Hold Zero!

by Jean Craighead George

  “These wires,” said Steve pointing, “have microchips on the ends. They are attached to the engines, and when the current goes through them, they heat up, and zowie! Off goes the rocket! It’s that simple.”

  “I see,” said Officer Ricardo. Steve grinned. The officer leaned over the ignition panel. “Where did you get this?”

  “We made it,” broke in Johnny. “We all saved dimes and nickels from our lunch money and bought the kit—it only cost about four dollars.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s about all there is to it,” concluded Steve. The officer thumped the bags once more, looked closely at them, and pondered. Presently he returned to the launch pit and sat down on the rim, his feet inside.

  “Well, now,” he said seriously. Craig was glad to hear firmness in his voice, for it no longer implied that he thought they were playing with firecrackers or CCX cartridges. “Suppose the thing goes crooked and shoots off toward Blue Springs?” he said to Steve.

  “We have a relay radio device,” Steve said. “It’ll blow ’er up over the swamp if anything goes wrong.”

  “I see.” Officer Ricardo stiffened and stared at Steve. “Well, then,” he continued, “where will the rocket come down—on the school?—the shopping center?”

  Steve opened the equipment box and took out the drawings and diagrams. “It comes down here,” he said, and traced with his finger a triangulation of the flight on the map.

  The officer studied them. “May I have these?” he asked. “I’d like to show them to the chief and Mr. Brundage.” Craig pulled closer into the circle. It sounded as if the officer were coming over to their side.

  Steve showed him some more diagrams. Between each lesson Officer Ricardo dropped the papers onto his knees and stared at the dials on the door to Batta. Then he resumed his concentration.

  “Gosh, Steve,” he finally said, “I’m lost. I’m not the person to decide this. It’s too complicated.”

  “You don’t have to understand it,” insisted Steve. “You can see it’s safe. Even if it blew up on the launch pad, we’d all be behind mud barriers; and that’s about the worst that could happen way out here.’

  “I dunno, I dunno.” The officer shook his head.

  “Aw, shucks,” said Johnny. “It’s okay, Officer Ricardo, all you have to do is tell the chief that. We can vouch for it.”

  The officer smiled at Johnny. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make a report and take this into the chief and Mr. Brundage. They just might agree since it’s way out here.” He took out his notebook. “Now, let’s go through this again. How tall is the rocket?”

  Steve spoke more slowly this time. Craig listened and grinned at Johnny from time to time as his hopes climbed.

  At last Mr. Ricardo stuck his pencil in his jacket. “Is there anything else I should see,” he said, “before I decide to stretch out in the meadow for a week?” He yawned.

  “Would you like to see the powerhouse?” asked Johnny.

  “Sure.” He got up. “I suppose you’re going to tell me now that you generate electricity.”

  “Well, yes,” said Johnny. He brushed off his trousers and beckoned to the officer.

  Mr. Ricardo hesitated as he examined the cabin, but this time he did not even ask whether they had made it. Instead, he thumped the logs critically and went inside. Johnny explained the thermoelectric teakettle that converted steam into electricity. The officer listened quietly. Finally he mumbled, “I feel very old.”

  Half an hour later Craig helped Officer Ricardo onto the swamp buggy, and this time the big man sat down on the craft with confidence. They sailed gently back.

  Craig was tired when they reached the police car, but nevertheless he was eager for some reassurance. “Can we?” he asked brightly.

  The officer looked at him, reached in his car, and switched on his two-way radio. “Officer Ricardo to chief. Ricardo to chief. Over.”

  “Come in, Mission Firecracker. Well, what’s with the Roman candle department? Over.”

  “I don’t understand anything,” Officer Ricardo blared, “but we have an astonishment on our hands. Suggest Brundage form the committee. Over.”

  “Yeah? What’ve they done? Over.”

  “Get me a man with a Ph.D. in electronics and send him out here. There’s an instrument panel that’s so complicated I can’t even ask a leading question about it. Over.”

  Craig felt his stomach drop.

  “Come on in, Ricardo. Over and out.”

  Officer Ricardo switched off his mike. He leaned out the door. “I’ll look into it further,” he said. “And I’ll call you soon.” He winked at them. The tires spun on the gravel in the lane as the police car departed.

  “Well,” said Johnny, “I might as well go home and practice the piano, rake the yard, and join the drama club.” He turned and walked away.

  Craig watched him go. “He’s upset. He’s really upset. I can always tell. He’s gonna practice!”

  “Well, I’m not discouraged yet,” said Steve. “He did say he’d call us soon. And that means ‘go’ to me.”

  Craig looked at him sharply and saw that he was not as confident as his words sounded. Craig sighed and turned away. “So long,” he said to Steve. “See ya.” He walked up the steps and paused at the door. Steve’s voice followed him.

  “You and your animal inventions!” Steve said. “Our famous panel flubbed the whole thing.”

  Craig shrugged his shoulders and went through the door.

  6 THE LARGE MEN

  PHIL CAME TO SCHOOL on Monday with a heavy heart. He decided to avoid his friends. He had no desire to talk about the awful week end and the consequences of his telling his father they were about to launch a rocket. As he came around the corner of the building, however, he ran into Craig, whose mother was letting him off at the front door. Craig ducked him, ran up the steps, and pushed through the swinging door.

  Phil watched him go, and although it hurt, he guessed he deserved it. Phil was a year older than Craig and Johnny, and he had grown rapidly the past winter. He was a head taller than Johnny and he had discovered that this added height was excellent for expressing his state of mind. He could roll his shoulders over to make himself smaller when he felt hurt or angry, or he could lift them and swing them wide when he felt good. At this moment his shoulders curled forward.

  At three o’clock as he was leaving his locker he heard his name called. He turned and saw Craig. Phil wondered what he should say, but he didn’t have a chance to think it out.

  “Listen, Phil,” Craig said, “you better beat it straight home today. Officer Ricardo’s coming to see your father. He inspected the rocket, you know.”

  “Whatdidhesay?” Phil was hungry for his friends and for news of their project.

  “Well, sort of ‘yes’ and sort of ‘no.’ Anyway, he called Mom this morning to ask her how she felt about it all. Said he was gonna see your dad this afternoon.” Craig paused. “Sorry I ducked you this morning. But it’s just so durn embarrassing to be brought to school by Mom. I was trying to make it to the bushes so no one could see me when you came along.” He grinned sheepishly.

  “I understand,” Phil mumbled. “We all got our problems.” He straightened up and slapped Craig’s shoulder. “Thanks for the headlines about Dad. See ya.” And he ran to catch the bus.

  As Phil hurried toward his house from the bus stop he saw Officer Ricardo’s car parked outside. The officer was standing on the lawn under the gold hickory tree. Stippled light fell on his shoulders. He was staring at the big brick and clapboard house set against the far side of the northern ridge that cradled the marsh.

  “You know,” Officer Ricardo said as Phil approached him, “coming to your house about a rocket seems a little silly at this point.” He looked up at the wide lawn and the trimmed bushes. “When I was a kid I grew up on the streets of the Bronx. We exploded firecrackers, ran between cars for balls, played jokes on the local merchants, and outran the cops whose dut
y it was to catch us and bring us to justice—by the ears.”

  Phil didn’t quite understand. “You mean you’re here to arrest us?”

  “No, not at all, I don’t mean that,” the officer said. “I mean, so far nobody has done anything, so I don’t know why I’m here. I’m acting like a mother, not a cop.” He turned as if he thought he would go back to his car.

  “Please, sir,” Phil begged when he saw him start away, “talk to Dad. Tell him that the rocket is safe. I sure want the fellows to put it off after the mess I’ve gotten them into.”

  Officer Ricardo took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. He scratched the side of his round nose and rubbed his jaw. “All right. I’m this far. I guess I’ll at least talk to your father.”

  Phil opened the front door. “Dad!” he called toward the library. “Police Officer Ricardo is here.”

  Mr. Brundage was tall, big-boned, and, at this moment, expressionless. As he came forward he seemed to Phil to be wading an ocean of reluctance.

  “Good day,” he said, looking the officer over. “I like a big man,” he commented as they shook hands.

  Phil was surprised to notice that his father’s eyes were level with the policeman’s. It gave Phil a strange feeling to see his father in scale with another man. Even his father’s gestures, which always seemed forceful and big, were modest enough as Officer Ricardo swung off his cap and barn-doored into the living room. Phil watched him sit down in one of the ample chairs.

  The officer squared himself in the chair, leaned over to examine its structure, and said, “Comfortable. I’m glad to see someone else knows how to buy chairs.”

  Mr. Brundage’s face lighted in appreciation of their common problem. Phil thought perhaps they might get along. He sat on the stairs.

  “What I can’t understand,” Mr. Brundage began to a boom, “is how these boys got a rocket assembled and ready to fire without anyone knowing about it.”

  “Well”—Officer Ricardo scratched his head—“the funny thing about it is that almost the whole town is involved one way or another. I don’t think any of the people who helped knew they were helping, but there were teachers, merchants, laborers.”

  “Teachers, merchants, laborers?” echoed Mr. Brundage. “How did they get into it? Why wasn’t I called? After all, my own son was involved.” He stood up and began to pace back and forth. “Rockets are dangerous. States are trying to outlaw them.” His feet pounded an emphasis to his words. “I sat on a committee of statesmen and scientists in Albany three years ago. And they were all crying to the pulpit and the press to help end this. I gave several sermons on the dangers of dry fuels and kids.

  “And now—here is my own son, and a bunch of his uninformed friends, making a rocket right here amongst us. And behind my back. Officer, how could such a thing happen in this community?”

  Officer Ricardo, Phil observed, was studying the path that his father was carving in the rug. “Us big men,” the officer said calmly, “sure can be hard on the carpets.”

  Mr. Brundage paid no attention. He went on, in a voice that got louder and louder. “In this town where kids have everything—friends, things to do, excursions, gadgets, everything—they go out and make an instrument of destruction. Why? Tell me, why?”

  “Well, I will,” the officer finally shouted back. He got to his feet and looked the minister in the eyes. “If I may! They wanted to do something on their own—without so durn much supervision. That’s why!”

  He snapped his arms over his chest. Phil could see that the doubts Officer Ricardo had had when they spoke on the lawn had been replaced by a definite stand on the matter. He was with them.

  Mr. Brundage dropped his head. “I know,” he said, “I know. I guess it’s no worse than when we were kids setting off a batch of Roman candles behind the barn.” He plunged into a chair. “Let’s have the facts, Officer. What did you see?”

  “A three-stage booster rocket,” Officer Ricardo said, reading his notes, “an ignition control panel, a nose cone, a thermoelectric teakettle, and a vast instrument panel. Vast. And, oh,” with a deadpan face, “the balsa nose cones that you helped to carve.”

  Phil’s father pulled forward in the chair. “I helped to carve nose cones? Never in your life.” He leaned back.

  “That’s what the boys said.”

  “Phil!” boomed Mr. Brundage. “Come here!”

  Phil rose stiff-kneed from his listening post on the stairs. He ran his fingers through his tight brown curls and flared his nostrils to give his face a harder look. His shoulders rounded unconsciously as he came down the steps and walked up to his father.

  “Officer Ricardo tells me I carved cones for this rocket,” his father said sternly.

  “Yes. You did.”

  “When, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Last Christmas vacation. You were teaching me how to use a knife and to whittle away from my chest. We were copying nose cones out of that manual. Remember?”

  “Yes ... I do ... but nose cones for a rocket? That was only a joke, a little example to try the blade on. It wasn’t anything serious.” Mr. Brundage laughed unconvincingly.

  “I took it seriously,” said Phil. He was beginning to feel anxious again as he faced his father.

  “Is this how the whole thing got built? I mean, didn’t anyone know what you all were putting them up to?”

  “We weren’t putting anyone up to anything. I asked you if we could carve cones for a rocket and you said ‘sure, that would be very constructive.’ In fact, you said we’d carve the best nose cones in the nation!”

  “Hmmm, sounds like me. When I don’t think about what I’m doing I say things I don’t mean.”

  “No, you don’t,” Phil insisted. He had never before heard his father say such a thing. “I asked you to teach me how to use a knife on balsa nose cones. And you did. And I used them.”

  “Yes.” The minister pondered. “Nevertheless, it’s another matter now. Twenty-four engines! And what about all those instruments on the panel? What do they do?”

  Phil rubbed the side of his leg and wondered what instrument panel. He could only guess that Officer Ricardo had been impressed by the fire control panel. “Well, that’s what launches it and makes it safe.”

  Phil could see that whatever he had said had perplexed the officer. His eyes were widening and his mouth was pursing into a whistle. “All I can say,” Officer Ricardo announced, “is that that rocket must be a humdinger to need all that control.”

  Phil could feel his father tense at those words. The muscles along his jawbone rippled and his lips tightened, a family forecast of trouble.

  “Phil!” his father said, “do you know about the tensile strength of the metals you’re dealing with? What do you do if it goes off course and heads toward homes?”

  His face was stern. “Can you trace it? Can you say the metal will not explode?”

  Phil ran his hands through his curls and shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “Well ... it’s not met—”

  “Who’s tested it?”

  “Well, us,” Phil said tentatively.

  His father glared in astonishment.

  “No one,” Phil whispered.

  “No one!” his father boomed. “And do you think you can set this off?”

  Phil began to stutter. This made him angry, for it always gave the advantage to his opponent in an argument.

  “And you, too, Officer Ricardo,” said Mr. Brundage, turning to face the officer. The minister was angry now.

  “Now, just a minute, Mr. Brundage,” the policeman shouted as he rose from the big chair. “I’ve seen this thing. It’s an accomplishment!”

  “And you think you are able to judge metals and heats and velocities, Mr. Ricardo?”

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

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

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

  “I’ll call them tonight.”

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

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

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

  “I am fully aware.”

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

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

  7 FOGGED IN

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

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