He refreshed his mind on the construction. Each tube, he recalled, was two and a quarter inches in diameter. He studied the first-stage rockets. There were six tubes, fifteen inches high, including the nose cones that Phil and Mr. Brundage had carved. He chuckled as he recalled how that had only been a whittling demonstration.
“The six first-stage rockets,” he said aloud in his best lecture tone, “surround the thirty-two-inch second and third stages.” He thought he ought to explain how an inner tubing extended down an inch to make a snug connection between stages two, three, and the payload capsule. He rehearsed the description.
Now, he thought, how do I tell them about the engines? “There are three engines apiece,” he said out loud, “in the six first-stage boosters. Each has a three-point-five-pound thrust, giving a total thrust of sixty-three pounds.” He thought that was wordy but went on, “The second stage has two rocket engines with twenty pounds of thrust. They give a thrust of forty pounds.
“And students,” he said to the yellow wall, “the third stage has four three-point-five-pound rocket engines with a thrust of fourteen pounds.” It was going easily now. Then he thought about the payload. He flipped through the stack of papers. The payload design was missing, together with the measurements for the test tube, two rocket engines, and transistor-transmitter that would beep back the whereabouts of the capsule when it came down. He found the diagrams of the wire that bound the first-stage boosters to the second stage, but no capsule. He switched on his speaker and picked up his mike.
“Steve to Craig.”
“Craig to Steve. Whatcha want? I’m busy. I’m trying to figure out the nichrome-clip assembly—the one that goes from the first-stage engines to the ignition panel. Did we ever diagram this? Over.”
“Yes. Johnny has it. He took it the day we rehearsed the wiring. I’m looking for the payload drawing. Do you have it? Over.”
“Phil’s got it. He wants to tell about that tomorrow, but not the experiment or banner. That’s still a secret, Steve, okay? Over.”
“Okay! Over.”
“By the way, Johnny’s writing notes to the committee inviting them to Batta D-day, T-time. He wants to know if this Saturday is all right? Over.”
“Wait. I’ll look at the calendar. Hold.” Steve leaned over the schedule on his desk. He returned to the mike. “Saturday, December the fourteenth—and I’d say eleven A.M.—is perfect for me. Mr. Brian can get this stuff in a minute. It’s simple. Besides, he already knows most of it; the theory, that is, and that’s the might of it. The practical stuff is as simple as assembling a flashlight. Over.”
“I’ll check the date with Mr. Brian,” Craig said. “Hey, Steve, know what Johnny said when I told him about Mr. Brian helping? He said, ‘Craig, you’ve thought good, and found us a man in the twentieth century.’ That Johnny’s a nail-hitter.” He was about to say “Over,” but thought of something else. “And hey, Steve, you know what Mr. Brundage said when Mr. Brian called him? He said, ‘I abdicate to the institution and the brilliant maneuver of the boys. It’s go.’ How about that? Over.”
“Well, now the only road out is up. Time everyone realized it. Over and out.”
Steve worked through his dinner, a pizza which he ate on the floor. He went to bed feeling light and maneuverable again. Even his feet clicked together as he dove for the sheets.
Just as he was falling asleep, Craig’s voice came over the radio. “Craig to Steve. Do you think the committee will come? Over.”
“Steve to Craig. I doubt it. They’re awfully busy, you know. Over and out.”
The next morning Craig met his friends at their lockers. Each had a folder in his hands. They talked fast and excitedly, then ran up the steps and down the tile-lined corridor to the science lab. Mr. Brian had not arrived. They laid out their notes and diagrams and swung to the door. Craig jumped for the top of the doorsill, Johnny jumped after him. “I feel as if the molasses is out of me,” he said. “This is a fine day.”
Craig was aware that Phil did not jump. “How’re your ribs?” he asked quietly.
“Ya can’t kill a good man,” Phil bragged.
“That’s right,” Steve said.
The lecture began at second period. As Steve began to speak, Craig noticed with some pride that Mr. Brian had a pencil and notebook. Steve opened the lecture by describing the layout of Batta, the launch pit, command station, and observation bunker. Mr. Brian listened intently. So did the class.
Then Craig got up, cleared his throat, and described the nichrome igniters. “These wires are the same as those in a toaster,” he said, “and get very hot.” He explained how this heat ignites the first stage, which sets off the second, and finally, the payload engines. He drew a diagram of the wires that led from the ignition control panel to the alligator lead clips and the terminals. “Then you plug the control panel to the battery, throw the switch, complete the circuit—and swoosh! A launch.” The class clapped and Craig sat down.
Next Johnny held up a drawing of an engine. “The outside is paper casing,” he said. “Inside is a solid propellant with a dual-thrust-level design. At the very tip is a ceramic nozzle into which the nichrome wires go, for easy ignition. This engine has a high initial thrust to stabilize the rocket quickly. That is, it has a large burning area, for faster consumption of fuel. After the first thrust, a delay-and-tracking-smoke charge goes off. This doesn’t make the rocket go any faster but permits it to coast upward to its peak altitude. After that, an ejection charge goes off. This sets off the next rockets, or, if it’s the last stage, it sets off the recovery system. In our case, we have a little parachute and a big one to bring the capsule down safely.”
Mr. Brian asked Johnny to repeat what he had said. He went over it slowly. Then Mr. Brian added, “By the way, Mr. Smith says they’re ‘go.’ ” Everyone cheered.
Phil got up and drew a picture on the blackboard of the payload capsule with its recovery system. He showed where the transistor-transmitter was, and how the range finder would receive the signals from the transmitter and beep louder and louder the closer they came to the capsule. Craig sighed as he skipped the description of the test tube. When Phil finished, his shoulders pressed back and he seemed very tall.
Mr. Brian took over when Phil sat down. He leaned against the lab table and faced the class. “We need about four volunteers for the observation bunker,” he said. The entire class of hands went up. He grinned. “In that case, I’ll just take the officers of the science club. The rest will have to watch from shore.” He turned to Steve. “What’s the chance of getting your friend Officer Ricardo to relay the countdown through his car radio? If you borrowed one of the Police Department’s portable transceivers you could set up a Batta to police car transmission so the students on the shore could follow the progress. As I visualize the situation, they can see most of the launch once it gets over the reeds.”
Steve thought the policeman would help and said he would be responsible for setting it up. “We have our own small walkie-talkie system,” he explained. “We’ll use these to keep in touch with each other during the countdown.” He thought for a minute. “That’ll make two systems. It’s complicated, but we can do it.”
Craig watched Mr. Brian page through his notes. “I guess that’s all,” the teacher said. “See you all Saturday.” He turned to the four boys. “Would you mind leaving your material with me? I’d like to study it.” Smiling happily they stacked their folders on his desk.
But as Craig turned to leave he saw Johnny slip out the drawings of the banner.
17 HOLDING AT T-MINUS FOUR
THE FRIDAY OF DECEMBER 13 was the longest school day Craig had ever known. It dragged like a beaver’s tail.
At last it was three o’clock. The first boys out were Steve, Phil, Craig, and Johnny in that order. They didn’t wait for the bus, but ran ahead, piled their books on the upright piano at Craig’s house, and burst in upon Mrs. Sutton at the kitchen telephone. She put her hand over the receiver and whisp
ered to them, “Please be quiet, I’m talking to the director of the Board of Education.” She glanced at Craig. “It’s very important.”
Craig guessed it was, though it seemed hard to believe in view of the day and the moment. He waited until she was finished.
“Can I spend the night at Batta?”
“Yes! Yes.”
She went to the sink. Johnny dialed home and got permission, then Phil. He handed the phone to Steve, who hesitated, then smiled down on them from his extra inch of autumn growth. “I’ll have dinner with you and set up the police transceiver in the command station. We’ll check out the walkie-talkies, and then I’ll come home. I have a date with Cathy. I’ll bring Mr. Brian and the science club officers over in the morning.”
Craig was not upset. He was beginning to accept Steve’s idiocy. Furthermore, ever since September he had felt it was often more fun without Steve. Phil and Johnny and he could draw comic books and laugh at their own jokes, which Steve, he noticed, was not finding very amusing any more.
“It’s okay,” Craig said to Steve. “Who knows, I may even like a girl myself someday.”
Phil shot Craig a dire look. Steve called Officer Ricardo, who said he would bring the portable transceiver to the dock at five o’clock as well as the long-range police walkie-talkies.
Several hours later the sun set on its early December schedule, and the swamp buggy touched the island wharf. Craig heard the sentinel of a flock of crows call “Beware” to its fellows. The flock had apparently come to the protecting hemlocks on the island to roost for the night. They heeded their outpost’s warning and departed as the boys came ashore with packs and radios. Feathers crackled as the birds flew.
Before supper Steve and Phil set up the communications system, and Craig and Johnny prepared the experimental snails. Then they went to Batta. Phil lit some charcoal he had brought in a bucket with holes punched around the bottom to give it oxygen, then set to work cooking hamburgers.
They ate dinner and talked. At seven they saw Steve off in the swamp buggy, ran back to Batta, switched on their lights, and slid into their sleeping bags. The water clock read seven-ten.
Phil rolled on his back and wondered how the science class would like the second-stage blast which had the powerful engines in it. He thought it would be glorious from the shore.
Craig said it would probably scare Cathy to death and they all laughed and agreed. Johnny hoped they had packed the banner right. Phil said they had, because he had folded it. As Craig thought about the banner his stomach whirled.
“That’s gonna be a real surprise,” Johnny said.
Craig nuzzled into his sheepskin bed. “You bet,” he said.
After the movie Steve walked Cathy from the bus stop to her home. They climbed the winding road up the ridge holding hands as Steve explained the countdown.
He left Cathy at her door, not lingering to talk any more for he was anxious to be off. He started up the hill toward Mr. Brian’s garage apartment, a made-over stable behind one of the big houses on the ridge. He had wanted to speak to him, but suddenly he did not. He went home.
However, in bed, his lights out, he found he could not sleep. Twice he got up and started downstairs to the telephone, and twice he went back.
At twelve-thirty he was still wide awake. He got up, bolted down the steps, and dialed Mr. Brian’s number before he changed his mind.
“I’m sorry to awaken you,” he said when the teacher answered sleepily, “but I thought I’d better tell you something.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell, but I think I oughta.”
“Well, only if you want to.”
“It’s about the rocket.” Pause. “In the payload is an experiment with snails. We didn’t mention that in class.”
Mr. Brian sounded relieved. “Good, what’s it about?”
Steve told him briefly. “Good!” the teacher replied.
“That’s not all I wanted to say.” Pause. “When the first stage falls away a banner will be ejected on parachutes. We made this last fall when everyone was angry at us.”
“Is it safe?”
“Oh, sure, it’s just one of those things the engineering companies sell for thrills.”
“So?”
“So, what’s bothering me is what it says. I thought you ought to know since this is a class project now.”
“Well?”
“Well, it says ... and you gotta remember last fall when we were pretty disappointed in everything ... you know ... no help from anybody ... ”
“Yes?”
“It says ... ‘Blast You All!’ ”
At first Mr. Brian laughed and Steve was relieved. Then he apparently thought about it for he said, “Let’s take it out if you’re concerned.”
“That’s the trouble. We can’t. That is, not without the boys knowing I told. We all agreed not to, so I can hardly take it out without my losing my friends ... and I’m something of a turncoat in their eyes anyway ... Cathy, and dances, you know.”
“Steve, don’t worry about it. Maybe they’ll think you spelled ‘Off’ wrong and that it was supposed to read ‘Blast Off.’ But don’t worry. Go to sleep.”
“Okay. I guess it’s not important. Maybe no one’ll care.” He hung up and crawled back into bed. Relieved, he fell asleep.
Batta Day began at five o’clock as the boys at Batta ran outside to see how the day was dawning. The stars were still out, the sky was a cobalt blue. The homemade thermometer—green ink in a Coke bottle, corked, with a straw running into it—read thirty degrees. And the sun was not even up. Craig held up a stick with a cheesecloth butterfly net attached. It hung limp in the windless predawn.
“All’s well,” said Phil.
During breakfast Craig read off the Batta booster countdown once more; then they worked on the cork and buzzer in the water clock until eight. At that hour they decided to go out. The chickadees were gleaning the fat round hemlock cones, the air smelled of frost and dried catnip. Craig jumped on Johnny and rolled him to the ground. Johnny got a half nelson on Craig and pinned him. Phil watched. His rib was in no shape for wrestling.
At nine o’clock Craig heard the swamp buggy chugging across the slow stream. He grabbed Johnny and rushed to the wharf to greet Mr. Brian, Steve, and the officers of the science club. Mr. Brian called that the rest of the class was at the other wharf and that Officer Ricardo had his car all set. “Seems to be enjoying this,” he added.
There were still things to do. Craig gave Mr. Brian a copy of the flight data and countdown sheets and watched him snap them on his clipboard. He was glad to see that the teacher was calm. He wasn’t.
It was time to push back the rocket covering. Steve and Johnny leaned against its poles and gently shoved it away. The rocket pointed up into the sun and the clear blue sky.
“She’s green all the way,” Craig said to Mr. Brian. They both admired the cluster of first-stage rockets, the rounded cones, and the long slender second and third stages. The payload stood on the ground to the left, ready to be put in place at the count. The engines were in the supply box, laid out in order.
“I am terribly impressed,” said Mr. Brian as he looked closely at the rocket.
At quarter to eleven Steve showed Mr. Brian and the two members of the club how to stand behind the mud bags in the observation bunker. Watches were wound and checked. Craig gave Mr. Brian a Batta walkie-talkie and showed him how to flip the buttons to listen or speak. He handed Phil and Steve theirs and kept the fourth. Johnny would be beside Steve in the command center and wouldn’t need one.
Then Craig nudged Phil and they jumped to their posts in the launch pit. Steve sat beside Johnny on a stump in the command station. He checked the ignition control panel, then examined the police transceiver. He turned it on and opened the switch on the long-range walkie-talkie.
It sputtered, then a voice came over it. “KX2BAT unit two, this is KX2BAT unit one on Rushing Road. Come in Batta control
. Do you read me? Over.”
Steve answered into the transceiver so he would be amplified on the car radio. “All systems are go.” He glanced through the observation window at Craig and Phil and looked at Johnny.
“It’s green all the way,” Steve added. A murmur arose in the walkie-talkie. Craig could hear the cheers of the class coming through. It sounded like a high wind. He grinned. There was a silence. Craig stared at his watch.
“It is now eleven A.M.,” Steve went on. “The countdown for the Batta extracurricular activity will begin.”
“T-minus twenty. Test communications systems.”
Craig checked in, then Phil, Mr. Brian, and then Officer Ricardo on the police walkie-talkie.
“All systems are green,” Steve announced.
“T-minus nineteen. Place engines in payload capsule assembly. Check fittings.”
Craig worked swiftly. “Green and go,” he said.
“T-minus eighteen. Check transistor payload beeper and radio direction finder system.” Craig picked up the payload. Phil checked the radio direction finder.
“Hold,” said Phil.
“Holding at T-minus eighteen for recheck of beep,” Steve announced. Half a minute ticked off.
“Go!” Phil said.
“We are now resuming the count at T-minus seventeen. Check parachute recovery system for all stages including payload.”
“Green.”
“T-minus sixteen. Insert radio beeper into payload.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“T-minus fifteen. Check snails in test tube and seal.”
“Accomplished.”
“T-minus fourteen. Wrap aluminum insulation foil around test tube.”
“Affirmative.”
Carefully Steve leaned away from the transceiver so that his voice would be heard only on the Batta walkie-talkie.
“T-minus thirteen and one-half. Check banner assembly around second-stage booster.”
“Hold!” It was Mr. Brian.
“We are holding at T-minus fourteen,” Steve announced. He sounded puzzled.
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