was something ridiculous about being bundled into an antique
Western jail. "Anyway, we didn't get bitten by that blasted snake."

"That worried me plenty," Scotty agreed. "Can you move at all?"

Rick's fingers hadn't stopped exploring. "Not much. How about you?"

"There's a sharp end of wire under my hands. I'm going to see if I can
loosen the knots. Keep working."

"Don't worry," Rick whispered fervently. "I will."

Silence fell, except for an occasional scrape as they struggled. Rick's
arms began to hurt, and his neck felt as though it would never
straighten again. Gradually he worked the rope end into reach and began
to move it, hoping to loosen the knot. Then there was a soft exclamation
of triumph from Scotty.

"Are you free?" Rick whispered quickly.

"No. But I pulled the rope between my wrists and ankles loose enough so
I can move. Just a minute."

Scotty got to his knees, balancing precariously. "I'm going to try to
slide my hands down the frame to yours."

Rick strained his neck trying to see if there were any obstacles in the
way, but he could see nothing. Scotty grunted. "I think I'm hung up on a
bolt that's sticking through the frame." There was silence for a few
moments while the boy struggled. "Made it," he muttered. "The ropes
loosened a little."

Presently Rick felt Scotty's fingers and moved his own, seeking the
ropes around his pal's wrists. He probed, trying to find the key to the
knots. Finally, his right forefinger touched a free end, and he followed
it into a twist of rope. His first two fingers could just reach the
twist, and he set to work on it, moving the rope back and forth, trying
to pull on it. Suddenly it gave.

"One," he said softly. There was another knot immediately under the loop
he had just untied. It was tougher than the first one, but eventually he
made it.

"I think you loosened it a little," Scotty said. "Maybe I can slide a
knot over that bolt and pull loose."

Scotty moved away from him, sliding his hands along the rusty frame. The
boys worked in silence, Rick tackling his own knots again while Scotty
tried to use the rusty bolt as a lever.

Rick had to give up for a while. His hands hurt too much, and he knew
that Scotty's must be hurting, too.

"Listen!" Scotty said suddenly.

A car, or a truck, was approaching the town, from the direction of
Careless Mesa!

The boys tackled the knots with desperation and suddenly Scotty fell
forward as his hands loosened.

Outside, the car braked to a stop. Rick wondered if Mac and Pancho had
come to keep a rendezvous? He couldn't get rid of the feeling that those
two were involved somehow.

"A few minutes more," Scotty gritted. "The knots are loose." Then, "I
got it."

Moving swiftly, Scotty untied his ankles and knelt at Rick's side. Long
minutes later Rick felt the ropes fall from his wrists. It didn't take
long to get his ankles free, and he stood up, rubbing circulation back
into his hands.

Scotty went to the doorway of the old jail and Rick joined him. "See
anything?"

"No," Scotty whispered. "We'll have to go outside."

"We can't go out the front," Rick murmured. "They'd see us. That car
stopped right in front. Let's see if there's a back entrance of some
kind."

He led the way to the rear of the jail building, walking carefully in
the darkness. There were windows but they were barred. He carefully felt
his way past the jail's only cell, and along the back wall.

Outside, a motor spun into life.

Rick whirled. "They're going!"

Another motor started.

The boys turned and hurried to the front of the building. They were in
time to see a sedan shift and speed away from the hotel, following the
road toward civilization.

They hurried into the street and Scotty pointed in the opposite
direction. The road back to the base was a dim, pale ribbon in the faint
moonlight. Along it a dark shape was speeding.

"That does it," Rick said aloud.

Scotty turned to watch the departing sedan. "It didn't take them long to
complete their business, whatever it was. I didn't hear any talk, did
you?"

"Not a word. Do you suppose that was Mac and Pancho that came from the
base?"

"No way of knowing, but it could have been. Come on. Let's find our
jeep."

The jeep was where they had left it, but the hood was up. Scotty hurried
to look, while Rick went to the glove compartment. The flashlight hadn't
been touched. He got it and joined Scotty, throwing the beam under the
hood.

For a moment everything looked normal, then Rick saw that the
distributor cap and rotor were missing. The question was, had the men
simply hidden them? Or had they taken the parts along?

Scotty put his thoughts into words. "If the parts are here, we'll find
them in the morning. If they aren't ..."

Rick finished, "We'll be here until someone finds us!"




CHAPTER XI

Deadrock Ogg, Mayor


At dawn's first light Rick and Scotty began the search for the
distributor cap and rotor. The boys searched methodically, taking in the
area far beyond throwing distance, on the assumption that whoever had
taken the two essential parts might have walked a distance away from the
jeep before throwing them as far as he could.

"It's not here," Rick said positively.

Now all that remained was the town itself. They walked back to the town,
Rick carrying the water bag and Scotty the canteen. At least their water
hadn't been dumped.

Scotty paid careful attention to the vehicle tracks in the dust of the
road.

"It's pretty clear," he pointed out at last. "Here's where the sedan was
parked. And here's where the other vehicle parked. See how this area is
scuffed up? They made quite a few trips, carrying something from the
side of the vehicle to the rear of the sedan, probably stowing the stuff
in the luggage compartment. And, from the tire tracks, I'd say the
vehicle from the base was a light truck."

"Like Mac's truck?" Rick asked.

"Maybe. Anyway, whoever it was had to go through the guard gate, and the
run might even be chalked up on the board. Not to here, of course, but
maybe to Careless Mesa or Dry Spring."

"We can check when we get back," Rick said. "Come on. We'd better take
the town apart and see if the rotor and distributor cap are here."

It was midmorning before they gave up the search, and both of them were
exhausted.

"Now what?" Rick asked wearily. He had never in his life felt so badly
in need of sleep. Except for a few brief catnaps in the jeep, he had
been awake continuously for forty-eight tense hours.

Scotty scratched his head. "There are a few buildings we haven't
searched yet."

"No, but they wouldn't be in those. If the men were going to leave them
here, they'd drop them nearby and not hide them in one of the distant
buildings. But I suppose we'd better look, anyway."

"We'd better. I'm fresher than you are. Go stretch out in the hotel
lobby and I'll look."

Rick was too tired to argue. He walked into the comparative coolness of
the rickety old hotel and found a section of undamaged floor. He removed
his shoes, stretched out, and was asleep almost at once. In a short time
Scotty joined him after an unsuccessful search.

When Rick woke again it was dark and Scotty was stretched out beside
him, sound asleep. He turned over and went to sleep again.

Both boys woke up, stiff and bleary-eyed, as dawn light flooded the
hotel. They grinned at each other.

"I must have slept for two days," Rick said.

"Not quite. Just about sixteen hours. But you needed it, and there
wasn't anything to do."

"We're okay so long as the water lasts, but then what?" Rick knew
without even putting it into words that they could never walk to
civilization. Their water would run out and heat exhaustion would get
them before they were halfway to anywhere. The base was closest, and it
was over thirty miles away, across desert and waterless mountains.

Scotty walked over to what had once been the hotel desk and held up a
can. "Want some breakfast?"

Rick was at his side in an instant, examining a can of tomatoes. "Where
did you get it?" It was shiny, the label unfaded.

"Down the street. In one of the houses. Someone comes here now and then,
I guess. There are blankets, a sleeping bag, and a small supply of
food."

Rick's brows knitted. "Shouldn't we have been standing guard?"

"I thought about it," Scotty admitted, "but I figured there wasn't much
sense to it. We'd welcome friend or foe at this point. Anyway, I don't
think whoever hangs out here is part of the gang."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't the gang have been at his hide-out instead of here in the
hotel? Besides, this looks like a cache for just one man."

Rick had to admit that made sense. "Do you suppose he's here now?"

"I doubt it. I'd have heard a car if one came into town last night. I
wasn't sleeping that soundly."

"Well, I'm grateful to him, whoever he is. Let me at that can." Rick
searched in his pocket and found his scout knife. He opened the
can-opener blade and got to work. In a moment they were taking turns
drinking the slightly acid, refreshing juice and pouring whole tomatoes
into their mouths.

An amused voice spoke from the doorway. "Looks good."

Standing on the porch was a figure in worn but clean denims and miner's
boots. His face was weathered from years in the desert sun. His hair was
grizzled where it could be seen under an ancient and disreputable
flat-topped, broad-brimmed hat. His eyes, under shaggy brows, were a
clear, twinkling blue. The man held a rifle; the muzzle pointed
unwaveringly at the boys.

"That your jeep in the wash?" he asked.

"That's ours," Scotty affirmed.

"Mislay a few parts?"

"You might say so," Rick agreed. "Who are you?"

"I'm the mayor of Steamboat."

The boys started. "The mayor?" Rick echoed.

"Yep. Likewise the sheriff. As mayor, I welcome you. As sheriff, I want
your names and business."

The boys gave their names, then Scotty asked, "How did you get into
town? I didn't hear a car."

"Good reason. I didn't drive. Now, what are you doing here?"

[Illustration: _"What are you doing here?" the man demanded_]

"Waiting to be rescued," Rick said on impulse.

"Reckon that can be arranged. You drove in, hey? But you didn't drive
into town. Instead, you parked in the wash. Now, as sheriff, I find that
mighty interesting. You wouldn't have parked there unless you didn't
want to be seen. Only I suspect you were seen, and whoever did the
seein' walked off with your distributor cap and rotor. Unless you have
'em, which I doubt. If you had 'em you wouldn't need rescuin'. Correct?"

"You're telling it," Rick replied courteously.

"Yep. Also, you're from Scarlet Lake, and you're nosy. Day before
yesterday you got nosy at Careless Mesa and nearly got pinked. Are you
busybodies, or have you got a right to snoop?"

Rick stared at the man. He had a strong suspicion they were looking at
the mysterious rifleman. Since the man hadn't come into Steamboat by
car, he must have come by horseback. The rifleman had departed from
Careless Mesa by horseback, too.

Scotty spoke up, in response to the man's question. "You might say we're
busybodies. We're curious about everything."

"Uh-uh. Toss me your badges."

Rick's eyes met Scotty's. He shrugged. There was no reason for not
complying. Both boys detached their badges and tossed them across the
floor. The man picked them up, examined them closely, then tossed them
back.

"All right. Come on with me and we'll have some breakfast." He tucked
the rifle under his arm, turned, and walked out. As the boys followed,
they cast puzzled looks at each other. The man led them to the cache
Scotty had found. A saddled horse was standing in front of the house.

"I've seen that horse before," Scotty said. "It was nice of you to wave
at me up at Careless Mesa."

The man grinned.

Rick asked bluntly, "Why did you shoot at us?"

Twinkling blue eyes surveyed him. "Didn't. If I'd shot at you I'd have
scored a few hits."

"You were warning us off," Scotty said. "Were we getting too close to
something?"

The man tilted his hat back and chuckled. "Mighty curious pair, I'd say.
No, son. But if you stayed around, I wouldn't get close to what I wanted
to get close to. What's more, I figgered you weren't just tourists. You
had a purpose in being at Careless Mesa. Your actions told me that, and
I didn't want you there."

"We might have reported the shooting," Rick said carefully. "You could
have gotten into trouble. Why didn't you just ask us to leave?"

"That would have brought questions I didn't want to answer. Why didn't
you report it?"

That stopped Rick. They might have reported it, if there had been more
opportunity to go into detail with John Gordon.

Conversation lapsed. The man filled a coffeepot from a water bag,
brought out a propane-powered single-burner camp stove, and started the
coffee going.

In a short time a simple breakfast of fruit juice, crackers, cheese, and
coffee was ready. Then, as he juggled a hot mug of coffee, Rick said,
"We're mighty grateful, sir. But we can't thank you properly when we
don't know your name."

The man studied them again, over the lip of his coffee mug. "When did
you boys get to Scarlet Lake?"

Rick told him. There was no reason to conceal it.

"Uh-uh. I figgered you were pretty new. Now tell me exactly what
happened here last night."

The boys hesitated.

Rick asked, "Are you just being curious?"

"No. I've got a reason, and it's a good one."

Instinct told Rick that the man was more than he seemed, but that he was
in no way a thief or law-breaker. Briefly he sketched the events of the
previous night without going into the reasons for their own actions.
Scotty filled in a few details.

"All right. I'm Deadrock Ogg. Besides being the mayor and all the other
city officials of Steamboat I'm a prospector. Last night I was doin' a
little prospectin' and I came up with pay dirt. You saw what happened
here. Well, I kind of figgered in advance what was going to happen, and
I waited on the turnoff to Pahrump Valley. A sedan went by me pretty
fast, but not so fast I didn't get the license number. Mostly because I
was lyin' at the roadside waitin', and interested only in that."

"But the sedan traveled without lights."

"Not past the turnoff it didn't. Road's too curvy, and in too much
shadow. That's why I was there. I knew they'd have to turn on lights."

It was Rick's turn to give Deadrock Ogg his own question back. "Who are
you, Mr. Ogg? Are you a busybody? Or do you have a right to snoop?"

Deadrock Ogg chuckled. "The answer you gave me is good enough. Now, I'm
going to lend you a distributor cap and rotor."

"Where are you going to get the parts?" Scotty asked.

"My own jeep. I've got one cached just above here. Now, when you get
back to Scarlet Lake, you see Tom Preston right away. You know who he
is. Tell him exactly what you told me, and what I told you. And give him
the number I'm goin' to write down for you. Then you ask Tom to send a
plane back to drop off my cap and rotor. And tell him to send a
walkie-talkie, too.

"Now, I got a real good idea what game you boys are playin' and it's
fine by me. Only don't get into my game. Stay on the base. You mean
well, but you could cross me up when it would hurt most. Some day, after
we have the one we want, we'll compare notes. Now let's get goin'. You
kids are goin' to have a long, long drive. I'm sendin' you home by way
of Pahrump Valley."

"It's shorter directly back to the base," Scotty objected.

"Sure. And you'll attract more attention that way. Go through the valley
and back to Route 95, and you'll enter from the front gate. Then who'll
know you didn't spend the night in Vegas?"

It took only ten minutes to get the parts from Deadrock's jeep, which
was parked in a ravine, invisible to anything except a low-flying plane.
They said good-by to the "prospector" at the edge of town.

"Got the map in your heads? You won't get lost?" Deadrock asked.

"We'll be fine," Rick assured him.

"All right. Get goin'. And, boys--look out for sidewinders!"




CHAPTER XII

Servomotors Missing


Rick and Scotty took time to shower and change, then left on their
prearranged errands. Scotty headed for his own department, to check all
travel to the north since the Orion firing. Rick set out to find John
Gordon.

The Spindrift scientist was not in his office, nor could Rick find him
around the base. Finally he took the jeep and headed for the firing
area.

There was considerable activity down on the lake bed. At a pad close to
the blockhouse a tower was under construction. That was the launching
tower for Cetus. But of even more personal interest to Rick was the
presence of a gantry crane at a third firing pad where one of the
special rocket-transport trucks was just putting the first stage of
Pegasus into place!

It was at the Pegasus pad that he found Gordon, in conversation with
Gee-Gee Gould, Dick Earle, Frank Miller, Cliff Damon, head of the
instrumentation section, and Lars Jannsson, head of the Pegasus
propulsion section.

"We'll start security immediately," Gordon was saying as Rick walked up.
"Tom Preston will arrange for a guard around the clock. We'll also
arrange an exchange-badge system, so no one gets inside the fence
without handing in his own badge and getting a special one. That way,
we'll have absolute control on who comes and goes."

Gee-Gee Gould saw Rick and dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Rick
and I will do the final electronics check, just as we did on Orion."

Rick looked at Gordon. "Did you say something about a fence, sir?"

"I did. Look over there." Gordon pointed to a crew with a mechanical
posthole digger that was just starting work, then gestured to sticks
with red flags that formed a huge box around the pad. "That's where the
fence will go. And there will be only one gate."

Rick took advantage of the brief exchange with Gordon to wink at the
scientist. Gordon picked up the cue quickly. "Can I ride back to the
base with you? I rode down with Dick, but he's not ready to leave yet."

"Glad to have you, sir," Rick replied.

On the way back to the base Rick told his story in detail, starting with
Scotty's and his own first suspicions about Mac and Pancho and ending
with their rescue by Deadrock Ogg.

John Gordon remained silent for long minutes after Rick had finished.
Finally he said, "You've certainly stirred up something, Rick, but I
don't know how it fits into the over-all pattern. You and Scotty meet me
in thirty minutes in my quarters and we'll see."

Rick dropped the scientist off at his office, then went to find Scotty.
His pal was just emerging from the big maintenance shed. "Anything new?"
Rick greeted him.

"Mac and Pancho took their truck out last night," Scotty reported. "The
timing was right. They could have been driving the second vehicle that
arrived while we were getting loose in the jail."

Rick looked at him curiously. "Funny. Why would they take a truck out? I
mean, what legitimate reason could they have?"

"They made one. Mac told the dispatcher they'd left an important piece
of gear at Careless Mesa."

So their hunch about Mac and Pancho had been right! But Rick still
couldn't figure out how they were involved.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"Easy. I checked the board. The dispatcher was sitting right there, so I
just kind of wondered aloud what a tracking team would be doing off the
base at night. He's a talkative sort, anyway, so he just handed me the
dope."

Exactly twenty minutes later Rick and Scotty walked through the door
into the barracks in which John Gordon had his quarters. They hadn't
been inside before, although they had taken the precaution of locating
it in advance. It wasn't like their barracks. Instead, it was divided
into a series of individual rooms, occupied by the chief executives of
the base.

Gordon was waiting, and with him was Colonel Tom Preston. Preston shook
hands with them.

"Apparently John was right," he greeted them. "You two do have a knack
of sniffing things out."

Rick looked at the thin partition. "Is it okay to talk here?"

"It is now. I've checked. The occupants of nearby rooms are out. We'll
be able to hear if anyone comes in."

Rick immediately launched into a recital of their activities since
arriving in Las Vegas. Now and then Scotty elaborated. A few times
Preston interrupted to ask for clarification on a point or two.

"Good," he said when they had finished. "I'll see that Deadrock gets his
parts back."

"Who is Deadrock Ogg?" Scotty asked.

Preston smiled. "Quite a character, isn't he? Normally he's a Forest
Ranger. At the moment he's on loan to me, serving as my outside security
officer. He did a good piece of work, getting that license number. We'll
hand it to the FBI bureau in Las Vegas and they'll take it from there."

"He must have had advance information, to be at the right spot to get
it," Rick observed.

"No more than you had," Preston told him. "We reached the same
conclusion that you and Luis Hermosa did, about how stolen goods could
get off the base. We've been watching from the inside, and Deadrock has
been watching at the Steamboat end."

"Then you already knew about Mac and Pancho leaving last night," Scotty
stated.

"Yes. But we really don't know any more than you two have found out.
We're no closer to finding out who sabotaged the rockets--or who stole
the transistors and the servomotors."

"What?" the boys exclaimed in unison.

Tom Preston's eyebrows went up. "You haven't heard? But of course you
haven't, because you weren't here when we finished inventory. We're
missing ninety thousand dollars' worth of servomotors."

"Suffering spacefish!" Rick groaned.

Scotty asked quickly, "When did it happen?"

"During the Orion shoot. Project Cetus had drawn servos the day before,
and they were on the shelves then."

"The stock clerks . . ." Rick began.

"Ran out to see Orion," Colonel Preston finished. "They've gone out to
see every shoot since the first one. But all of them swear no
unauthorized personnel got into the warehouses. Of course they can't be
sure, because none of them kept eyes on the doors."

"Could any of the clerks be in on the thefts?" Scotty asked.

"If so, we have no evidence of it. But we have so little evidence it
doesn't count for much anyway. Of course we have some ideas, and I
suppose you do, too."

Rick and Scotty nodded.

Preston continued, "The thing that's clear to us is that there isn't
just an Earthman. There's a gang. Someone sabotages the rockets. Someone
else steals the stuff from the warehouse. Someone else--and it looks
like Mac and Pancho--takes the stuff to Careless Mesa, or Steamboat, or
both. And someone else--the gang that captured you--gets it at Steamboat
and takes it to Vegas. Then, I suppose, still another man or group gets
rid of it through trade channels."

John Gordon had been listening without comment. Now he spoke up. "The
pattern seems to indicate sabotage, in order to create a diversion for
thieves. I can't buy it."

The boys and Preston waited for his reason.

"The thefts are peanuts. Oh, not in terms of ordinary thefts. But it
doesn't seem reasonable that anyone, no matter how greedy or crooked,
would destroy ten million dollars' worth of rocket to steal goods only a
tiny fraction of that in value."

Gordon's comments were an echo of what Rick had thought when the theft
of transistors first came to light. He simply couldn't believe theft was
the only reason. He had also rejected theft as a means of hampering
operations. While loss of parts was a nuisance, it wasn't crippling.

"Then the Earthman--I mean the Earthman who sabotages the rockets--has
to be a part of the technical staff," Rick said.

Gordon and Preston nodded. "Because only the project people have ready
access to the rockets," Gordon agreed. "Have you found out anything
suspicious about any of them, Tom?"

Preston shook his head. "I've studied their security background
investigations until I'm half blind. There isn't a thing that has even a
remote connection."

Gordon added, "Maybe finding the actual saboteur is the toughest part,
but there are some things about the thefts that aren't clear to me. For
instance, how did Deadrock Ogg know the car would be traveling without
lights? He told the boys how he planted himself at the Pahrump Valley
turnoff because the sedan would have to turn on lights there. How did he
know?"

Rick had figured that part out. "At night, car lights can be seen for
miles. The last thing in the world the thieves would want would be to
attract attention to Steamboat. The only way to be sure would be to
travel without lights. Turning them on during the run through the
twisting roads into the valley wouldn't be too much of a risk, because
the road can't be seen for long distances there."

Scotty asked, "But why did the men handle us so gently last night? They
didn't rough us up, especially. And one of them said we could get
loose."

"You didn't see them, did you?" Preston countered. "It was too dark. So
there was no danger of your identifying them. Why add murder or mayhem
to the list of charges when you gain nothing?"

John Gordon stirred restlessly. "We'd better end this meeting. If the
boys are associated with us, and especially with you, Tom, it will mean
an end to their usefulness."

"You're right, John." Preston looked at the boys. "The biggest value you
have is as free agents. I won't try to keep you posted on all my
activities. And don't bother trying to contact me, or John, about what
you're doing. It's too dangerous--unless you turn up a definite lead.
Meanwhile, go on as you have been. I'd say you were doing fine. Just be
careful. These men may have been gentle last night when they had nothing
to lose, but that doesn't mean it's a way of life with them. Now scoot.
And try not to be seen leaving."

The boys shook hands and started out, but Rick paused at the door and
said something that had been on his mind since the Orion disaster.

"There's one thing. Let's hope that when the Earthman finally trips up,
it won't be in front of everybody, especially after a shoot that he's
just sabotaged. Otherwise, we'll never get a chance to question him.
He'll be dead--lynched on the spot by the rocketeers!"




CHAPTER XIII

Fly the Winged Horse!


Rick held a servomotor in place while Phil Sherman, one of the other
technicians, bolted it securely.

"There you are," Phil said. "Anything else?"

"That does it. Thanks, Phil. I can wire it up now." Rick got to work,
connecting up the newly installed servo. Like other servomotors it was
tiny and powerful, translating electronic signals into mechanical
actions. This particular one was no larger than a spool of thread, but
it would actuate control tabs on the wings of Pegasus. Other motors
ranged in size from even smaller to quite large ones about as big as a
gallon can. The small ones were terrifically expensive, probably the
reason they had been attractive to the Earthman and his gang.

When Rick was finished with the simple connections, he called Dr. Bond.
The elderly scientist checked carefully, then nodded approval.

Phil Sherman stuck his head in the door. "Dick Earle wants everyone out
front. Staff meeting."

Rick and Dr. Bond hurriedly disconnected soldering irons and went out to
the main shed.

The Pegasus staff was gathering around Dr. Gordon, who was using a large
packing case for a podium. Rick saw the section chiefs conversing in low
tones next to Gordon's perch, and his heart pounded. Had the Earthman
appeared again?

Then, as the staff finally collected and Dr. Gordon began, Rick relaxed
a little. This wasn't about the Earthman, apparently.

"We are about to make a major schedule change," Gordon began. "However,
until we consult with the Pegasus group, we will not know if the change
is feasible.

"The Cetus group has run into a major roadblock. One essential piece of
apparatus cannot be delivered on schedule, because of trouble at the
factory where it's being made. In all probability Cetus will be held up
about three weeks. Now, as some of you know, the Cetus staff had already
begun work at the pad, and in the blockhouse. The question is, does
Pegasus wish to take over the Cetus schedule?"

Gordon held up his hand as a murmur swept the Pegasus crew. "This does
not mean you must shoot on their firing date. It merely means that you
must be out of the way by the time they are ready to move in again. If
you can, we will switch the schedule around and put you next. If you
can't, it will only mean that your firing date must be delayed. It's up
to you--specifically, it's up to your chiefs. However, we wanted you all
to know about Cetus just to spike any wild rumors that might get
started. The delay is not due to anything but a factory failure to
deliver."

Dr. Gordon yielded his improvised speaker's stand to Dr. Howard Bernais,
the project technical director. Dr. Bernais was administrative and
technical head of the entire project. Presumably he met with the section
chiefs fairly often, but he had an office near John Gordon in the main
administrative building and seldom came to the project.

The technical director was a gray-haired, gaunt, bespectacled man who
surveyed the staff through thick lenses. His voice filled the great
shed, not that he spoke loudly, but because he had that indefinable
something known as "command presence." Rick was impressed.

"We sometimes forget, we technical people, that we live in a democracy,"
Dr. Bernais began. "We're so used to taking orders that when someone
offers us a free choice we're rather surprised. However, when John
Gordon spoke to me about a change in schedule, I felt we should talk it
over. If you, as the people who will make Pegasus live up to its name,
are eager and willing, the change will work. If you have doubts, it may
not."

The technical director peered through his thick lenses and located Lars
Jannsson. "You have some difficult problems with the third-stage motor,
Lars. Can you be ready?"

Jannsson turned to his crew for confirmation, then nodded. "We will be
ready whenever you say, Dr. Bernais."

Robert Bialkin, head of the air-frame section, spoke up. "We're just
about done anyway, Doctor. We have a few minor modifications of the
airfoils, then we're finished."

"Good. Where is Cliff Damon?... What shape are you in?"

Before Damon could reply, Prince Machiavelli put in an appearance. The
little spacemonk had apparently decided it was too lonely in the
workshop. Now he jumped from head to head, ignoring the surprised cries
of the staff, until he landed on Rick's shoulder.

Amid the laughter, Cliff Damon said, "Here's one of our chief
instruments to speak for himself. I think he's ready."

Dr. Bernais peered at the marmoset, then nodded gravely. "Just one
suggestion. He will undoubtedly be man- or monk-of-the-week on the cover
of a news magazine. Perhaps you should give him a crew haircut, so he'll
look more like one of the staff." He held up his hand and the chuckles
subsided. "Then you can be ready, Cliff?... Good. Dick Earle! It's now
up to you. How say you?"

Dick hesitated. Rick watched him, anxious to see what his chief would
say. He cuddled the spacemonk in his arms and stroked the silky head.

"We'll have to put in plenty of overtime," Dick said finally. "I think
we can make it all right, but it will put a load on the staff. What do
you think, boys?"

Rick joined in the chorus of yeas! If every other section could be
ready, electronics would be, too.

"There's your answer, Doctor," Dick Earle said.

"Thank you. Now I ask for a unanimous opinion. Can we fly our winged
horse on this new schedule?"

The shout sent Prince Machiavelli skittering up to Rick's neck and down
inside his shirt.

Pegasus was committed to flight!

The problem of the Earthman was looming larger, Rick thought. The next
target for the saboteur would be his own project. The very idea made him
a little ill. Pegasus was too big, too important to be sabotaged! But he
recalled ruefully, Orion had also been too big and important. Of course
no trace of the Earthman had been found by the Orion staff, but the
servomotor theft seemed to tie the Earthman to the disaster.

"I'm going to be up to my neck in spaghetti," Rick told Scotty when they
met for supper. "I don't see how there'll be much chance to look for the
Earthman."

"It should be better than ever," Scotty objected. "For the first time,
you'll be right on the target."

That was true, Rick agreed. He hadn't looked at it in quite that way.
"What are your plans?" he asked.

"I'm going to concentrate on the warehouse. Remember what Colonel
Preston said about the clerks? They swore they hadn't seen any
unauthorized person entering while they were watching the shoot."

"But they couldn't have kept an eye on the warehouses," Rick objected.
"Anyone could have sneaked in."

Scotty shook his head. "I don't think so. Of course they watched the
shoots, but you can also bet they were turning pretty often to look at
the warehouses. They must have seen some activity. Otherwise, why would
they say _unauthorized_ persons?"

"I can't imagine," Rick admitted. "What's your idea?"

"The only people who could go in and out without being noticed
particularly, or challenged, would be members of the service staff."

"Like the postman?"

"Yes. Or telephone repairmen, or power men, or janitors, or plumbers.
There must be a dozen different kinds of people who have the run of the
base because of their duties. I'm going to keep an eye open to see who
goes in and out regularly--and Luis Hermosa is going to help."

"Luis? How can he help?"

"The fire station has a good view of the warehouses. You know how
firemen are. When they're not cleaning or making repairs, they like to
sit out front. Luis is out of the infirmary and back on limited duty,
and another pair of eyes will help. Once we establish who has free run
of the warehouses, I'll try to see which of them have any connection
with Mac or Pancho. Okay?"

"Sounds good," Rick agreed. "And I'll keep my red-rimmed eyes wide open
down at the pad, too. We'll get something on this Earthman yet!"




CHAPTER XIV

Check Pilot


Rick had joined in the enthusiasm for moving up the date of the Pegasus
shoot, but as he gazed around the project he began to wonder if they
hadn't all been carried away. There were parts and pieces everywhere. He
couldn't begin to make heads or tails out of all the confusion.

Fortunately, he didn't have to. Now that zero hour was closer, the
confusion turned into order like a miracle.

Rick continued to work on the drone section. The drone mechanism was
actually in two parts. The part on which Rick worked was to be installed
in the rocket. The other part would be installed in the blockhouse where
it would be operated by the drone pilot.

Dick Earle maintained a constant check on the work, and Frank Miller was
always on hand. Miller had designed the drone system, based on
principles developed by Dr. Bond and other pioneers. As Rick worked, he
learned how the system operated. The drone pilot in the blockhouse sat
at a panel on which normal plane controls were duplicated in miniature.
In front of him were elaborate radar screens. The drone pilot watched
the radar screens and "flew" the rocket. As he moved the controls, code
signals were transmitted and picked up by the unit inside the rocket
where they were translated into mechanical movements of the rocket's
control surfaces by the number of servomotors.

Rick had to consult with Frank Miller several times, and he began to
grow apprehensive about the design engineer's health. Miller's face was
gray with pain most of the time, and he often held both hands on his
stomach when he thought no one was watching. Rick mentioned it to Dick
Earle.

"I know," Earle said. "I've tried to get him out of here, at least to
see the doctor, but he won't go. He says there'll be plenty of time when
the shoot is over."

Then, in the coolness of a Scarlet Lake dawn, Lieutenant Colonel Jerry
Lipton, one of the Air Force's crack pilots, arrived in one of the
latest jet trainers. The staff of Pegasus greeted him and got to work at
once. The jet trainer would take the place of the rocket for testing
purposes.

This was the field test of the drone system--the only time it would be
checked in actual flight until the day of use. While Rick, Dr. Bond, and
Dick Earle installed the flying portion of the system in the plane,
Gee-Gee Gould, Phil Sherman, and Charlie Kassick installed the control
section in the blockhouse.

The installation took all day. The sun was dropping behind the
blockhouse when final checks were made.

A guard arrived at Dick Earle's summons and mounted watch on the plane.
Another guard was always on duty at the blockhouse, and still another at
the now fenced-in pad where the sections of Pegasus were being
assembled.

The staff secured for the night. Test flight was scheduled for
midmorning. Rick had asked, and been given permission, to see the test
from the blockhouse. Jerry Lipton would run the blockhouse controls.
Another test pilot, who was driving up from the big test station at
Muroc Dry Lake, was due in the morning to serve as check pilot in the
drone-controlled jet trainer.

Rick went back to his barracks filled with excitement. The flying horse
was about to try his brains, if not his wings. Zero hour was getting
close.

When Scotty asked how things were coming, Rick described their
activities in enthusiastic detail. But Scotty only grinned. "I didn't
want a connection-by-connection description of each circuit in the
rocket. What I meant was, is there anything new on the Earthman?"

Rick shook his head. "I've kept my eyes open, but everything's normal as
Sunday at home."

Scotty got serious. "Better be alert every second. Don't forget, boy.
You're now sitting on the target."

"You're dead right," Rick agreed, somewhat subdued. "How are you doing?"

"Not bad. I have a list of eight people who go in and out of the
warehouses regularly. They go in and out so often none of them would
even be noticed. Also, I think I know how the transistors and servos
were taken out."

Rick stared. "Honest?"

"I think so. Ever notice how the cleaning men work? They have carts. Big
ones, made of metal. At one end is a kind of well, for brooms, mops, and
the vacuum cleaner wand and tubes. But most of the cart is just a metal
box. The sides open. They carry rags, soap, that sawdust stuff for the
floor, and so on. Get the picture? The warehouse janitor could have had
empty boxes all ready inside his cart. Then, in about two minutes flat,
he could have changed them for full boxes."

"You've got something there," Rick said with excitement. "Any idea which
janitor?"

Scotty nodded. "The one who gets the warehouses to clean most often is a
character named Dusty Rhoads. He's in and out a dozen times a day,
pushing his wagon. He empties the waste cans and sweeps up and generally
puts things in order. No one even notices him."

"Have you reported this to Preston or John Gordon?"

"No. It's only an idea so far. No evidence at all. There's nothing to
connect him with Mac or Pancho."

"Well," Rick said, "you're sure making faster progress than I am.
There's absolutely nothing suspicious at the project, and, believe me,
I'm watching closely."

Morning brought trouble, but not of the suspicious kind. Lieutenant
Colonel Jerry Lipton walked into the project shed with a note in his
hand.

"Test is off," the pilot said. "For today at least."

Dick Earle motioned to Rick. "Get Dr. Bernais."

Rick rushed to the phone and called the project technical director. Dr.
Bernais promised to come over at once. He wasted no time, arriving
almost before Rick had a chance to report back to Dick Earle. With him
was John Gordon.

Jerry Lipton greeted them. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. The other pilot
cracked up in his car last night on Route 66 just west of Barstow. He's
not in bad shape, but he won't be flying for a week or two. We can get
another pilot, but it will take a day."

"We can't spare a day," Bernais said forcefully. "Surely there must be
something we can do!"

John Gordon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You've controlled drones many
times, Colonel. Is there anything unusual about this job?"

"There is nothing unusual about the test we're going to run. There will
be plenty unusual about the actual rocket flight," Lipton replied.

"Then the pilot who sits in the plane doesn't necessarily have to be
what you might call a 'hot shot'?"

Lipton shrugged. "Not particularly. He only takes over if the drone
control goes out."

"Then any pilot would do?"

"Any pilot who could handle the jet."

Rick wondered what Gordon was leading up to.

"Then why can't we find a check pilot here on the base?"

Rick now understood what Gordon was leading up to!

"We could do that," Lipton agreed. "Do you have any pilots on hand?"

Gordon turned suddenly and looked straight at Rick. "Don't I recall that
you were flying your own plane when you worked on that job at
Spindrift?"

Rick gulped. "Yes, sir. I fly my own plane. But it isn't a jet, sir!"

"What is it?" Lipton asked.

Rick named it.

"Ever fly a jet?"

Rick had, and for the moment he was sorry. Thanks to his friends at
JANIG, he had been given an opportunity to try out a Navy jet trainer
after the case of _The Wailing Octopus_ in the Virgin Islands. Steve
Ames had made special arrangements at the Naval Air Station when Rick
wistfully said he would like to fly a jet just once.

Lipton studied him. "Hmmm. This jet is hotter than those trainers by a
factor of three, except in landing. Since landing is the critical
factor, I'll buy it. First, though, we'll take a little ride."

Rick was filled with mixed excitement and apprehension.

"I'll be glad to try, sir," he said, with more confidence than he felt.

The test pilot rode to the lake bed with Rick in the jeep. On the way he
inspected the boy critically. "You're pretty young," he said at last.

"Yes, sir," Rick said, thinking that Lipton wasn't very old himself,
especially for his rank.

"Remember the first rule of flying?"

"Yes, sir. Keep your nerve and your flying speed."

"Correct. Remember that, and follow it, and you'll have no trouble."

Lipton followed with a rapid-fire description of instruments, controls,
and procedures that left Rick's mind reeling. Finally the test pilot
produced a check list. "Think you can follow it?"

Rick swallowed hard. "Can I sit in the plane for a few minutes and
study, sir?"

Lipton smiled. "Sure. Call me when you're ready."

Rick climbed into the pilot's seat and took the stick, put his feet in
the stirrups, and started getting acquainted with the feel of the
controls while eyes and brain concentrated on the incredible clutter of
instruments that every pilot has to know better than the working of his
own hand.

More study wouldn't help. It was now or never. He called to the pilot.
"Ready, sir."

Lipton climbed up on the wing and motioned to Rick to put on the helmet
and plug in his phones. There was a spare helmet-and-phone set in the
rear seat for the Air Force officer. Rick switched the radio on and
heard the soft hum of dynamotors. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do
you read me?"

"All right, Rick. Follow your check list and start the blowtorch going."

Rick mopped sweat from his face and went through the starting procedure.
The jet flared into sudden life with a roar.

"Ready to taxi," he said.

"Roger. Proceed when ready."

Cautiously Rick fed throttle, aware of the tremendous power under his
hand--power that could be deadly if misused. Using the brakes he turned
the jet and then let it roll forward to the edge of the black strip that
marked the runway.

"Ready to take off, sir," he said.

"Roger. Fire away."

He made a quick survey of the sky to be sure no other aircraft were in
the vicinity. There was no control tower with which to check out. Now!
He made himself relax a little and pushed the throttle to take-off
position.

Fast acceleration snapped him back against the seat. The jet began to
wander a little and he corrected automatically, and almost
overcorrected! With infinite care he straightened out again, just as the
plane was air-borne. Eyes riveted on the horizon, he felt for the switch
that pulled up the landing gear and felt the plane spurt ahead as the
drag of wheels and struts was removed.

Lipton's voice came through the phones, relaxed and a little amused. "No
need to treat this bucket of bolts like a baby, Rick. You've got power
to burn. Go, man! Make like a bird!"

Rick had to grin. He was flying automatically, as he flew his own Sky
Wagon. But Lipton was right. This was a jet, not a low-powered sports
plane. Suddenly exuberant he cracked the throttle and stood the jet on
its tail. It climbed vertically, an amazing sensation for Rick. Power to
burn!

The altimeter read ten thousand feet. He asked, "Can I sort of toss it
around a little?"

Lipton chuckled. "You're flying, and I have a strong stomach."

Rick kicked the plane over and let it drop, saw the Nevada mountains
rushing up to meet him. He leveled off and pulled into a tight turn,
much as he might turn the Sky Wagon. G forces slammed him into the
bucket seat and the world went gray as blood drained from his head.

"Let up," Lipton snapped.

Rick corrected groggily. Wow! He had forgotten that power had its
limitations, too. A tight turn meant pulling too many G's--too many
times the force of gravity--for safety. "Sorry," he said huskily.

"It's all right. Feel your way."

Rick did so, for an ecstatic ten minutes, then, realizing that time was
moving and he was burning fuel at a terrific rate, he asked reluctantly,
"What now, sir?"

"Let's go home," Lipton said calmly.

Landing was the tricky part. He hurriedly read through the landing
checkoff list, then started in. Flaps, throttle setting. Then, wheels
down and locked. Air speed correct.

"Better keep flying speed," he thought grimly. "This bucket has the
gliding angle of a brick."

For a moment habit almost fouled him up again, as he waited for the
plane to "sell out," then he remembered that he had to fly it in. With
an anxious eye on his air-speed indicator he gave it a little more
throttle, then felt the struts compress as the wheels hit. He chopped
the throttle and tried out the brakes with tender care. He didn't intend
to flip them over through carelessness now. Gradually he brought the jet
to a halt, reset flaps, and then rolled the plane back to their starting
point. After he had killed the engine he just sat there, too limp to
move. Then, slowly, and with vast relief, he started to get up.

Jerry Lipton, who had climbed out on the wing, reached over and put a
hand on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

Rick looked up in surprise. "I was getting out, sir."

"Stay put. I'm getting out. You're going for another ride."

He asked weakly, "Right now, sir?"

"No time like the present," Lipton said. He grinned. "How did you like
it?"

Rick returned the grin. "I guess you know the answer to that."

"I guess I do. It was a good flight, Rick. You only let your normal
habits get in the way twice, and you corrected fast both times. Keep
your helmet on now. I'll be talking to you from the blockhouse in five
minutes."

It was less than that. Apparently Dick Earle and the staff had the
control circuits warmed and ready.

Lipton's voice came through the phones. "Visual take-off, Rick. The
radar will pick you up at five hundred feet. I may overcontrol a little
until I'm used to the equipment, but don't let it bother you. Do not
take control yourself unless I give the word. There is one exception. If
we lose communication in anyway, take over at once and bring it in. Now,
repeat back."

"I will not take over controls, except on order from you. If
communications fail, I will assume control at once and land the plane."

"Correct. Now, switch on. Start 'er up."

Rick did so.

"Release all controls and sit back. I am now controlling."

"Roger. Controls are all yours."

Servomotors held the brakes and advanced the throttle. The plane turned
and taxied to the end of the runway. Rick sat there, trying not to feel
uneasy. Just the same, it was weird to realize that Jerry was handling
the plane from within the blockhouse.

"Take off. Here goes."

The roar increased and the plane picked up speed. Rick marveled as it
lifted smoothly and the wheels retracted. Then, almost before he
realized it, the plane had climbed and the earphones emitted, "I have
lost visual contact. You are now under control by radarscope."

The jet climbed rapidly, then started through a series of maneuvers.
Rick began to enjoy it. But the flight was almost over. "I'm bringing
you in," the pilot said.

The plane turned, leveled, and the throttle was retarded. The nose
dropped, in perfect alignment with the runway.

"You're off the scope and I have you on visual contact. Have faith, boy.
You're almost home."

Rick braced himself and waited for the shock of landing. There was none.
The jet skimmed along the runway, touched wheels, and settled so
smoothly he couldn't have said exactly when the plane touched down.

Lipton, Earle, and the staff came hurrying from the blockhouse. Rick
climbed down, pulling the helmet off hair that was swimming-wet with
perspiration.

Now the brains for winged horse had been tried and proved. Rick looked
at the great rocket, almost hidden by the crane and its equipment. Soon,
he thought. Soon Pegasus would make the payoff flight!




CHAPTER XV

The Open Hatchway


Pegasus was ready.

The dry run was over and only the final checkout remained.

At zero minus sixteen hours Rick stood at the base of the huge rocket
and looked up, studying every inch of it. He knew he would never have
the opportunity again.

About fifty feet up he could make out the smooth, stainless-steel
connecting ring where the second stage joined the first. Explosive
bolts, set off by one of the electronic circuits, would blow the stages
apart. The second stage, still carrying the final stage, would
accelerate away on its own motors until they, too, had consumed all
available fuel. Again, explosive bolts would destroy the connection and
the final stage would be on its own. The motors would flare briefly,
providing less than a minute's acceleration, then the final stage would
coast on its momentum to maximum altitude nearly three hundred miles
above the earth.

Not until the final stage started its downward plunge would Jerry Lipton
take over. His job, then, would be to control the plunging flight, to
use up the excess of energy by maneuvering the rocket into the
atmosphere and out, to prevent its burning up like a meteor. In slow,
careful stages, he would let it come lower and lower, until most of its
energy was used up. Then he would try to land it. The landing speed
would be terrific--nearly a thousand miles an hour.

Gee-Gee Gould came up and stood beside him. "It's a beautiful thing,
Rick. And it's ours. Yours, mine, Dick's, Frank's, Charlie's--it belongs
to every one of the crew."

Rick knew. It was _his_ rocket. If it worked, it would be because of the
care and devotion with which he had done his job. He knew others felt
the same, and they were equally right. All of them had built part of
themselves into Pegasus.

If it worked . . . Of course it would work! He sought reassurance from
Gee-Gee.

"It's going to be okay, isn't it?"

"Yes." Gee-Gee had no doubt. "Every piece of it has been checked and
double-checked. Even the inner workings of the critical parts have been
run and rerun. This is one rocket the Earthman never had a chance to
sabotage."

Rick nodded. He felt that way, too. The entire rocket had been checked
out by teams of never less than two. Each man checked the other's work
and both had to agree that all was in perfect order before the piece was
accepted and checked off. Each man had to account to a guard before he
could go to work. The system was foolproof. Now only the ultimate steps
remained, the final checks, the fueling, and at the very last, the
placement of the tiny spacemonk in his specially designed carrier.

"Let's go," Gee-Gee said.

They mounted the elevator and were whisked upward to the final stage.
Gee-Gee picked up his walkie-talkie from the rack. "Do you read me,
Dick?"

"Go ahead, Gee-Gee."

"Tell Jerry to go through checkoff."

Rick and Gee-Gee stood on the ramp and looked down at the ridiculously
tiny wings and watched the control surfaces move in response to Jerry's
gentle touch on the controls within the blockhouse. The drone control
was working perfectly. Rick felt a surge of pride. This particular part
of Pegasus was his.

The two went into the confined space in the nose. It was circular, the
structural members rising to a near-peak overhead. A radar unit blocked
out the tip of the nose cone. Under the unit a heavy steel channel ran
down to the side of the drone control. Fixed to the channel by heavy
springs was a tiny chair, complete with straps. The chair was festooned
with wires, unconnected for the moment. The wires terminated in
instruments that would sense every action, every response of the
spacemonk's body. The chair channel was pivoted, so the monk would
always be upright.

At Gee-Gee's order, Jerry Lipton ran through the check procedures again.
This time Rick and Gee-Gee carefully watched the functioning of each
servomotor. Finally Gee-Gee announced that he was satisfied. Next step
was to check the spacemonk's instruments' circuits.

Rick picked up a tiny stethoscope. It would be taped to the monk's body,
held tightly to his heart. He traced the circuit to where it disappeared
into the oscillator switch, then took the walkie-talkie. "Display on?
Checking the stethoscope."

"Go ahead," Earle replied.

Rick held it to his own heart for a few minutes, then tapped on the bell
with his forefinger.

"Looks good on the display," Dick's voice came back. "What did you hit
it with--a hammer?"

"Finger," Rick said. "Let's take a temperature next." He found the
thermocouple that would be attached to the marmoset's body, traced the
circuit to the oscillator, then called, "Watch my own body heat." He
tucked the sensing element under his armpit.

"Hotter than a pistol," Dick said.

"Why? Do I have a fever?"

"Not unless you're a monkey. Next?"

"Sphygmomanometer. And don't worry about the pronunciation. The
blood-pressure cuff." He traced the circuit, then inflated the rubber
and fabric cuff.

"You just had heart failure," Dick reported.

They continued work, checking the radar equipment, the photon counters,
cameras, the temperature-sensing devices, and myriad other instruments.
Each instrument would feed its information to the oscillator, through
the measurand transmitter and into the telemetering circuit, traveling
by radio circuit back to the blockhouse. In the blockhouse it would
appear in several forms. The information from the marmoset's instruments
would appear as a series of waves on continually moving strips of
special paper, in a machine called the display.

Finally Rick and Gee-Gee left the nose section and started to work down.
It was already dark outside. The nose section was finished. The
cameraman had arrived and loaded the cameras and departed. Now it
remained only to place Prince Machiavelli, which was among the very last
things to be done. Rick had hoped to carry the little monk to his seat,
but Frank Miller and Dr. Bond had been given that job. He and Gee-Gee
would be too busy with last-minute checks.

Gee-Gee was hard to satisfy. He told a guard, "Watch the nose section.
No one is authorized to enter now until the monk is placed at zero minus
thirty minutes." Then he led Rick across the desert to the blockhouse.

There were sandwiches and coffee on a table near the door. They helped
themselves, then went and stood behind Dick Earle, who was paired off
with Charlie Kassick.

"Punch up the nose section," Gee-Gee requested.

Dick ticked off the circuits as he pressed the buttons. One by one the
red lights switched to green. All were operating. Only then did Gee-Gee
nod his satisfaction. "Okay, Rick. Let's get back to work. Most of it's
done, but we still have some checking to do in the first and second
stages."

As they mounted the crane again Rick looked up at the festooned cables
that terminated in the nose cone. At the moment of firing, the cables
would drop off. After that, Pegasus would be on its own.

It was after dawn when the two emerged from the final check. The fueling
crews were already at work. The loud-speaker on the crane emitted, "The
time is zero minus twenty-five."

Gee-Gee departed for the blockhouse. Rick started after him, then as he
cleared the gate he saw Scotty. His pal was waiting patiently in the
jeep.

"Just wanted you to know I'm standing by," Scotty said. "You'll be in
the blockhouse, I suppose?"

"That's right. Where will you be?"

"Watching the warehouse. Luis is watching it now. I suppose some of the
security boys are, too, but I haven't seen them." Scotty's eyes traveled
up the great rocket. "It's a honey. Suppose the Earthman has got in his
licks?"

Rick shook his head. "Positively not. It's been checked out from nose to
fins, and guarded every minute."

Scotty started the jeep motor. "I'd better get out of here. Good luck."
The jeep roared off.

Rick turned for a last look at close range, and his eyes traveled up and
up, from the stabilizing fins past the wings to the nose cone. Pegasus
was ready. Then, he suddenly realized, the nose hatchway was still ajar.

That was strange. Prince Machiavelli should be installed in his seat by
now and the hatchway buttoned for take-off. Rick ran to the gate,
exchanged his badge for the special badge, and hurried to the crane. He
half expected Dr. Bond and Frank to appear in the hatchway, but neither
did.

"I'd better see," he muttered.

"The time is zero minus fifteen," the speaker stated.

Rick went up the elevator, hurried up the last few steps, and swung the
hatch open. He took the flashlight from his belt kit and swung it around
the interior. Prince Machiavelli blinked at him from a cocoon of tapes
and straps. The light hurt the monk's eyes. Rick clicked it off and
moved to the little marmoset's side. He stroked the tiny head. Why
wasn't the hatch locked? Someone must have forgotten something. He
walked over and peered through one of the two thick glass ports,
expecting to see someone coming up the crane, but there was no sign of
Dr. Bond or Frank.

Then, as he turned, the hatchway swung shut. For an instant Rick thought
it had closed of its own weight, then he heard the scrape of metal as it
was dogged down. Suddenly frightened he crossed the little room and
banged on it, but the thick metal gave no sound under his fists. He had
to make more noise! He lifted the flashlight to bang it on the door, and
in that moment there was a scream of metal from outside as the crane was
pulled away. He was locked in! Locked in the rocket! And it was ready to
fire!




CHAPTER XVI

The Board Shows Green


Even through the rocket's walls the sound of motors and the creak of
metal could be heard, and Rick knew that any slight noise he could make
would never be noticed.

Frantic, he ran to the thick port and looked out. Surely there must be
some way he could attract attention! The flashlight in his hand reminded
him. He aimed it through the port and flashed a rapid SOS, SOS, SOS.
Someone would see it! Someone must!

Frantically he flashed his SOS through the port, then ran to the other
port and began flashing there. Why didn't someone respond? Everyone
carried a flashlight. Why didn't someone think of signaling him that he
had been seen?

He knew the answer. He hadn't been seen.

The flashlight picked out his wrist watch. It was now zero minus five!
He stood at the port and kept flashing, his mind racing. Apparently
whoever had closed the door hadn't known he was inside. His light hadn't
been on at that moment. But it didn't make any difference now, because
he was locked in from the outside. There was no way of opening the
hatchway from inside.

Four minutes.

He had to think of something! Everyone was so occupied with last-minute
details that probably no one was even looking at the rocket. Besides, it
was light outdoors. His flashlight would be only a dim glow in the
rising sunlight.

There had to be another way. He forced himself to calmness. Approach it
logically, he told himself sternly. The way to do it is to signal the
blockhouse.

He studied Prince Machiavelli, looking for a clue in the spacemonk's
draping of instruments. He could tap on the bell of the stethoscope. But
then he realized the display would not yet be rolling.

He had a quick vision of Dick Earle and Gee-Gee watching the master
board, checking the circuit lights as they flicked from red to green.
The board must be nearly all green now, he thought--and in the same
instant he knew how he could attract attention.

Rick jumped to the center of the tiny room and crouched over the drone
control. He removed the cover. There was one circuit that served only as
a feed to the board, to show that the control was operative. Break that
and the board would show red.

His flashlight probed the maze of wiring and he located the signal wire.
Fishing into the spaghetti with his fingers, he got thumb and forefinger
on it and tried to break it. The wire held.

He fumbled in his belt kit and found a pair of side-cutting pliers. They
would do. He reached in and snipped the circuit wire, then he slumped
down on the deck and mopped rivulets of water from his face.

Close! He glanced at his watch.

Zero minus two.

He grinned foolishly. This would be something to tell his grandchildren.
Once, because of a silly mistake he came within two minutes of being the
first spaceman!

Prince Machiavelli was looking down at him, the furry little face
serious, like that of a very wise old owl. In the irregular light
through the ports the tufted ears made the spacemonk look even more
owl-like.

"At least I got you a little reprieve by saving my own skin," Rick said
aloud. "Poor little guy."

The marmoset chirruped happily, glad of the human companionship.

Zero minus one minute.

Rick wasn't worried about the passage of time. Not until the drone
circuit was thrown into operation in another thirty seconds would
Gee-Gee and Dick realize that it wasn't functioning. A yell would stop
Dr. Bernais, and the gantry would be wheeled back into place. Gee-Gee
and Dick would probably come personally to check the circuit and find
out why the board had shown red instead of switching to green.

Rick chuckled. What a surprise they'd get!

Fortunately, it would only take a few minutes to repair the signal wire
and clear out. Pegasus would be a little late--perhaps fifteen minutes.

Again his thoughts turned to the awful moment when the hatchway closed.
Now that he could think more calmly, he decided that whoever had closed
the hatch hadn't known he was inside. The interior was gloomy, and he
had switched his light off to keep it from shining in the marmoset's
eyes.

He still couldn't be sure why the hatchway had been open, but in all
probability Frank or Dr. Bond had simply gone down the gantry without
closing it, not realizing until they were down that the team responsible
for installing the spacemonk was also responsible for buttoning up.

There was no evidence of sabotage that he could see, so the open
hatchway was nothing but the kind of mistake people make when working
under extreme pressure.

Again he wondered about the identity of the Earthman. It was curious
that no evidence of sabotage had been found in Orion, even though the
theft of servomotors had taken place. Maybe, as Dr. Hiller had guessed,
the picture left by the Earthman had been burned. Anyway, Pegasus was
proof the Earthman wasn't infallible. This was one project he hadn't
been able to sabotage.

His eye caught the glimmer of white on the bulkhead behind the
spacemonk. He didn't remember that. He got up and walked over to it,
peering to see in the dimness. Then he remembered his flashlight and
focused the beam on the paper.

The blood drained from his head and he gasped. It was a sketch of a
knight in armor, lance upraised, thrust through a winged rocket!

Rick let out a hoarse yell.

In the same instant he heard a whine, a rapidly accelerating whine. The
pumps! The fuel pumps! The starting sequence had begun!

He looked at his watch, and saw that zero time was many seconds past.
But surely his watch was wrong. The board was red! Wasn't anyone
watching? He ran to the port and looked out at the deserted desert. He
was alone in the great rocket, and the fuel pumps were going. He could
almost picture the stream of boron hydride blending with the oxidizer
and flowing in an ever-increasing stream toward the combustion chamber.
He heard the scrape as the instrument cable dropped away outside.

Pegasus roared!

And Rick knew. He knew that somehow he had failed, that the board showed
green!




CHAPTER XVII

Weight, One Ton


Rick had no time to think. He reacted. He pulled off the jacket he had
worn against the chill of the desert night, and rolled it tightly. He
dropped to the deck and stretched flat on his back, the jacket tucked
under the back of his head and neck.

He put his hands flat on the deck and sensed the increasing shudder of
the great rocket. It was building thrust! Fuel poured into the
combustion chamber and fantastically hot exhaust gases flared from the
motor exhaust. And with each passing second thrust built up inside the
motor chamber.

When the thrust exceeded the rocket's weight, Pegasus would take off!

He knew it wouldn't be long. Seconds more.

The entire rocket screamed as vibration ran in torturing waves through
its metal skeleton and skin. It passed the point of discomfort and
became unbearable. Rick rocked his head from side to side, as though to
get rid of the shattering howl, but it tore at his head, at his stomach,
at his very skin.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he saw
that Prince Machiavelli had moved, downward. The powerful springs that
held his little chair were lengthening.

Air-borne!

Rick became conscious of weight. He was being pressed into the metal
deck by a mighty hand. It was hard to breathe.

Pegasus was not designed to accommodate humans. No attention had been
paid to limits of human endurance. It was all right for the marmoset;
his spring chair would take up much of the G forces. But Rick had no
padding at all, except for the thin jacket under his head. He had no
support but the metal deck, and before this was over his body would be
terribly distorted as forces many times gravity rammed him relentlessly
into the metal.

In spite of the horrifying scream of the rocket and the increasing
pressure, his mind was clear. The rocket was programmed to reach twelve
G during first-stage flight--twelve times the force of gravity!

First-stage flight would last slightly over three minutes. By then,
Pegasus would be nearly thirty miles up.

The pain began, the pain of tortured muscles and organs pressed slowly,
inexorably toward the deck as acceleration built up. Rick wanted to turn
over, at least to change the direction of pain, but he couldn't even do
that. He was spread-eagled on the deck now, his muscles unable to move
his increased weight.

Consciousness began to slip from him, and he fought against it. He had
to remain alive! He was going to!

For a brief moment he succeeded, then the grayness moved in like an
all-encompassing curtain.

Pegasus climbed into the blue sky, arrow-straight, still accelerating.
The seconds ticked away. For an instant, the accelerometer hovered at
twelve G, and slipped toward thirteen.

Rick was five feet, ten inches tall, and his weight was a constant
hundred and sixty pounds. The rocket reached maximum acceleration,
12.6g, and for that instant Rick weighed 2,016 pounds--slightly over one
ton!

Then . . . all burnt, fuel exhausted, the first-stage motor stopped.

The explosive bolts went into action. There was an explosion that made
itself felt in the skin of the rocket, and the grinding of metal as the
first stage detached.

Rick's battered brains swam back to consciousness. For an instant he
couldn't recall what had happened, then he realized he had survived the
first-stage acceleration. He was in bad shape, he knew. The salt taste
in his mouth was blood, and he was breathing bubbles of blood through
internal damage in his nose or lungs. But there wasn't time for
inventory. The aching silence was lost as the second stage fired.
Acceleration built again. This time Rick slipped into the enveloping
grayness almost at once. The acceleration was less, and the time of
burning was less. Had he not been put through the torture of first-stage
acceleration he could have taken the second stage without more than
great discomfort. But now he had little resistance left.

He came back to consciousness again as the second stage cut off. In the
welcome silence he found time to be thankful he was still alive, even
though it might be a temporary thing. He looked up at Prince Machiavelli
through bloodshot eyes and couldn't see the little monk. For a terrible
instant he thought he was blind, then he saw a glimmer of light through
the port. It was the sun. The rocket was in the wrong position to catch
it directly, however, and the atmosphere was far too thin to scatter
light.

He heard the second stage explode off and tried to brace himself for the
final acceleration. He made himself think. He was in a spot, a very bad
spot. The Earthman had sabotaged the flight. But how? The first two
stages had worked. Even if the third-stage motor never fired, the rocket
was high enough to prove out the project objective.

There was only one answer. Even to his fogged brain it was clear that
the drone control had been sabotaged by the Earthman. Otherwise cutting
the signal wire would have kept the board from showing green. Somehow,
the signal wire had been bypassed, to keep the operators from knowing
the drone control was inoperative.

The final stage fired and acceleration began once more. Rick fought it.
He tried to ignore the pain of the crushing, distorting weight and tried
to keep his mind on the problem. He failed.

Pegasus was no longer traveling straight out from earth now. The
gimbaled rocket motor swung slightly to one side and the rocket's
trajectory flattened. As it swung on the new course, sunlight glanced in
through the open port and into Rick's open, sightless eyes.

It was raw sunlight, unfiltered by the atmosphere. It was sunlight no
human had ever seen before. Even in his semiconscious state Rick
realized the danger and managed to shut his eyes. The sunlight seemed to
burn through the lids, to scorch the insides of his head. Then the
rocket moved along its new trajectory slightly and the merciless beam
shifted, blazed on the sketch of a knight in armor impaling Pegasus with
his lance.

Rick realized dimly that the terrible light was gone. He opened his eyes
and saw the spacemonk. It was as though someone had drawn layer after
layer of gauze between the boy and the marmoset, but he understood that
Prince Machiavelli was still alive, and in far better shape than he was.

The vibrating, paralyzing scream of the rocket suddenly cut off. Silence
flooded in.

End of burning for stage three!

Pegasus had altered course slightly, in response to its pre-set
mechanisms. Now it was on a course that would take it to the maximum
point into space, but at the same time would keep it over Scarlet Lake.
For a few minutes more it would coast on its momentum, slowing
constantly until it reached maximum altitude. Then, briefly, it would
hesitate.

Momentum used up, earth's gravity would again assume control. The rocket
would slip back, tail first, slowly, slowly, then faster and faster,
beginning the long, final plunge to the ground.




CHAPTER XVIII

Out of Control!


Rick came back to painful consciousness. He realized that the
acceleration was at an end. The torture of G forces was over, and
whatever happened from here on wouldn't compare with the past few
minutes.

He tried to sit up, and strained muscles reacted. He groaned with pain
and lay down again. Suddenly he realized he was no longer on the floor!

He hung in the air, as though by some weird magic, and tried to figure
out what had happened to him. Of course he was weightless! The rocket
was now in free flight, its inertia counteracting gravitational pull. He
would continue weightless until gravity took over again.

[Illustration: _Rick hung in the air, as though suspended by some weird
magic_]

It was comfortable, after the racking acceleration. He could have gone
to sleep easily, and almost did. Then the spacemonk chirruped at him
uneasily. The marmoset was feeling the odd weightlessness, too.

The chirrup brought Rick back to his senses. He wasn't in some marvelous
bed, he was in space! But natural forces still bound him to earth, and
mother earth would reclaim him with crushing, final impact within a very
few minutes.

He tasted blood. The Earthman had done this! His death would be on the
Earthman's head. He knew the drone control couldn't function, but he
didn't know why. He was only sure of one thing. The Earthman was a
member of the electronics department. Only someone who knew the drone
system intimately could have bypassed the control by wiring it so the
board showed green even when the control wasn't working.

Rising anger stirred him. With one trembling hand he reached out and
managed to hook the channel on which the marmoset's chair was hung. He
pulled himself erect. He had forgotten he was weightless. He kept right
on going until his head banged painfully on the bottom of the nose-cone
radar unit. The shock of pain, unlike the throbbing from the
acceleration, cleared his head and made him angrier.

Carefully now, he hauled himself down again. He patted the spacemonk as
he went by, an absent-minded, comradely gesture. He was intent on the
drone control in the center of the floor. The Earthman hadn't had much
time. Whatever he had done to sabotage the control must have been done
in a very few minutes.

Rick got into position, kneeling on the deck, steadying himself with one
hand. With the other he searched for his flashlight and found it hanging
from his belt. His head sagged, and had it not been for the
weightlessness he would have fallen forward onto the drone control. He
was in worse shape than he realized. Then, some inner warning signal
sounded, and he came back to consciousness with a start.

The startled reaction was enough to move him away from the drone control
and break his loose grip. He slid through the air back against the
bulkhead wall and felt the warmth that had not yet drained off into
space. It was the heat of rapid passage through the atmosphere.

He thought grimly that the heat would be much worse when the rocket
re-entered the atmosphere. Unless Jerry Lipton could somehow get
control, the plunging rocket would flame like a meteor.

He moved back to the drone control, using his hands as paddles. His
wrists were limp and his control was poor, but he made it. He had the
flashlight now, and he shot its beam into the maze of wiring.

The cut wire dangled, its end gleaming redly in the light beam. Cutting
the wire should have broken the circuit, but it hadn't. Why?

If the cut wire hadn't interrupted the circuit, that meant the circuit
had been bypassed. Rick was sure a signal had gotten to the blockhouse
somehow, showing that the drone control was operating.

He had it. Look for other cut wires. It didn't matter whether he found
the bypass circuit or not. The signal to the blockhouse wasn't important
for the moment, but getting the control back into operation was. He knew
the board must still show green down where Earle and Gould were sitting,
almost three hundred miles below.

Tracing the visible wires wasn't easy. There were dozens of them, and
they all looked alike. His head wasn't working and his eyes kept seeing
gray fog. Why, he knew this gadget by heart! He'd practically built most
of it, and he'd checked it out half a dozen times.

Something was wrong inside the control box, but he couldn't put his
finger on it.

He checked carefully, tracing the wiring with blurred eyes. Then, in a
moment of clarity, he saw it! Someone had put an alligator clip in the
box. It was clamping a wire to a terminal post. He shook his head.
Pretty sloppy work. It made no sense at all to use a clip on a permanent
wiring job. Who had done it? Didn't he know the clip was apt to vibrate
off during the flight?

The grayness slipped away again and he recognized the circuit. Of
course! He had found the bypass. The wire ran from the main, incoming
signal circuit into the master control circuit. The Earthman had done
this! What he had done was to feed the signal from the blockhouse right
back to the blockhouse over the check-signal circuit, completely
bypassing the drone control, which was still in operating condition but
which now could not get the signals to activate it.

Rick studied the control carefully. He had to restore the circuit, but
he couldn't for the life of him figure how to do it. Normally, before
the crushing acceleration, he would have recognized the difficulty in a
flash. Now his confused mind had to labor through steps that sometimes
took him off on a wild tangent.

The rocket was slowing rapidly now. It reached maximum altitude and
hesitated briefly.

One side of the rocket was brilliant with sunlight--raw, unfiltered
light not meant for human eyes. The other side was black. On the sunny
side, the rocket was heating from absorbed solar energy. On the dark
side, the heat was radiating off. But the radiation was less than the
absorption of energy, and the rocket was growing appreciably warmer.

For an instant the rocket paused, nearly three hundred miles above the
earth. The space frontier was below--almost halfway back to earth. Out
here was the vacuum of space.

Rick wasn't conscious of this. He wouldn't have cared. His whole
attention was focused on the problem of the drone control. He didn't
even realize the rocket had started the downward trip until he found
himself floating upward. Then, frantically, he hauled himself back down
to the control box, ignoring the stabbing pain in his stomach as he bent
over again, one leg wrapped around the small pedestal that supported the
control.

Strength was coming back to him slowly, his normal resilience overcoming
to some extent the beating his body had taken. The grayness had thinned
somewhat. He was less inclined to slip off into semiconsciousness.

Again he examined the circuit. The essential wire that fed the drone
control the signals from the blockhouse was clipped to the terminal
post. All he had to do was unclip it and reconnect it to the
drone-control input.

He couldn't control his fingers accurately yet, and he made several
attempts to pull the alligator clip off the terminal post. Finally he
made it, and sank back exhausted from the physical effort.

Far below, in the blockhouse, the indicator light on the control panel
changed from green to red. Circuit not operating! Those in the
blockhouse had no way of knowing that it had been out of operation since
before the take-off. To them, the sudden switch in signal meant
something had gone wrong in flight.

Rick vaguely realized that the light must have changed, but he didn't
think about it. Now he had to find the proper terminal for the input
wire. He should know where it was. He had wired this circuit himself.
But try as he would, he could not find the contact.

The rocket was accelerating rapidly now, and its flight pattern was
changing slowly. Instead of dropping tail first, it was canting to one
side. In less than a minute it would be entering the outer fringes of
the atmosphere, in the region where friction against air molecules and
atoms would start heating the rocket.

Rick's flashlight beam probed the innards of the drone control. The
place from which the input wire had been ripped must be within easy
reach. Otherwise, the Earthman couldn't have disconnected it in what
must have been a short time. For another thing, it had to be within the
length of loose wire, because the Earthman had simply disconnected it,
then reconnected it in another place.

He was thinking more clearly now. He poked the loose wire around,
careless of possible shorts, and his luck held. A dozen times the bare
wire tip brushed within a tiny space of terminals that would have
shorted out the whole control.

He found the terminal.

The wire had been soldered into place. The Earthman must have used a
pair of needle-nose pliers to reach in and jerk it loose. There was a
channel in the solder where the tip had rested.

Rick tried to replace the wire, but the area was too small for his hand.
When he had wired the contact originally, the chassis had been sitting
in the open on his workbench. Now it was encased in aluminum, except on
the top where he had removed the cover plate.

He was conscious suddenly of a faint hiss. It was so faint that he
didn't even notice it at first. Then, with sudden horror, he realized
what it was. The rocket was striking the atmosphere! There wasn't yet
enough air to act on the control surfaces. But soon the rocket would
enter the denser layers of air and the airfoils would take hold. The
rocket would turn over and plunge nose-down.

With the renewed energy of fear, Rick started to work again. He thrust
his hand into the box, tearing the skin on the metal edge. He couldn't
reach the terminal.

If he could only open the box in some way. But he couldn't do it with
his bare hands. He needed a tool of some kind. He started to search his
pockets and his hand brushed the kit at his belt. The pliers! He had
completely forgotten them. He shook his head, and sweat ran down the
sides of his face.

The rocket continued its rapidly accelerating fall, and heat built up,
even from the thin air at a hundred and twenty miles. At the rocket's
velocity of fall, Rick had less than two minutes to live. Pegasus was
approaching dense air that would heat its skin to incandescence.

With the pliers he tore at the side of the box and managed to chew out a
piece of the thin aluminum. Then he bent back the jagged edges and tried
again. The wire touched the terminal.

Now to hold it in place!

He searched through the tool kit again, but found nothing that was
useful for this purpose. The wire had to be locked in place fairly
tightly, or it would tear loose just from vibration.

Again he flashed the light around, noting absently that he could see
better. Light was diffusing into the cabin now that Pegasus had reached
lower altitude.

The light fell on Prince Machiavelli. The spacemonk was taped tightly.
Instruments were held to his shaven skin by surgical tape. Rick pulled
himself to the monk's side and found an end of tape. It held the
stethoscope. He pulled it free and the monk chattered at him excitedly.

"Sorry, boy," Rick muttered. The side-cutting pliers weren't the best
tools, but he managed to chew off a piece of the tape. It was ragged,
but it would have to do. Holding the piece of tape in the pliers, he
pressed it down against the wire, forcing the wire tip into its tiny
groove. Then he rubbed it with the blunt end of the pliers, trying to
get a good bond between the tape and the solder of the junction.

He drew back and waited. The connection was made. He knew that the rush
of air outside was louder, and he suddenly realized that the cabin was
very hot. Jerry Lipton would have taken over control long ago! Why
wasn't the control responding?

Rick fought down the fear that gripped at his throat and made breathing
hard. He couldn't panic! There must be something still wrong. But what
was it?

The flashlight beam moved over the maze of wiring, then stopped on the
coppery gleam of a cut wire.

Of course! When he had pulled the alligator clip, the board had showed
red. Jerry didn't know the controls were working!

Rick tried to reconnect the wire he had cut. The ends barely touched;
the wire had been tight. He couldn't hold contact.

Jerry had to understand that the controls were working. If only he had a
microphone, a key--anything with which to signal.

The heat was increasing rapidly. The temperature must surely be over a
hundred. Pegasus had reached the air again, and was falling out of
control!




CHAPTER XIX

The Unyielding Ground


Prince Machiavelli began to cry. He let Rick know he didn't like the
heat in a series of sobbing yelps.

Rick glanced up, surprised at the sudden noise, and flashed his light on
the monk. The little animal was suffering from the heat, the fur of his
head matted and his eyes staring. Dangling from his little chest was the
stethoscope Rick had ripped away to get the tape.

Rick stared at it. If only ...

He fought his body's tendency to fly to the top of the rocket and got a
firm grip with one leg around the channel under the spacemonk, then he
took the stethoscope bell and began to tap in Morse code:

T-A-K-E C-O-N-T-R-O-L T-A-K-E C-O-N-T-R-O-L.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the blockhouse, Charlie Kassick was watching the display with an
anxious eye. Suddenly the straight line--a reading of zero--that had
begun when the stethoscope quit functioning began to break up into a
regular pattern.

Charlie couldn't read Morse code. He only knew there was something
strange going on. He let out a yell that brought John Gordon jumping to
his side.

Gordon studied the strange pattern, a square wave shape, a blank, then a
peak followed by a square wave shape, a blank, then a square wave, peak,
and square ...

       *       *       *       *       *

Rick was still tapping when he heard the sudden whine of servomotors.
The rocket tilted but continued its fall, rushing toward earth while its
nose swung slightly upward. Then the airfoils took hold and Pegasus
began to climb once more.

Rick was flat on the floor, thrown there for a few seconds when gravity
became normal. He climbed to his feet again, fighting pain and weakness.
Jerry Lipton was flying Pegasus. It was a reprieve. The boy and the
marmoset had a chance after all, if the heat didn't get them. Rick could
feel his skin tighten, feel the moisture baking out of him.

He held on to the channel with one hand and found the stethoscope with
the other. Concentrating, he tapped out a message.

     E-R-T-H-M-A-N I-N E-L-E-C-T-R-O-N-C G-R-P H-E O-N-E O-F L-S-T T-O
     E-N-T-R R-O-C-K-T.

He signed his initials.

The rocket was dipping toward earth again, in accordance with the
landing flight plan. It was traveling nearly ten thousand miles an hour.
The speed had to be lost, and the only way to lose it was by friction
against the air. But uncontrolled friction would turn it into a meteor,
so Jerry was letting the heat build up by diving the rocket, then
turning it upward again in a long glide, where it could cool in the
outer fringes of atmosphere. Little by little it was losing its excess
of kinetic energy.

Pegasus went into the atmosphere again in a long, shallow, turning
glide. The heat built up until Rick's tense, weakened condition couldn't
tolerate it any longer. He slid to the floor, unconscious.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jerry Lipton had flown everything from small private planes to the
latest jet. He had directed drone planes into atomic clouds and on trial
bomb runs. But never in his career had he been faced with a piloting job
like Pegasus.

It had been difficult enough, with just the rocket to worry about. But
with Rick's life in his hands . . .

John Gordon and Gee-Gee Gould were standing by, relaying information to
the pilot. Jerry watched the shape on the radar screen climb to higher
altitude and asked, "What's his velocity?"

Dr. Bond was doing the calculations, based on the rocket's travel
through the radar beam.

"Just above five thousand miles an hour."

Jerry shook his head. "I can't keep him up there all day. How's the
temperature?"

Gee-Gee Gould consulted the temperature trace on the display.

"Cabin temperature is 105 Fahrenheit. The monk is in trouble, too. Skin
temperature is just about the same as the cabin. That means Rick is
running about the same."

"I'm going to cool 'em off." Jerry worked the controls and the angle of
ascent steepened. He asked, without taking his eyes from the scope, "How
much can he stand?"

The base physician was standing by. He had been summoned hurriedly. "It
depends on the time of exposure. He could take quite high temperatures
for a very short time."

"I'm worried," Gordon said bluntly. "He hasn't sent a signal since the
last one. He must be badly hurt. According to Cliff's calculations, he
pulled nearly thirteen G's on the ascent."

"He can't be in very good shape," the doctor agreed. "Can't you bring
him down any faster?"

Jerry Lipton shook his head. "The faster the descent, the higher the
heat. If the boy's already badly hurt, running his temperature up won't
help his condition any. I'm no doctor, all I can do is try to bring him
down in one piece, and that's tough enough for me. Decide, and I'll try
to follow your plan."

The doctor went into a consultation with John Gordon, Dr. Bond, and
Gee-Gee Gould.

"I see what Lipton means about bringing him down as slowly and smoothly
as possible," the doctor said. "True, he's probably in bad shape, both
physically and mentally, but we've no reason to assume any condition
that might be more dangerous than the high temperature."

John Gordon nodded. The Spindrift scientist wanted to assure himself
that the boy was all right. But that wasn't reason for taking a chance.
"I agree," he said.

Bond and Gould nodded agreement, and John Gordon passed on their
decision to Jerry Lipton.

"I think you're being wise," the pilot said. "Okay. Stand by, and I'll
do the best I can."

       *       *       *       *       *

Rick returned to consciousness slowly. He shook his head to clear it,
but the grogginess persisted. It was light inside the cabin. He could
see reasonably clearly, and he thought dimly that something was wrong.
Then he realized what it was. He was plastered against the side of the
cabin!

He realized that Pegasus was no longer a rocket, but a glider, traveling
in a horizontal position. One part of the wall had become the deck when
the rocket changed from vertical to normal flight. He saw the marmoset,
still upright, riding smoothly. The channel supporting the spacemonk's
little chair had moved as it was supposed to, changing position as the
rocket's aspect changed.

The port window nearest Rick was within reach. He hauled himself up. It
was like being in a plane. He looked down at the earth from an altitude
of about thirty thousand feet. He was almost there, and the rocket was
under control!

A wave of relief swept through him, and he sat down. He was going to
make it! The cabin was hot, like a closed attic on a hot July day, but
it was bearable. He got back to the port again and watched as Pegasus
turned in lazy circles many miles in diameter. The earth was coming
closer at a pretty good clip. He was almost comfortable now, knowing
that Jerry Lipton had the rocket under control.

Rick closed his eyes, for just a moment. But the moment stretched ahead
as his weakened body betrayed him. He didn't realize how much time had
passed until he opened his eyes again just as Pegasus pulled up into a
bank that sent the blood from his head and almost caused him to black
out again. But in that instant he knew he was on the landing approach,
and that his speed was far too great for comfort.

He had just enough sense left to take the proper precautions. He
stretched out on his stomach, feet to the nose of the rocket, and
cushioned his head in his hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pegasus flashed low over the hills at the end of Scarlet Lake and
touched earth at twelve hundred miles an hour. It bounced, then hit
again on the tricycle landing gear. The brakes were applied, gently at
first, then with all the strength of the servomotors. The deadly
velocity dropped off, but not fast enough. The runway was miles long,
but the rocket went over it and into the desert beyond. There was
nothing anyone could do.

Rick vaguely felt the smooth runway change to rougher terrain. He felt
the impact when Pegasus struck a hummock and tore off the landing gear.
He felt the rocket slow. Then it stopped--too fast! He went flying
forward, and he brought his arms up to cushion his head. He smashed with
stunning impact into the bottom of the nose radar set, and dropped into
infinite blackness.




CHAPTER XX

The Earthman


Rick came back to life briefly. He saw a patch of something white
overhead, and after much staring decided it was a ceiling. He turned his
head an inch and saw a festoon of rubber tubes and hanging bottles.
Thinking was too difficult. He closed his eyes and drifted off again.

When he again awoke the rubber tubes and bottles were gone. Grinning
faces were grouped around him. Some he recognized, others were
strangers. That was Scotty, and that was John Gordon, and that was Tom
Preston. The others were doctors and nurses.

Rick said, "So we got down in one piece."

"Not exactly one piece." John Gordon smiled.

Scotty asked anxiously, "How do you feel?"

Rick thought about it. He didn't really know how he felt. "Sort of ...
light. I'm floating." Probably he had been asleep for some time. "What
time is it?" he asked.

John Gordon gave a relieved chuckle. "Time sense returns. He's
improving. You should ask what _day_ it is, Rick. You've been asleep a
long time. Pegasus went up three days ago."

"I must have needed sleep," Rick said weakly. Questions crowded into his
mind. He asked the most important ones first. "How's the spacemonk? Did
you get the Earthman?"

"The Prince is fine," John Gordon answered. "Yes, Rick, we got the
Earthman. He gave himself away when we realized you were in the rocket.
Now, no more questions. We'll be back again tomorrow and the doctor says
we can talk more."

"Just one more question," Rick pleaded. He couldn't sleep without
knowing. "Who is the Earthman?"

"Frank Miller."

And that was it, for the time being. Not until he was improved enough
for Scotty and Gordon to spend most of the day with him did Rick get the
whole story. They brought the spacemonk. The little creature petted
Rick, then snuggled down and went to sleep against his side.

The landing had been cruel misfortune. The brakes were not strong enough
to take the strain put on them. Worried because Rick had not signaled
for a second time, Jerry had brought the rocket in faster than planned.
Pegasus had buried its nose in the foothills.

Rick had suffered an amazing variety of bruises, coupled with internal
damages, three broken ribs, and a dislocated right shoulder. On his
right arm he had a permanent scar as a memento of the landing. A metal
projection had given him a bad wound and cut an artery. He had lost
considerable blood by the time the first-aid team was able to get him
out and apply a tourniquet. He had also suffered concussion.

John Gordon described what had happened in the blockhouse.

"I just yelled your first message out loud. Jerry was staring at the
radar screen at the time. He reached over and switched the equipment
back on, then took control. At first we didn't know who was in the
rocket. Then we took a quick nose count. You and two or three others
were missing, but none of you had definite assignments, anyway. I was
pretty sure it was you, knowing your ability for getting into trouble,
but it wasn't until we got the message about the Earthman with your
initials that we were really sure."

"When did you find out Frank Miller was the Earthman?" Rick asked.

"Then and there. He let out a sort of funny cry, grabbed his stomach,
and fainted dead away. We brought him to, and he started crying that he
hadn't meant to hurt anyone.

"Dr. Bond asked him bluntly if he was the Earthman, and he was so shaken
I guess he didn't even think of trying to get out of it. He just nodded.
Gee-Gee Gould had him by the throat in a minute, and I think he would
have strangled him. But we got him off Miller and persuaded him to let
the law take its course.

"After Dr. Bond and Miller finished putting the monk in place and
started down, Miller said he had left his tool kit, and went back to get
it. He must have changed the circuit then. I suppose in his excitement
and fear of discovery he forgot the door. Later, he must have remembered
and went back to close it, not knowing you were inside. Dr. Bond blames
himself because he didn't stay with Miller."

Rick shook his head. "I can't understand it. Why would Miller do such a
thing?"

"Obviously, he isn't a normal human being, in our sense of the word."

"You mean he's insane?" Scotty asked.

"No. Not insane. He's what some people call a psychopath. He is not
morally responsible. In other words, he can't distinguish right from
wrong, as most people understand the terms."

"That explains why he was able to do those things," Rick agreed. "But it
doesn't explain why he became the Earthman and sabotaged rockets."

"We have a good explanation of that," John Gordon said. "It goes back to
some time ago when selection of personnel for the projects began. Both
Frank Miller and Dick Earle were professionally qualified to be
electronics chief of Pegasus. But of course professional qualifications
aren't everything. Miller was not well liked. Earle was given the
assignment because it was thought he could do a better job of getting
along with the staff."

"And Miller resented it," Rick said.

"Yes. That was natural enough. But because of his warped personality, he
went from a natural reaction to a psychopathic one. He decided to take
revenge. We don't know why he decided to call himself the Earthman,
except that he apparently saw himself as a shining knight in armor,
setting to rights the earth's wrongs--of course he meant the wrongs
supposedly done to him. Being a design engineer he was naturally
something of an artist, although his record didn't show any special
talent."

"But," Scotty objected, "if he doesn't know right from wrong, why should
he break up when he found Rick was in the rocket?"

Gordon shrugged. "Again, we can't be sure. My own opinion is that he had
a shock reaction. The reaction was partly physical, and he was in poor
physical condition. For another thing, Rick spoiled his beautiful design
for destruction."

"Where is he now?" Rick asked.

"In custody at Nellis Air Force Base, awaiting trial."

There was still much Rick wanted to know, but his conversation with
Scotty and John Gordon was interrupted. Gee-Gee Gould, Dick Earle, Dr.
Bond, and others from the project stopped by. Gee-Gee brought him a
medal, which he presented with proper ceremony. The staff had made it
from a scrap of ribbon and the name plate of Pegasus.

"We salute you, young Brant," Gee-Gee proclaimed. "You will be forever
recorded in our annals as the first, involuntary spaceman."

"Involuntary is right," Rick said, grinning.

"But, nevertheless, the first. Young Brant, we wish to bestow this small
token of our esteem. We regret only that the world can never cheer you
with us, on account of this being a classified project."

Dr. Bond shook hands with him. "Now that our hearts have come down out
of our throats, Rick, we're pretty proud of you."

Dick Earle shook hands, too. "You certainly saved the project, Rick,
even if by accident. If you hadn't been locked in, and able to get the
control operating, Pegasus would have crashed."

Later, when he had a chance to talk with Scotty alone, Rick asked, "How
about Mac and Pancho? Was anything stolen?"

"Mac and Pancho are still at large. Tom Preston hasn't let them know
they're in any way under suspicion. And, yes, stuff was stolen. This
time it was ionization chambers and photon counters."

Scotty had stayed in his position in the maintenance shop, where he
could watch the warehouses. Luis Hermosa had also watched, from the
firehouse. The janitor, Dusty Rhoads, had wandered casually into a
warehouse, pushing his cart. On orders from Preston the clerks were on
the job, instead of watching the shoot.

Then, fire had suddenly broken out in a small tool shed across from the
warehouse area. Luis had to abandon the watch to go to the fire, and the
clerks had all run out at the sound of the sirens. Whereupon, with
Scotty watching, Dusty Rhoads had emerged, pushing his cleanup cart in
front of him. He had even stopped to watch the fire being put out.

Scotty followed him, and watched Rhoads unload the stolen instruments
from his cart and dump them into the base rubbish pile. The janitor
covered them with other, noninflammable junk and went on about his
business.

"So you got the stuff back," Rick commented.

"Nope." Scotty shook his head. "It's still there."

"What?"

"Under day and night guard. From a distance, of course. Rhoads doesn't
know he was seen. Now Tom Preston is waiting for the next step."

"What's that?"

"Project Cetus shoots in two days."

The light dawned. "And you expect Mac and Pancho will get the stuff!"

"On the nose. Think you'll be around for it?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Rick said firmly.

He didn't miss it, although he was still too weak to be a participant.
Instead, with arm in sling and ribs still taped, he was allowed to
listen to the action in Tom Preston's office.

It started when Mac and Pancho picked up their radar unit in the
maintenance shed. They drove to a dark area behind the shed where Dusty
Rhoads was waiting with his cart. The stolen material was quickly
transferred, and hidden behind the equipment racks in the truck. Then
Mac and Pancho drove off, en route to Careless Mesa.

Dusty Rhoads put his cart away and started back to his barracks.
Security officers fell in step on either side of him. Dusty was
finished.

The gate reported by phone when Mac and Pancho went through, then there
was a long wait. Tom Preston, John Gordon, and Rick had an early
breakfast in the security chief's office. Just as they finished
breakfast, the communications outfit on Preston's desk buzzed.

"Playboy One to Playboy Base. Come in."

Preston thumbed his microphone. "This is Playboy Base. Go ahead."

"Deadrock here, Tom. They're coming up the mountain."

"Roger. Keep us advised."

The waiting again, then Deadrock called once more, excitement in his
voice. "Tom, there's another vehicle of some kind coming in from
Steamboat."

"Good! How are you fixed?"

"We can handle a regiment. Scotty is going down around the mesa to cut
them off in case they try to run for it. Hank is going down on the base
side. How important is it for Careless Mesa to track the shoot?"

John Gordon gave Preston the answer. "Not important enough to risk not
catching all of them. The other stations are tracking."

"Get 'em," Preston ordered.

"Right. Soon as it's a little lighter. We don't want one wriggling away
in the dark."

Rick looked outside. Dawn was just breaking. It would be light enough in
ten minutes. The ten minutes took an hour to pass. Then he had to wait
ten more, until Deadrock came back on the air.

"They're all yours, Tom. I fired a shot and they looked up. Then Scotty
and Hank fired over their heads from each side and they saw they were
trapped. They upped hands, polite as you please, and we moved in to put
the cuffs on."

Scotty elaborated later. Deadrock had waited until some of the stolen
goods had changed hands before firing his warning shot. That was for
purposes of evidence.

Pancho and Mac maintained a stony silence, but Dusty Rhoads was eager to
talk. The other two had threatened to kill him, he claimed, and had
forced him to steal. No one believed this, but Dusty's tale at least
showed the connection between Miller and the thefts.

Pancho had stumbled across evidence that Miller was the Earthman, Dusty
said. Dusty didn't know what the evidence was, and Pancho refused to
tell him. But when Big Mac heard about it, he accused Miller, and
promised to keep silent in exchange for co-operation. He demanded to be
told when a shoot was to be sabotaged. Miller agreed, in exchange for
part of the profits. Mac, Pancho, and Dusty had not participated in any
way in the sabotage.

The other men, who had captured Rick and Scotty at Steamboat, proved to
be well-known thieves with prison records. One admitted they had
depended on Mac and Pancho to tip them off to any trap that might be
waiting, but of course Preston had made sure no inkling reached Mac and
Pancho that they were under suspicion. For that reason, the thieves had
driven without hesitation to Careless Mesa to pick up the latest batch
of stolen equipment--and had received the shock of their lives.

Rick thought that the trail of the Earthman had been a pretty devious
one, complicated as it was by a gang of thieves as well as the saboteur
himself.

He wondered briefly if Miller's identity would ever have come to light
if he hadn't been trapped in the rocket. But the next moment he realized
it would have, eventually, because the thieves were known, and at least
the janitor would have talked.

Rick and Scotty still had their jobs. Both had done well in their
assigned work, and could have stayed on indefinitely. But in spite of
the temptation to remain for a while, the call of Spindrift was strong.

As Rick said, "It's nice to travel, but one thing that makes it nice is
that we can go back home."

A letter from Barby had made him a little homesick. Everyone was fine.
Dismal was lonesome. Jan Miller was back, with her parents. Dad was
worried because he hadn't heard from Tony Briotti and Howard Shannon,
but that was probably just the slowness of mail. Barby urged them to
hurry back and hoped they were finding life dull enough so they would.
She and Jan needed instruction in sailing, because they had just bought
a new Comet-class sailboat.

The boys said farewell to their friends at Scarlet Lake, not forgetting
Prince Machiavelli, and returned to Spindrift two days after the
successful Cetus shoot.

Back at Spindrift they spent their time instructing the girls in proper
sailing technique, but Rick still had to avoid exertion, and he couldn't
swim because his arm was still bandaged. Then, one day the Brants'
family doctor announced that he was fine, and a bandage was no longer
needed.

Barby looked at the scar on Rick's forearm and her eyes opened wide.
"Rick! That was a terrible cut! How on earth did you get it?"

He couldn't tell her the real story. He had been instructed by his
father not to mention it, even to Barby. "It was pretty exciting," he
said. "It happened when they let me fire a rocket."

"You fired a rocket?" Barby gasped.

"Sort of," Rick said. "I lit the fuse. I didn't jump back far enough,
though. The tail fin clipped me as it went by."

For a long while Barby wasn't sure whether Rick's story was true or not.
She didn't know whether the big rockets had fuses. When she found out by
questioning Dr. Zircon, she asked Scotty to remind her not to talk to
Rick for twenty-four hours.

But before the day was over, Rick was packing, in company with Scotty
and Dr. Zircon, for an emergency trip to the Sulu Sea. Their mission:
find two missing Spindrift scientists!

What happened during the search will be told in the next exciting book
of Rick's adventures: THE PIRATES OF SHAN.




_The_ RICK BRANT SCIENCE-ADVENTURE _Stories_

BY JOHN BLAINE

    THE ROCKET'S SHADOW

    THE LOST CITY

    SEA GOLD

    100 FATHOMS UNDER

    THE WHISPERING BOX MYSTERY

    THE PHANTOM SHARK

    SMUGGLERS' REEF

    THE CAVES OF FEAR

    STAIRWAY TO DANGER

    THE GOLDEN SKULL

    THE WAILING OCTOPUS

    THE ELECTRONIC MIND READER

    THE SCARLET LAKE MYSTERY






End of Project Gutenberg's The Scarlet Lake Mystery, by Harold Leland Goodwin