The Flying Stingaree: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story
Page 15
CHAPTER XV
The Empty Boat
The Swiss torsion clock on Steve Ames's fireplace mantle read 6:49. Rickand Scotty, in slacks, shirts, and moccasins, sat in armchairs and triedto stay awake. The small rocket, cleaned and dried, rested on anewspaper on Steve's table.
"Rockoon," Rick said. "That explains the funny antenna, the presence ofthe electronics expert, and why the stingarees are launched."
"Not to me, it doesn't," Scotty retorted. He sipped steaming coffee."What was that word you used? Grain?"
Rick nodded sleepily. "That's what solid rocket fuel is called. It'spoured into the casing around a form. The form is withdrawn after thefuel hardens. The shape is designed to give maximum burning surface.Since the solid fuel is grainy, it's called grain."
"Logical," Scotty replied with a languid wave of his hand. "Allperfectly logical. I also understand that a rockoon is a combination ofa rocket and a balloon. The balloon carries the rocket up to where theair is less dense, then the rocket fires and breaks away. How does therocket know when to fire?"
"Two ways. A barometric switch can be installed that will act at acertain altitude, or a signal can be sent from the ground."
"The antenna," Scotty said. "It can send a signal."
"Sure."
"I'm with you all the way, until you say this shows why the stingareesfly. Why send up rockoons? What's the reason?"
Rick forgot he was holding a coffee cup and waved his hand. He recoveredin time to keep from spilling the hot liquid on Steve's rug. "Scientificresearch is usually the reason for rockoons. They carry experiments."
Scotty snorted. "Are you telling me Lefty Camillion has turnedscientist?"
"Nope." Rick yawned. "I take it back. We still don't know why thestingarees fly. We only know what they are. Where do you suppose Steveis?"
"That's the eighth time you've asked. He'll be here when that businessof his is over."
The telephone rang. Rick jumped to his feet and beat Scotty to the phoneonly because he was four steps nearer. "Hello?"
An unfamiliar voice spoke. "Stay away from the creek, and stay away fromthe house. If you don't, your crab-catching buddy is going to be turnedinto crab food." The line went dead.
Rick turned, eyes wide. Suddenly he was no longer sleepy. "Did you hearthat? He said to stay away from the creek and the house, or ourcrab-catching buddy would be turned into crab food!"
"He must have meant Orvil Harris!" Scotty exclaimed. "Rick, let's getgoing!"
The boys started for the door at a run, but Rick stopped as his eyecaught the rocket. "Check the gas," he told Scotty. "Steve has a sparecan in the workshop. The runabout tank must be getting low. I'm going tohide the rocket."
Scotty left at a run. Rick picked up the rocket and surveyed the scene.Where could he hide it? He hurried into the kitchen and examined thecabinets, then shook his head. Too obvious.
The refrigerator caught his eye. An apron at the bottom concealed themotor unit. He knelt and pulled the apron free from its fastenings.There was room next to the motor--unless the heat of the motor causedthe rocket fuel to burn. He opened the refrigerator and examined thecontrol, then turned it to "defrost." It wouldn't go on until they gotback. Hurriedly he put the small rocket in at a slight angle. It justfit. He snapped the cover back in place and ran to join Scotty, who wasalready in the boat.
"Gas okay," Scotty called. "Let's go."
Rick cast off and jumped aboard. Scotty started the motor and backedinto the stream, then turned sharply and headed toward the river.Neither boy spoke. Their sleepiness was gone now, forgotten in theirfear for Orvil.
Scotty held the runabout wide open, at its top speed of nearly twentymiles an hour. They sped across the Little Choptank River straight forSwamp Creek, with no effort at concealment.
Rick saw a low, white boat some distance down the river and grabbedScotty's arm. "Isn't that Orvil's boat?"
Scotty looked for a long moment. "It looks like it. Let's go see."
They swung onto a new course, in pursuit of the white boat. It might notbe Orvil's, but it was like it. Both boys could now recognize the designcharacteristic of boats built on the Chesapeake Bay. The boats wereknown as "bay builts," and distinguished by their straight bows--almostvertical to the water line--square sterns, and flaring sides. The designwas ideal for the shallow, choppy waters of the bay, and the boats couldtake a heavy bay storm with greater comfort and safety than mostdeep-water models.
As they came closer both boys looked for the boat's occupant, but therewas no one in sight. Worried, Scotty held top speed until they werenearly alongside, then he throttled down and put his gunwale next tothat of the crab boat.
"It's Orvil's," Rick said. "But where is he?"
"Get aboard," Scotty suggested.
"Okay." Rick stood up and timed his motion with the slight roll of bothboats, then stepped into the crabber. Orvil's crab lines were coiledneatly in their barrels, the stone crab-line anchors and floats werestacked along the side of the boat. There were three covered bushelbaskets of crabs, and extra baskets stacked in place. One open basketheld a dozen jumbo crabs. Orvil's net was in its rack on the engine box,but there was no sign of Orvil himself.
Wait--there was a sign. Rick knelt by a small brown patch on the deck.He touched it, and a chill lanced through him. Blood, and only recentlydried. Orvil's?
Rick straightened. Someone had turned the boat loose, idled down to itslowest speed. The stable crab boat had continued on course, heading outthe mouth of the Little Choptank into the wide bay. Only a bloodstainshowed that there had been violence aboard.
The flying stingaree had claimed another victim!