"Well, Dad, it was like this: We were making a full-power captive run on the new rocket and-" He sketched out the events.
Mr. Jenkins nodded and said, "I see. Come along, boys." He started toward the converted stable which housed the family car. "Ross, run tell your mother where we are going. Tell her I said not to worry." He went on, leaning on his cane a bit as he walked. Mr. Jenkins was a retired electrical engineer, even-tempered and taciturn.
Art could not remember his own father; Morrie's father was still living but a very different personality. Mr. Abrams ruled a large and noisy, children-cluttered household by combining a loud voice with lavish affection.
When Ross returned, puffing, his father waved away his offer to drive. "No, thank you. I want us to get there."
The trip was made in silence. Mr. Jenkins left them in the foyer of the hospital with an injunction to wait.
"What do you think he will do?" Morrie asked nervously.
"I don't know. Dad'll be fair about it."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Morrie admitted. "Right now I don't want justice; I want charity."
"I hope Uncle Don is all right," Art put in.
"Huh? Oh, yes, indeed! Sorry, Art, I'm afraid we've kind of forgotten your feelings. The principal thing is for him to get well, of course."
"To tell the truth, before I knew it was Uncle Don, I was more worried over the chance that I might have gotten Mother into a law suit than I was over what we might have done to a stranger."
"Forget it," Ross advised. "A person can't help worrying over his own troubles. Dad says the test is in what you do, not in what you think. We all did what we could for him."
"Which was mostly not to touch him before the doctor came," Morrie pointed out.
"Which was what he needed."
"Yes," agreed Art, "but I don't check you, Ross, on it not mattering what you think as long as you act all right. It seems to me that wrong ideas can be just as bad as wrong ways to do things."
"Easy, now. If a guy does something brave when he's scared to death is he braver than the guy who does the same thing but isn't scared?"
"He's less... . no, he's more... . You've got me all mixed up. It's not the same thing."
"Not quite, maybe. Skip it."
They sat in silence for a long time. Then Morrie said, "Anyhow, I hope he's all right."
Mr. Jenkins came out with news. "Well, boys, this is your lucky day. Skull uninjured according to the X-ray. The patient woke when they sewed up his scalp. I talked with him and he has decided not to scalp any of you in return." He smiled.
"May I see him?" asked Art.
"Not tonight. They've given him a hypo and he is asleep. I telephoned your mother, Art."
"You did? Thank you, sir."
"She's expecting you. I'll drop you by."
Art's interview with his mother was not too difficult; Mr. Jenkins had laid a good foundation. In fact, Mrs. Mueller was incapable of believing that Art could be "bad." But she did worry about him and Mr. Jenkins had soothed her, not only about Art but also as to the welfare of her brother. Morrie had still less trouble with Mr. Abrams. After being assured that the innocent bystander was not badly hurt, he had shrugged. "So what? So we have lawyers in the family for such things. At fifty cents a week it'll take you about five hundred years to pay it off. Go to bed."
"Yes, Poppa."
The boys gathered at the rocket testing grounds the next morning, after being assured by a telephone call to the hospital that Doctor Cargraves had spent a good night. They planned to call on him that afternoon; at the moment they wanted to hold a post-mortem on the ill-starred Starstruck V.
The first job was to gather up the pieces, try to reassemble them, and then try to figure out what had happened. Art's film of the event would be necessary to complete the story, but it was not yet ready.
They were well along with the reassembling when they heard a whistle and a shout from the direction of the gate. "Hello there! Anybody home?"
"Coming!" Ross answered. They skirted the barricade to where they could see the gate. A tall, husky figure waited there—a man so young, strong, and dynamic in appearance that the bandage around his head seemed out of place, and still more so in contrast with his friendly grin.
"Uncle Don!" Art yelled as he ran up to meet him.
"Hi," said the newcomer. "You're Art. Well, you've grown a lot but you haven't changed much." He shook hands.
"What are you doing out of bed? You're sick."
"Not me," his uncle asserted. "I've got a release from the hospital to prove it. But introduce me—are these the rest of the assassins?"
"Oh-excuse me. Uncle Don, this is Maurice Abrams and this is Ross Jenkins. ...octor Cargraves."
"How do you do, sir?"
"Glad to know you, Doctor."
"Glad to know you, too." Cargraves started through the gate, then hesitated. "Sure this place isn't booby-trapped?"
Ross looked worried. "Say, Doctor-we're all sorry as can be. I still can't see how it happened. This gate is covered by the barricade."
"Ricochet shot probably. Forget it. I'm not hurt. A little skin and a little blood-that's all. If I had turned back at your first warning sign, it wouldn't have happened."
"How did you happen to be coming here?"
"A fair question. I hadn't been invited, had I?"
"Oh, I didn't mean that."
"But I owe you an explanation. When I breezed into town yesterday, I already knew of the Galileo Club; Art's mother had mentioned it in letters. When my sister told me where Art was and what he was up to, I decided to slide over in hope of getting here in time to watch your test run. Your hired girl told me how to find my way out here."
"You mean you hurried out here just to see this stuff we play around with?"
"Sure. Why not? I'm interested in rockets."
"Yes, but-we really haven't got anything to show you. These are just little models."
"A new model," Doctor Cargraves answered seriously, "of anything can be important, no matter who makes it nor how small it is. I wanted to see how you work. May I?"
"Oh, certainly, sir-we'd be honored." Ross showed their guest around, with Morrie helping out and Art chipping in. Art was pink-faced and happy—this was his uncle, one of the world's great, a pioneer of the Atomic Age. They inspected the test stand and the control panel. Cargraves looked properly impressed and tut-tutted over the loss of Starstruck V.
As a matter of fact he was impressed. It is common enough in the United States for boys to build and take apart almost anything mechanical, from alarm clocks to hiked-up jaloppies. It is not so common for them to understand the sort of controlled and recorded experimentation on which science is based.
Their equipment was crude and their facilities limited, but the approach was correct and the scientist recognized it.
The stainless steel mirrors used to bounce the spotlight beams over the barricade puzzled Doctor Cargraves. "Why take so much trouble to protect light bulbs?" he asked. "Bulbs are cheaper than stainless steel."
"We were able to get the mirror steel free," Ross explained. "The spotlight bulbs take cash money."
The scientist chuckled. "That reason appeals to me. Well, you fellows have certainly thrown together quite a set-up. I wish I had seen your rocket before it blew up."
"Of course the stuff we build," Ross said diffidently, "can't compare with a commercial unmanned rocket, say like a mailcarrier. But we would like to dope out something good enough to go after the junior prizes."
"Ever competed?"
"Not yet. Our physics class in high school entered one last year in the novice classification. It wasn't much—just a powder job, but that's what got us started, though we've all been crazy about rockets ever since I can remember."