Hold Zero!

by Jean Craighead George

  They ate an early dinner and wandered outside to look at the rocket. “She’s beautiful,” said Craig admiringly. “She’s just right!”

  “She’s gotta go off,” said Phil, then added, “and she will!”

  Briefly they wrestled in the grass, then picked the leaves out of the command station and launching pit. Finally Craig gathered a tin can of hickory nuts. He cracked them and passed them around, occasionally contemplating a frog pressing itself into the mud for winter.

  When it grew dark and he could no longer see, Craig sat up in the grass and looked toward the town. “I don’t hear any sirens,” he said. “I wonder if they know we’re missing?”

  Phil listened. The wind sang in the hemlocks and tapped the dry willow limbs together. “Let’s turn on the receiver. We can listen to the news broadcasts about us.”

  Down inside Batta Craig felt a little sorry for himself as the four lights lit the bunks and bounced off the chrome of the receiver. He wasn’t even missed.

  Phil dialed the local radio station. There were no station breaks for an emergency, no frantic bulletins. Craig walked to the invention table, picked up one of the short-range walkie-talkies assembled from kits, and flipped it on.

  Johnny changed the battery in another. He said they were going to need them to talk to each other when everybody came out to launch the rocket and he wanted his perfect.

  The news came on. They rushed to the transceiver. The Security Council of the U.N. was meeting, a local man had won some award, and the Blue Springs football team had lost a game. Craig listened intently until a commercial came on, then he turned down the volume.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  Phil walked to the far wall and contemplated the convoluted water clock that hung there. “It’s stopped,” he said and glanced at his watch. “Seven o’clock. Too soon to be missed, I guess.”

  He picked up the glass cylinder on which were marked the minutes and hours and emptied the water into the bottle reservoir near the ceiling. He left enough water in the cylinder to read seven o’clock, then replaced it at the mouth of the twisted and looped glass tubing. He watched a drop of water leave the reservoir and make its way around and down the labyrinth. It fell into the cylinder. A second later another drop followed it. The clock began to drip off the seconds and minutes.

  Phil contemplated his creation. He had made it at home last winter, sitting for twelve hours to check it with the electric clock on the wall. When the drip was perfect, he had gingerly carried the whole contraption to Batta where everyone had helped him secure it to the wall. It was a great success, and off and on during the past year as they had sat at the worktable, some one would make suggestions for improving the glass wonder. They were only suggestions, however. The clock was splendid just as it was.

  When it was set, Phil joined Craig and

  Johnny on the bunks. Craig ran his fingers over the book collection. Nothing appealed to him. “Let’s make comic books,” he said. “We haven’t made any in a long time.” Johnny thought that was the only thing to do and got out notebooks and pencils.

  He licked the point of his pencil and said, “Think I’ll do another episode of MXIGR Smith.” He began to draw. Craig watched him. “I’m gonna do Steve, the Ladykiller.” No one laughed.

  “Do some more about the bean factory in Andromeda,” said Phil. “That’s not so irritating.”

  Craig watched Phil draw a balloon to the mouth of a fish, then ran his hand over the open page and went to work.

  An hour passed. The news came on again. They jumped from the bunk to listen. It was almost a repeat of the seven o’clock news. The boys returned morosely to the bunk.

  “You’d think someone would have looked in the tub by now,” said Phil. “The last thing I said was that I was gonna take a bath.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Johnny. “You might be drowned. And who’d care?”

  The water clock dripped on. Johnny fished the basket of food to his bunk and took out some crackers.

  “Time to exchange,” Craig said and everyone yawned, stretched, and passed the books around.

  “Ha, ha!” Johnny roared.

  Craig leaned over his shoulder to see what he had done to make Johnny laugh. “What’s funny?”

  Johnny pointed to the heroine, a worker in the Andromeda bean factory. She was dressed for a dance, her chipmunk face frowning, her starfish body struggling against the upside-down position that weightlessness had caught her in. Her balloon read, “I’ll never be able to dance with that divine Steve, the foreman, if I don’t find my antidrifting rocket.”

  “Serves her right,” said Johnny.

  “Wait’ll you see the rest,” Craig chuckled. “Turn the page.”

  Johnny turned the page and rolled onto his arm with laughter. She had drifted against an ellipse, one of the curved lines that made up her house. “Help!” she was saying. “I’m stuck on the locus of all the points, the sum of whose distances from two fixed points are called ‘foci.’ ”

  “That’s great.” He laughed harder.

  Craig turned happily back to Phil’s book. Presently he began to laugh. “Howdidja think of this spy outfit—American Unit for Nosecone Tracking?”

  Phil rolled his tongue against his cheek. “Like all those big agencies get their names. First I thought of a word—aunt—then I fitted the names to it.”

  Craig glanced at his friend and grinned. “You’ve got insight.”

  “Johnny,” Phil said after a pause, “I like this part where MXIGR plans a helium camp-out during the International Year of the Quiet Sun. Nice thought.” They finished and exchanged. Finally everyone had read everything. Johnny rolled onto his back. “Let’s go outside,” he suggested. “Maybe we can hear the police sirens and see the searchlights.”

  “Yeah,” said Phil enthusiastically. “That’s it. They’re still searching and don’t want to broadcast the news until they find us.”

  “ ’Course,” answered Craig and followed the racing Johnny up the steps and into the moonless night. But there were no searchlights above the town, only a dome of stars and a single plane blinking into the suburban airport.

  “Didja hear something?” whispered Johnny. “Listen!”

  There was a quack in the night, followed by the beat of wings on the water. “Snapping turtle after a duck,” Craig said. “No,” said Johnny. “Not that—the siren sound.” Craig listened harder. A far-away note reached his ears. “Night heron,” he answered.

  “Oh.”

  Craig jumped for a dark branch and swung on it. Phil picked up a stone under his foot and threw it over the water. It took a long time to plop.

  “Aw, let’s go to bed,” Johnny said. “We’ll need our wits in the morning when the committee comes.”

  As Craig crawled onto his bunk he moved too vigorously. His foot struck Johnny’s back.

  “Quit it!” Johnny shouted and struck him.

  Craig hit him back. “What’s eatin’ you? I didn’t mean to.”

  “Aw, you’re always actin’ like a blundering bear or some nature thing,” Johnny muttered irritatedly.

  “Oh, shut up!” yelled Phil. “We may be here for a long, long time. You’d better not start fighting now.”

  Craig switched out his light and put his head down. Johnny’s light went out, then Phil’s. He listened to the drip of the water clock until he finally fell asleep.

  12 THE DECISION

  SATURDAY MORNING DID NOT dawn in underground Batta, so the boys slept late. Craig was startled to consciousness when he nearly rolled off the bunk. “Hey! It’s late.” He stood up. “The water clock’s stopped.” It had dripped to seven and emptied the reservoir. It was 8:15 by his watch. He awoke Phil, who jumped down from the rock and sleepily poured enough water in the reservoir to reset it. “Eight-seventeen!” he bellowed. “Everybody up!” Craig hopefully turned on the receiver. A commercial extolled the virtues of a shampoo.

  Johnny opened his eyes. “Any news?”

 
“No,” said Phil. “Not even a siren.” He lit the stove. “I think they’re all so busy they still don’t know we’re gone.”

  Johnny was washing his face. “It sure doesn’t make you feel very important, does it?” he said. “Let’s go up and see.” He ran up the stairs.

  Craig hopped behind him.

  The morning was bright and clear. A flock of crows screamed fiercely as they chased a marsh hawk across the water. He listened to the blackbirds chirp peacefully along the marsh edge. “No one’s beating the bushes,” he said. “The birds are too calm.”

  “Boy, nobody cares a hoot, do they?” said Phil.

  “They sure don’t.”

  They wouldn’t even care if we shot the durn rocket. They wouldn’t even know.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” agreed Johnny vehemently.

  “They just don’t care,” said Craig, “so why don’t we set it off?”

  There was a long pause. Phil turned slowly to Craig. “Yeah—why don’t we set it off? We’re never gonna get permission anyway. Who’s to know?”

  “No one.”

  “Fellows,” said Johnny, “this is it!”

  “Yeah,” Craig said thoughtfully. “This is it!”

  Johnny ran for the equipment box, Phil went into Batta for the battery to spark the ignition panel. Craig rolled back the covering on the rocket and checked its angle of fire. He took a countdown sheet out of the equipment box and laid it on the ground before him. “T-minus twelve,” he began nervously. “You know, this isn’t our latest countdown. Steve’s got the new one.” Phil looked over his shoulder. “Oh, well, it’ll work, and it’s less elaborate. Let’s use it.”

  The three boys worked quietly getting the parts in order. Suddenly the silence was ended by a blast of sound.

  “Boys, are you there? Boys, are you there? This is Chief Nelson.” The voice was amplified by a battery megaphone.

  Slowly Craig stood up and stared at Johnny. “Now whatta we do?”

  “This is it!” said Johnny grimly. “The dickens with ’em.”

  Craig worked faster. Phil secured the wires to the ignition panel.

  “Boys, are you there?”

  Johnny took the engines out of their wrappings.

  “I’ll read the countdown,” shouted Craig.

  “T-minus twelve. Pack flameproof recovery wadding into the body tube. Insert the parachute ... or ... ” he turned to the others, “the Batta banner. Do we have time for that?”

  “No,” said Phil.

  “Boys!” The voice was a woman’s, Phil’s mother. “This is ridiculous. Are you there? Phil, come in this minute.” Phil took a few steps toward the voice, then Craig saw him gather his courage and step back.

  “T-minus eleven,” Craig shouted. “Insert engines.”

  Johnny placed the twenty-four engines in position.

  “Craig! John! Phil.” It was Steve’s voice. “Come in. The committee will meet. If you’re coming in give a blast on the transistor. If not, give two.”

  Johnny picked up the small radio and glanced at his friends. “Is it two?”

  “It’s two!” shouted Phil.

  “This afternoon’s too late,” snapped Craig. “Besides, looking at it doesn’t mean they’ll let us put it off.”

  “Right!” Phil answered.

  Johnny turned the transistor radio as high as it would go. It let out a jazzy wail. He turned it down. A second later he turned it up again. Craig got out the payload.

  “All right, boys.” It was Mr. Brundage. “We’ll give you a count to ten, then we’re coming out.”

  Craig sensed Phil hesitate, but Johnny dusted off the microclips. “T-minus ten. Check microclips,” Craig shouted.

  The megaphone on shore blared, “One, two, three...”

  Craig picked up the safety code. “I will launch my rocket,” he read, “using a launching rail system or other suitable guide means aimed within twenty-five degrees of the vertical to assure a safe and predictable flight path, and will launch only those rockets whose stability characteristics have been predetermined.” He turned to Phil. “Are we okay?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Four, five ... ”

  “T-minus nine. Install the nose cone or payload section. Check the condition of payload. Did we?”

  “Sorta,” replied Johnny.

  “Six, seven, eight ... ”

  Johnny kneeled in front of the rocket, clips in his hands, waiting for the next count.

  “Nine, ten! We’re coming out.”

  Craig stopped the count as the roar of a motorboat stood him on his feet. He lifted the paper to his face, “T-minus eight. Install nichrome igniter in the first-stage engines.” He heard the boat coming nearer.

  “It’s go,” whispered Johnny and ran to the command center to get behind the barricade. Craig glanced at the shore and followed him.

  “T-minus seven,” he read nervously. “Clear the area, check for low-flying aircraft. Alert recovery crew and trackers.” He scanned the sky. Nothing was in sight but a low-flying crow beating west of the spruce trees. “I’ll hafta be recovery crew and tracker,” he said. “Durn Steve for getting messed up with a girl. There’s a lota work to this.”

  “Aw, we can do it,” said Johnny. “We’ve practiced a hundred times.”

  “T-minus six.” Craig saw the motorboat through the willows. Four men and Steve were in it. He read on. “Arm the launch panel!”

  Johnny’s hand trembled slightly as he put the key into the ignition switch. Then the speed of the boat motor was checked for a landing.

  “T-minus five.” Craig reached for the altiscope under the shelf. He remembered that originally they planned to check the altitude of the flight with this instrument. He placed it near him.

  “Wonder where they got the motorboat?” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter. ’Stoo late,” shouted Phil.

  “T-minus four.”

  “T-minus three.”

  “Hold!” shouted Johnny. “They’re coming to the island through the range area.” Craig waited. He heard the boat bump the wharf.

  “They’re okay now,” shouted Johnny.

  Feet sounded on the wharf, voices rose, and Steve broke into the meadow on a dead run.

  “Watch it!” Craig shouted. “T-minus two!”

  Steve ran on. His face was angry. “Don’t you dare!” he shouted. “Don’t!” He leaped past the rocket and skidded into the command center.

  “Are you crazy? You’re gonna spoil everything. They’ve come out to inspect it!”

  Craig saw Johnny’s hand drop from the switch, and he slowly crumpled the countdown sheet. Phil said shakily, “Is my dad here?”

  “Yes, and yours too, Johnny. And Mr. Smith and Officer Ricardo.”

  “Now whattawegonna do?” asked Phil.

  “Take that thing apart while I divert the committee,” snapped Steve.

  “How are you gonna divert them?” asked Johnny, his voice wavering.

  “With Batta! I’m gonna have to show them Batta while you get that rocket disassembled.” He turned away angrily and ran toward the men who were lingering along the path, looking at the trails and buildings. Steve stopped and called back, “And I don’t want to, but you guys have asked for it.” He stormed away.

  Slowly Craig and Johnny unhitched the wires. Phil took the engines out of their casings. Through the woods Craig heard Steve say, “I think you’ll understand what we’ve done if you come this way first.”

  13 THE COMMITTEE

  THE ROCKET WAS DISASSEMBLED, the parts returned to their boxes. Craig sat down on the edge of the launch pit and put his chin in his hands. The excitement had drained him and he felt tired. Phil apparently felt the same way for he took a deep breath and pushed back his damp curls. “And now, for my father,” he said weakly.

  “I think we’re in trouble,” said Johnny.

  “We can still get in the swamp buggy and get out of here,” said Phil. “There’s a train north at eleven o’clo
ck.”

  “Let’s,” said Johnny, and he jumped to his feet. Craig folded and unfolded his arms. “What I can’t understand—” he was not listening to the new plan “—is what’s so wrong about what we’ve done. We’ve only built a rocket and tried to get someone to approve it so we can put it off.”

  Phil sat down. “Yeah, what’ve we done?”

  “We haven’t done anything,” said Johnny. “So what’re we afraid of?”

  “Nothing,” said Phil. He stood up, but his shoulders did not straighten. Slowly he walked toward Batta.

  Craig and Johnny followed him. The door to Batta stood ajar. A blue jay sat upon it, cracking a nut.

  Halfway down the steps, Craig hesitated. The room below was ominously silent. But it was too late to turn back. Slowly he followed Phil.

  “Hi, son!” said Mr. Brundage brightly, his great figure curled to avoid the ceiling. “This is some gadget you made.” He pointed to the water clock. Craig could see that Phil was relieved. He grinned, then walked slowly toward his clock.

  Craig glanced at Officer Ricardo and Johnny’s father. Neither seemed angry, he thought. In fact, Officer Ricardo had an I-told-you-so look on his face. He was rocking on his toes. Craig studied Mr. Smith. He, too, looked pleased.

  “One problem with it,” Phil said to his father, “is that it needs an alarm to wake me up when it runs out of water at night. But I think I know how to do it.” He was talking fast. “I’m gonna put a wooden spool in the reservoir; like this, with a string tied to it and two paper clips on the end of the string. As the water falls, the spool falls; but the paper clips come up. They hit a copper circuit when the thing’s empty. The circuit’s gonna be connected to a buzzer. It’ll go off and wake me up.”

  “That sounds good,” Mr. Brundage said. “I think that ought to work beautifully.” He turned to Johnny’s father with a prideful grin. “Don’t you?”

  Johnny’s father nodded and picked up a walkie-talkie. He flicked it on. Johnny took another and said, “Hi,” then switched it off.

  “The boys made these,” Johnny’s father said to Mr. Brundage. He nodded. Soon every man was asking questions and as they did, the story of Batta unrolled: its discovery, its evolution.