Hold Zero! (8 page)

They laughed.

Officer Ricardo awoke with a snort. He sat up and looked around, saw the boys, and grinned. “Good morning, good knights,” he called. “I’ve always wanted a chance to say that.” Everyone laughed.

Steve went to the sink to wash his face. As the cold water hit him he began to chuckle. He looked at the transmitter-receiver.

“All this fancy equipment,” he said. “And Johnny gets us on a durn filling.” Craig wondered about the possibilities of silver and mercury as he spooned out the food.

When the dishes were washed and put away, Craig, Phil, and Steve were ready to go. Officer Ricardo was not. He was contemplating the far wall and suggesting that a heating plant for winter might be installed there.

They waited for him, then walked up the steps. The sun had broken through the white mist.

“How’re we gonna get home?” Officer Ricardo asked. “We have no gas.”

“Paddle like geese,” said Phil.

As the bulky swamp buggy inched along, the wheel dragging hard against their efforts, Phil suddenly pushed up on his elbows.

“Gee, it’s Sunday,” he said. “I’m gonna miss Dad’s sermon if we don’t hurry.”

“Ya won’t miss it,” boomed Officer Ricardo, “if you paddle instead of back water.”

Phil laughed at himself.

T
WO DAYS AFTER THE
fog-in Steve reported to Craig that Mr. Smith had gone to Europe. Steve joined the PTA dancing class, and Phil and Craig and Johnny signed up for the basketball team. Craig tried hard to develop “sportsmanship” and enjoy himself, especially after Johnny’s father had told him that he should learn to compete when he was young, for he certainly would have to when he grew up. He could see how that might be true.

Nevertheless, he preferred to go to the island and learn the plants and watch the animals. The afternoons inventing gadgets at Batta with Phil and Johnny were restful and wonderful. This bothered him, for he did want to enjoy what he was supposed to.

A month passed.

Then Steve came into the school locker room one day shouting exuberantly that Mr. Smith was back. Craig relayed the good news to Phil and Johnny.

Three more days passed.

On the fourth day Craig called Officer Ricardo and asked tentatively whether the committee was ready to come to inspect the rocket.

“Craig,” the officer sighed, “it’s almost impossible to find a moment when one or the other of those men aren’t busy.” He paused. “And frankly, I’ve been busy, too.”

“Oh, well,” Craig heard himself say, “I understand. It’s just that the weather is getting cold now, and the winter’ll be hard on the rocket. If they don’t inspect it soon, we’ll never get ’er off.”

“I know, Craig. Everyone wants to do what’s best for you boys, believe me. Don’t worry; the committee will get there.”

Suddenly Craig wanted to go to the island. It had been a long time since he’d been there. The confusion of whether they had done something wonderful or something awful had dampened his interest in Batta. He noticed that the other boys were not so enthusiastic either, and, like him, they were all trying hard to take advantage of what the community offered. At this moment, however, nothing could replace the island and the ammunition shelter, the faucet and the bunks. It was Friday, and in half an hour the basketball team would play a practice game. Craig decided the heck with it. Today, at least, he was going to do what made him feel at ease with himself. Besides, the good players could stay in the whole game if he didn’t show up. He pulled on a sweater and ran down the steps.

At the dock he made numerous tries before he started the long-idle swamp buggy. Eventually the engine caught and the craft plowed out among the cattails.

The island looked deserted. Leaves had fallen from the trees. Only seeds and berries remained. These, Craig thought, were not jubilant like the flowers and leaves, but hard and small—full of sleep and purpose. Craig opened a bittersweet berry and squeezed the yellow seed between his fingers.

He walked to the hollow where the raccoon slept. A bat hung inside the hole, upside down, and quiet. Suddenly a chickadee sang. It was a wistful call. The bird did not sound like spring although the notes were the same. He wondered why.

Slowly he sat down and crossed his ankles. His hand rested on a flat stone and idly he lifted it. White eggs of the ants clung to the underside, and a salamander slept, eyes open, too cold to know it had been disturbed. Craig put the stone back.

He felt better. He didn’t feel rushed anymore; and then, because everything around him was waiting, he decided that’s how things were. Sometimes you had to wait.

Happily he stretched out in the leaves. A jimson weed, dried and angular, touched his cheek. He observed it casually, and then not so casually, for the tip was as active as a hive. He sat up. The jimson weed was covered with tiny spiders that had emerged in the warm sun. They were crawling over each other in an effort to get as high as they could on the gray-brown stalk. Craig concentrated on a single spider of the hundreds that moved so hastily.

The spiderling was pale and yellow, but determined. It attained the highest point on the weed and paused, turned its head into the autumn wind, and threw up its back feet. A thin thread of gossamer drifted out from its spinnerets. Craig rolled to his knees. The thread billowed in the breeze until it grew so long it had more strength than the spiderling. Then the spiderling let go and the thread bowed in the breeze and lifted the minute creature into the air. Craig stood up and saw the drifter turn and clutch its web with its front feet. It reefed in to the right as it sailed around a thistle. He followed the glitter of the sun on the web. It became entangled in a hackberry limb. The spiderling climbed it, reeling in its silk as it went. Then it turned its head into the wind again and spun out another balloon of thread. On this it rode out of sight.

“So that’s how they get free,” he said to himself. “They sail away and reel in their threads, sail away and reel in their threads.”

Suddenly he knew that was what he was going to do, too. He jumped on the swamp buggy. It started immediately. Twenty minutes later Craig was running up the hill to his home when he saw his friend.

“Steve!” he called. “Hold it!”

The angular Steve turned, distributed his weight on both feet, and waited for his friend.

“Listen, I know how to get the rocket launched!” Craig gasped. “We sail away!” He drew a wide course with his arms. “We just sail to Batta and we reel in all the threads and wait.”

“What are you talking about, Craig?”

“Well.” He laughed at himself. “Let’s go to the island tonight and not come back until the committee comes to find us. Let’s just sit there until they look at the rocket.”

“Well, I can’t tonight.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to the Soph Hop.”

“Oh, well, just hop around for a few minutes. We’ll wait for you.”

“No, don’t. I guess I’ll stay all night.”

“You mean you want to
dance?
” Craig asked incredulously. He couldn’t believe what he had heard.

“Yes. I’m taking Cathy Smith to the dance, and I think I’ll stay—and dance.”

Craig stared. “But, Steve,” he said, “we all said no girls, Steve. We promised we wouldn’t bother with them.”

“Well, it’s different now,” Steve said firmly.

“But, Steve!” Craig pleaded. “If we go out there—all of us—if we wait long enough ... they’ll come.”

Steve turned away. “You fellows go. I won’t tell.”

Steve went up the road whistling. Craig clenched his fists and jabbed the air. Not Steve, he thought to himself. Not Steve. He can’t let us down too. Then he was angry. He hurried home and called Johnny and Phil.

He was able to sway Johnny almost immediately, and Phil in about three animated sentences. They were going to wait at Batta until they got some action.

Craig threw a few things in a knapsack and ambled downstairs. His mother was working in the kitchen. “I’m going out,” he called.

She called back, “Don’t go far, dinner’s almost ready.”

He sauntered down the hill. The early November day smelled of walnuts and wild crab apples. The light was clear, the air warm. At last, he thought, we’re going to do something about all this.

Phil, all grins and bravado, was at the wharf when he got there. “My folks are gonna blow their tops,” he said and threw his sack onto the swamp buggy. “I may stay forever. On the other hand,” and Phil’s voice sounded forlorn, “they may not even miss me. They’re going to a meeting tonight.”

Johnny snapped the dry joe-pye weed stems as he jumped off the road and ran down the path. He was in a fine mood, braces gleaming behind his smile, arms swinging loosely. He jumped on the swamp buggy.

“Hey,” Phil said as Craig started the engine, “where’s Steve?”

Craig turned his back and yanked the cord. His anger came back to him. “He’s got a girl!” he shouted.

“You’re kidding!” Phil said. “Not Steve. Steve’s gonna be a real scientist.”

“Well, he isn’t now. He’s taking Cathy Smith to a dance.”

Craig put the engine in gear. Phil and Johnny were too stunned by the news to say any more. After a time Johnny shrugged, looked toward the island, and shouted, “To shreds with them all! And now to victory!” The craft sailed out beyond the reeds and across the sleeping waters of the slow stream.

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.’ ”