Goodwin Harold Leland
The Scarlet Lake Mystery: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story

CHAPTER VII
Careless Mesa

The boys climbed in the jeep early the following morning.

Scotty shifted into gear and drove through the base. "The time is now zero minus twenty-two hours."

Rick looked at him. "What does that mean?"

"Firing time for Orion is tomorrow morning, twenty-two hours from now. That must be the reason for the balloon that we just saw go up. The weather group is starting to watch winds and visibility. Something else I picked up at maintenance, too. There's going to be a dry run today."

"Spell it out," Rick requested.

"As I get it, all hands go through the same procedures they'll follow tomorrow morning. The Orion group will fire a small weather rocket to check the circuits, and to allow the tracking and monitoring group to check their equipment. And do you know what that means?"

Rick saw it at once. "Mac and Pancho will be going to Careless Mesa!"

"Yep. But the dry run doesn't start until ten this morning. That gives us plenty of time to get there, look around, and shove off before Mac and Pancho show up."

"Suppose they get there early?" Rick asked.

"They probably will. We won't hang around, though. According to the control board in the vehicle shop their truck isn't supposed to be ready until eight, which is an hour and a half from now."

Rick thought that was cutting it fine, but he made no further comment.

Both boys had checked the map again, and knew the route to follow. Scotty drove through the base and onto the access road that led to the firing areas. In a short time they had a clear view of Orion waiting on its pad, project personnel swarming over the gantry crane as they performed a variety of last-day chores. The sight filled Rick with excitement. To-morrow he would see the big rocket go up.

"Pretty," Scotty said.

Rick nodded. Orion was a beautiful sight. Its lines were clean, and its paint job was colorful, mixing white with high-visibility colors to allow greater ease of visual tracking.

"Blockhouse ahead," Scotty pointed out.

It was the first time either of them had seen the blockhouse, the control point from which the rockets were fired. It was within a mile of the concrete firing pads, close enough to be in great danger from wild rockets that had gone out of control. For that reason it was made of heavily reinforced concrete, several feet thick. It could take a direct hit from even the biggest rockets without harm to the personnel inside.

Then the firing area was passed and the jeep sped along next to the miles-long black, oiled path of the airstrip. Soon the strip was behind, then the level floor of the dry lake bed became rough terrain and the jeep began to climb toward the foothills.

"Isn't there a guard post this way?" Rick asked.

"Should be."

There was, a few miles beyond, as the jeep mounted the foothills and went through a pass. The guard inspected their badges, then waved them on. They were outside of the base area now.

The dirt road led them across a valley and up a gradual slope to another pass through the mountains. This time, as they emerged, Rick pointed to a flat-topped mountain directly ahead. "That's a mesa," he declared. "Suppose it's the right one?"

Scotty squinted against the glare. "Probably. I don't see any others on the horizon."

"What are we going to do when we get there?" Rick asked.

Scotty waved a hand. "Look, and hope there's something to see."

"Okay. Let it go. We'll wait and see." Rick fell silent, watching the desert. It was odd, he thought, that most people thought of deserts in terms of sand. It was a fact that some deserts were sandy, but this one was composed of hard-packed earth and stones in which plants struggled for survival. It was more like smooth clay. Then, as the desert rose from smooth plain to mountains, the ground became simply broken rock, sparsely dotted with creosote bush and cholla.

Once or twice he turned and looked back at the road over which they had come. The jeep left a trail of dust behind it, but he could see no dust from any other vehicle. Apparently they were well ahead of Big Mac and Pancho. He hoped they would stay ahead.

"If Mac and Pancho do catch up," he said thoughtfully, "we can always say we just came out for the ride, to see a little of the country."

Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "Think they'd buy it?"

"Could be. They have no reason to suspect us. We're just a couple of kids who work on the base."

The road was steep now, and Scotty shifted into second to take some of the strain off the engine.

Careless Mesa loomed ahead. Rick wondered if the road led all the way to the top. Apparently it did, because the trail twisted and turned, climbing constantly. He closed his eyes and visualized the map. Somewhere up there the road split.

Suddenly Scotty pointed. "Look!"

In a shady spot just off the road two sidewinders were coiled on a rock, beady eyes watching the jeep's passage. The snakes were the color of mottled sand, the "horns" on their diamond-shaped heads clearly identifiable. Their tails were a blur, and he knew they were rattling a warning, but the distinctive buzz couldn't be heard above the jeep's engine noise.

Rick restrained a shudder. Although he had no particular fear of snakes, he had an inborn dislike of the creatures. He had read that the sidewinder, or "horned" rattlesnake, was common in the Western deserts.

Then the jeep rounded a turn with a sheer drop of several hundred feet on Rick's side, and the sidewinders were lost to view. Rick looked down at the steep slope and said, "Nice place to meet a car coming down."

"Let's not meet one," Scotty replied. He had to drop back into first gear now, because the climb was very steep.

The road cut through a notch and emerged onto a relatively level area. Rick tried to get his bearings. The road had twisted and turned so much he had lost his sense of direction. The sun's position helped him to get oriented again, and he realized they were high on the side of Careless Mesa, overlooking the road across which they had just traveled.

"Clearing ahead," Scotty said. "Bet we've reached the station."

He was right. The road led across a wide shelf, perhaps fifty feet below the top of the mesa. On the far side of the shelf the road dipped again. Scotty let the jeep roll to the edge of the dip and they looked down the roadway which twisted and turned and finally forked a thousand feet below.

Scotty put the jeep in reverse and backed to the center of the shelf. It was about two hundred feet wide, the road hugging the inner cliff. Toward the edge of the shelf the ground was disturbed by vehicle tracks.

"Stop here," Rick said.

Scotty killed the engine, and pointed to a pile of cans near the remains of a fire. "This must be where Mac and Pancho set up their radar gear."

Rick looked around him appreciatively. In the direction of Scarlet Lake there was a clear view for miles. Only the low ridges of intervening hills prevented them from seeing the base itself. A radar outfit could track the rockets from here with no interference at all, once the rocket had risen above the range of low hills.

Scotty indicated the scenery with a wave of his hand. "Plenty to see. But twenty tons of transistors could be in plain sight and we'd never know it. How would you hide stolen goods, if you had to do it?"

Rick turned and surveyed the base of the cliff that led to the top of the mesa. "I'd probably hunt for a space between two big rocks, pack it in, and load rocks on top."

"And that ain't stuff and nonsense," Scotty agreed. "Come on. Let's start moving boulders."

Rick shook his head as his eyes encompassed the more than a hundred yards of strewn rocks at the cliff's bottom. "Shall we move them a ton at a time?"

Scotty grinned helplessly. "At that rate we'd be here six months." He kicked an empty beer can. "Maybe we'd better look in the cans instead."

As though by magic the can flew into the air, flashing in the sunlight. At the same instant they heard the spiteful crack of a rifle.

Scotty reacted instantly, and Rick was only a fraction of a second behind. They dashed across the road and dove for cover in the rocks behind the jeep.

The rifle cracked again. A slug whined into space a few feet from their noses, leaving a silvery streak of lead on a rock.

The boys moved again, closer into the face of the cliff, and took shelter under a slight overhang.

"Now what?" Rick asked.

Scotty surveyed the situation, estimated the line of fire from the lead smear on the rock, then shook his head.

"We can't get in the jeep and make a run for it, because we'd be right in the line of fire. He's on top of the mesa, whoever he is. He can't reach us here, but he can reach us if we move, or if he moves."

The rifle punctuated Scotty's estimate of the situation. This time the slug slapped rock close enough to spatter sandstone chips in their faces.

"We can't stay here," Scotty said grimly. "I'm going to see what I can do."

"How?" Rick demanded.

Scotty was busily picking up stone fragments, choosing them by weight and shape. "I can move along the face of the cliff, staying under cover. At least I think I can. If I reach the place where the road drops, I can get up to the top. With luck, I won't be seen. Besides, you can distract him."

"How?"

"I don't know. Put the Brant brain to work and figure out something." Scotty unrolled his sling, slipped the loop over his index finger, and gave Rick a tight grin. "Keep the boy busy, chum. Here I go."

Scotty moved rapidly but silently, across the bottom of the cliff, taking advantage of every overhanging rock. When Scotty was perhaps ten yards away, Rick moved into action. He picked up a rock, hefted it, then threw it into the pile of cans. They scattered noisily, bringing a rifle shot in reply.

Rick thought swiftly, then peeled off his shirt and wrapped it in a good-sized rock. He gauged the distance and heaved it in the direction opposite the one Scotty had taken, aiming for a niche under an overhang six yards away. He hoped the motion would be mistaken for one of them. Evidently he succeeded, because a rifle slug chipped rock a foot away from the shirt as it rolled under the overhang.

Raising his head cautiously, he saw a rock perched precariously on the steep slopes. Evidently it had come to rest there, or the rains had washed away much of its support. He found a rock to throw, sighted with care, and tossed it underhand. It struck directly under the balanced rock and dug away enough dirt to upset its equilibrium. The rock tumbled down, bringing a tiny landslide of other rocks and dirt with it. There was no response from the rifle this time.

Rick turned to see how Scotty was doing, but his pal was out of sight, behind some boulder along the way. Now what? His bag of tricks was almost exhausted.

He looked outward, across the road. A few yards to the right of the campfire and cache of cans was a rock pile. It was big enough to shield him, if he could make it. He took a deep breath. If he dodged and twisted fast enough, the rifleman probably couldn't hit him, and he would certainly have the man's full attention. That would give Scotty a better chance.

He chose a rock, hefted it, and got up into a sprinting position. He made sure of his footing, then simultaneously tossed the rock sideways to attract the rifleman's eye, and charged out of the niche.

Ten feet and he jumped sideways, took two forward leaps, and went sideways again. The rifle barked and dirt spurted where he had just been. But by then Rick was within reach of the rock pile, and he went over it in a headlong dive, rolling like a tumbler as he landed. Quickly he flattened out, as close to the rocks as he could get. A bullet whined off the top of the pile, and then there was silence.

Rick's heart pounded and his breath came in gasps. He had made it! But how about Scotty? He risked a push-up that brought his head to the level of the upper rocks in time to see Scotty fire his first sling stone. His pal had reached a position just below the top of the mesa, where his stones would clear the top without exposing him. As Rick watched, Scotty put another stone in the pouch and let fly. The stone smashed into rock on top of the mesa. A third stone, and Rick suddenly caught a glimpse of motion on the mesa top, directly above him. The rifleman was changing position! Evidently Scotty's stones were coming too close!

"Watch it!" he yelled. "Watch out, Scotty! He's moving!"

Three closely spaced shots sent Scotty to the ground as slugs whined off the mesa rim directly above him. Then there was silence. Rick heard, as though from far off, the clatter of rock. He waited. Scotty was waiting, too.

Minutes ticked by. Then, faintly, Rick heard a sound that could only have been a horse whinnying.

Scotty stood upright and climbed to the very top of the mesa. Rick started to yell, then choked it back. Scotty must know what he was doing. He saw his pal walk leisurely out of sight. Rick stood up, watching. In a moment Scotty reappeared, climbing down the incline he had used to get to the top. In a moment the boys were face to face.

"He's gone," Scotty announced. "Had a horse staked out below the opposite side of the mesa. I saw him ride off. He was too far away for me to get a good look at him."

"Mighty strange," Rick said with a sigh of relief.

Scotty nodded. "Strange is right. You know what? He saw me standing there on the rim. He turned and looked at me, and he waved."

"Waved?" Rick asked.

"Yep. It was a real jaunty wave."

Rick shook his head in bewilderment. "My, that was friendly."

"I thought so," Scotty agreed. "Come on, boy. We've got to make tracks out of here. Time is running out."

Rick collected his shirt and jumped into the jeep. Scotty backed around and headed toward the base as fast as the road allowed. Not until they were down on relatively level ground did they try to converse.

"The rifleman must have read about David and Goliath," Rick said. "Why else would he run off?"

Scotty chuckled. "He was helpless. He was in deadly peril, as the storybooks say. Seriously, I think he was helpless."

Rick stared at his pal. Scotty could mean only one thing. "Then he had no intention of hitting us?"

"I doubt it. He was shooting at short range, and even a poor shot couldn't very well have missed as often as he did. Besides, I don't think you'd find many poor shots with rifles in this country."

"Then he must have been trying to scare us off," Rick said thoughtfully. "When you started heaving rocks at him, he knew we weren't scaring very much."

"Not much," Scotty said ruefully. "I don't know about you, but my innards turned to custard."

Rick grinned. He knew exactly what Scotty meant. "If things had happened a little more slowly, I'd have dropped dead from sheer fright. But I didn't have time. Anyway, when you started with your sling, he had a choice of shooting for keeps or getting out of there. So he got. Is that how you figure it?"

"Exactly right. What other explanation is there? Stones against rifle slugs isn't much of a contest. I only tried it because there wasn't anything else to do."

"We could have stayed under cover until Mac and Pancho arrived," Rick pointed out.

"Negative. All he had to do was shift position and he'd have had a clear shot at us."

That was true, Rick realized. "But why did he try to scare us off?"

"It beats me. He wasn't a guard, I'm sure. If he was guarding something, he wouldn't have ridden off and left us there. And there wasn't anything personal in it, because he waved at me like an old pal. It was a kind of humorous wave. You know? Real jaunty."

Rick asked the obvious question. "Was it the Earthman?"

And Scotty made the obvious answer. "I didn't have a chance to ask him. Anyway, he didn't wear armor."

Rick had been keeping his eye on the road ahead. "Pull over," he said quickly. "Let's get out and be looking at cactus or something. I think Mac and Pancho are coming."

Scotty complied quickly and shut off the jeep engine. The boys got out and walked quickly into the desert, found a barrel cactus, and began dissecting it with Rick's scout knife.

The dust cloud that marked an oncoming vehicle grew larger, and in a few minutes they saw the panel truck and the trailer with radar dish mounted on it. As the truck drew nearer they stood up, Rick holding the cactus impaled on his knife. It was a natural action; simple curiosity would require that they pause to see who might be in a passing vehicle.

The truck drew abreast and slowed. Big Mac was driving. Pancho leaned out and waved. "Hiya, kids!"

They echoed him. "Hiya, Pancho." Then the truck was past, en route to the mesa for the day's dry run.

Rick drew a deep breath. "In the clear," he said with relief. Suddenly he grinned. "This is what I call progress. We go to Careless Mesa. We find nothing. We get shot at. We add to the mystery without adding a single thing to the puzzle. One more day like this and we'll have to put our Junior G-man badges back in the cereal box where we got 'em."

"I beat you," Scotty said unhappily. "I left mine under a rock at the top of the mesa."

CHAPTER VIII
Project Orion

There was an air of anticipation everywhere at the Scarlet Lake rocket base. Rick, who was sensitive to such things, felt it keenly. He also recognized that under the anticipation, like thick, stagnant water under the bright surface of a pond, there was fear.

The anticipation was spoken; the fear was not.

By mutual agreement, Rick and Scotty parted soon after their return to the base. Each went back to his own unit, more on guard then ever before for the slightest hint of irregularity in personnel or equipment.

The electronics group of Pegasus was just about at a standstill. Dick Earle and Frank Miller had gone to the firing area, to lend the Orion group a hand. Dr. Bond remained, along with Kassick and Sherman. The three were amusing themselves with a game of three-handed bridge, while the marmoset occasionally made things lively by stealing cards.

Rick watched for a few minutes, then wandered into the empty Orion shed, abandoned now that its crew and rocket had moved to the firing pad and blockhouse. As he stood looking at the complex test equipment a sedan pulled up and Gee-Gee Gould got out. The electronics chief waved at him and trotted by into the project office. He returned in a moment with a portable tube and circuit tester under his arm and paused to ask, "What's up, boy-oh?"

Rick answered briefly, "No transistors, no work."

"Bored?"

"Not exactly, sir. But I wish I could do something useful instead of just hanging around."

Gee-Gee stroked his magnificent mustache. "I'm with you," he said finally. "Jump in."

Rick needed no further invitation. He took the tester from the scientist and climbed into the sedan, holding the gadget on his lap. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Pad. Work to do, and you can help. Do a good job with me and I'll give you a special reward. Check?"

"Check," Rick agreed, grinning. "What's the reward?"

"Watch Orion from the blockhouse with me. Good?"

"Plenty good," Rick said, pleased. "What's the work?"

Gee-Gee drove the way he talked, at high speed and with a flourish. Rick held his breath as the sedan skidded around a gasoline truck, then leveled off. Gee-Gee gave him a long glance and almost went off the road in consequence.

"You're fairly new, Rick. But you know about this Earthman?"

"I've heard plenty of rumors," Rick agreed, "but I can't say I know many facts about him. He's a big, noctilucent mystery to me." He thought, "Now he's got me doing it!"

"I like that," Gee-Gee said appreciatively. "High, rare, and mysterious. Like noctilucent clouds high above the cirrus belt. I can use it."

Rick chuckled. "You were talking about the Earthman," he prompted.

"Yes. You weren't here for the first two shoots, so you are not this Earthman. And I'm not. No one knows this but me, on account of everyone suspects everyone. So far, only the Earthman knows who he is. But I'm telling you, it's not me. You don't have to believe this, of course, but, young Brant, I'm going to check every electronic circuit in Orion myself. And you're not only going to help me, you're going to check what I check. Roger?"

"Roger," Rick replied grimly. "How long will it take?"

"All night. We'll live on sandwiches and coffee and get no sleep. But when we're through, we'll both be satisfied that all electronics in Orion are correct and functioning."

"But hasn't the rocket been checked already?" Rick asked.

"Twice. Every circuit in it. The critical circuits have been checked a dozen times. But is ole Gee-Gee satisfied? Negative, young Brant. Gee-Gee is not going to be satisfied until he personally rechecks and locks all access doors and ports himself."

Rick sat back in the seat, smiling to himself. He had no doubt that Dr. Gerald Gould meant every word of it. If Orion failed tomorrow, it would not be the fault of the electronics department.

The sedan pulled up at the pad and Rick got out, staring at the great rocket. Myriad cables dripped from various parts of it, and he thought of Gulliver tied down by the threads of the Lilliputians. There was something magnificent about the clean, towering shape that stirred his imagination. In the jargon of the rocketeer the great missiles were called "beasts" or "birds." The former was because they sometimes acted "beastly." The latter was a tribute to their beautiful flight when they ran true.

Rick thought, "How could anyone sabotage a thing like that?"

Gee-Gee brought him back to earth. "Ever climb a gantry?"

"No, sir."

"Well, start flying, young Brant. We go to the top and work down."

Rick went. He was too excited to be afraid. The first stage was by elevator. Then he and Gee-Gee climbed thin steel rungs to the very tip of the great rocket. Not until he reached the shaky, wind-blown, postage-stamp-size platform at the top did he take time to look down.

The thin steel web was no barrier to vision. He was on top of the world, at the doorstep to space, looking down on fantastic activity below. The rocket curved sweetly away below him, down to the sharp lines of the great stabilizer fins. He noted the breakaway zone where the first stage and second stage were joined. He could see, as one perched on a cloud, the tiny, busy forms of men below.

For an instant, as the nose access port yawned before him, Rick had a vision of himself in pressure suit and plastic helmet, mounting the rocket as a pilot mans his plane, anticipating the signal for blast-off.

Gee-Gee brought him back to earth with a prosaic, "Let's get at it, boy-oh."

It was the beginning. The picturesque but highly competent and efficient electronics chief hadn't exaggerated. The fabulous world of rocketry narrowed to a maze of wiring, circuit after circuit, checking, testing, and calling for test signals from the blockhouse. Rick checked and rechecked, following closely on Gee-Gee's heels. He missed nothing, took nothing for granted. Once he snapped, "Wait a minute! You didn't check that circuit properly. Check for polarization as well as contact."

Gee-Gee looked at him in astonishment, then slowly grinned. He thrust out a grimy hand. "You're my boy, young Brant. Who taught you about polarization?"

Rick was about to say, truthfully, "My father." But he caught himself in time. "A boss I had at Spindrift."

"He taught you well, and you're right. I did goof on that one. I'll check, and you recheck."

They went at it again, inch by inch through the incredible maze of wiring in the rocket's innards. By very accurate analogy, they were probing the rocket's brains. The circuits, like nerves, carried messages to and from the central rocket control. One would signal "Rocket starting to yaw," and another would reply to the servomotors that activated the gimbal-mounted motor, "Compensate! Two degrees correction azimuth 350!" and the great rocket would steady on course again. There was a circuit to carry the heartbeats of the monkey caged in the nose cone, and another to carry his skin temperature, and dozens more.

Rick didn't even notice when it grew dark. Sometime during the night someone thrust ham sandwiches and a cup of steaming coffee into his hands and he ate and drank without taking his eyes from Gee-Gee.

Then, what seemed only minutes later, someone yelled, "Zero minus three hours!"

Gee-Gee looked up. He glared at Rick from red-rimmed eyes. "Quick! What's left to check?"

Rick stared at smudged, much-handled circuit diagrams through eyes that refused to focus sharply. "Only the control circuit for the pumps."

They were low on the crane now, working at the last access port. These were the electronic nerves of the great pumps that would force fuel into the rocket motor. Gee-Gee checked them, spoke into a walkie-talkie he had carried through the night, and Dick Earle's voice came back from the blockhouse. "The board is green."

Rick took over and checked again. And once more Earle's voice sounded, harsh and definite. "The board is green."

Gee-Gee slammed the access port door and locked the patented fasteners with a few turns of his screw driver. "We're done," he said flatly. "Come on down."

Rick followed, jumping to the ground from the lowest platform. He looked around, dazed. The sky was pink in the east. It was dawn. Where had the night gone? He stared amazed at grotesque figures that waited, silent, patient, like beings from another world. Then he realized it was the fueling crew dressed in protective clothing, swathed like strange cocoons in plastic that would keep their vulnerable human skins from the harm of corrosive liquid and fumes.

Gee-Gee led him to the blockhouse, and the walk across the barren plain cleared the mists from Rick's head. He knew, as clearly and finally as anyone can ever know anything, that the electronic circuits were all in order and functioning.

The massive door of the blockhouse was open. Inside were two dozen men, each with his own place and his own job. Rick knew some of them by sight, but he knew few names. This was the Orion crew. He looked at them with respect. They had made the great rocket on which he had worked all night. They had created it from sketches on paper, followed it through all the stages of construction until now it was ready.

A loud-speaker crackled, then boomed, "The time is now zero minus ninety minutes."

They were the fastest ninety minutes Rick had ever spent. He was enthralled by the activity in the blockhouse, and, careful to keep out of the way, he walked from station to station. Now and then he looked through the thick glass ports, and he saw the green mist of boron hydride as fuel throbbed slowly into the rocket's tanks.

A thin, bald scientist in a scarlet sports shirt picked up a microphone and spoke into it. "Tracking stations, report your readiness. Stand by. Lathrop Wells, report."

A loud-speaker over his head replied instantly. "Lathrop Wells ready and tracking."

Tonopah, Indian Springs, Mercury, Death Valley Junction, Shorty's Well, Chloride Cliff, Jubilee Pass: All ready and tracking. Then:

"Careless Mesa."

Big Mac's voice boomed forth. "Careless Mesa ready and tracking."

The time: "Zero minus thirty minutes!"

One by one red lights on the main board winked out and green lights came on in their places, showing circuits and controls in operation. Only a few red lights remained now. Rick looked through the glass ports and saw the gantry crane being wheeled away. Jeeps, trucks, and private cars were moving out of the area, haste evident in their spinning wheels and hunched drivers. The movement was like a scurry of ants. Rick watched, taking in everything. He didn't even notice when the massive door was swung shut, closing against its airtight cushion with a sibilant hiss.

"Zero minus five minutes."

At last the frenzied activity ceased, and the rocket stood alone, clean, beautiful, and awesome, only the instrument cable tying it to earth.

Rick couldn't tear his eyes from the rocket, even to watch the last of the red lights flick out, the green glow showing readiness.

Then, zero minus five … four … three … two … one …

FIRE!

A steady hand threw the final switch.

Green flame stabbed from Orion's tail, grew to white intensity. The instrument cable dropped from the rocket's nose and writhed to the ground. Even through the thick walls of the blockhouse Rick heard the mighty rocket's voice, an ear-shattering roar of triumph that sent lancing pain through his head. The rocket shuddered, eager to be away. Thrust built up, and up, and up, and the exhaust light grew until it was like staring into the heart of a green sun. Then the great voice faltered, the shuddering increased.

A yell of pure horror burst from Rick's throat. High on the rocket's side, metal slowly peeled back like obscene steel lips opening, and green fire gushed forth. The shuddering ceased, and he knew the rocket was dead. The gash opened wider … wider …

The blockhouse door swung open and men poured out – silent, horrified men, helpless to do anything but watch, oblivious to the danger. Rick went out with them.

The desert was alive with sound now, with the roaring torch of rocket propellant and the scream of sirens. Speeding down from the base camp came the fire engines, to save what could be saved, to help still the flames so the Orion crew might find out what had gone wrong.

Behind the fire engines were jeeps, trucks, and cars, loaded with grim men who carried picks, shovels, anything to help still the holocaust.

Scotty arrived right behind the fire engines and ran to where Rick stood, still stunned by the shocking turn of events.

"What happened to it?" Scotty asked hoarsely.

Rick shook his head. He couldn't talk.

The firemen were already at work. Crews from the trucks, protected by asbestos and plastic, carried hoses to the very edge of the roaring propellant and began to smother it with mounds of foam. The men who had followed with shovels and picks were also at work, hastily digging a trench to prevent the spread of the fiery liquid.

Someone yelled, then another yelled. Rick looked up in time to see the rocket split wide open and most of the remaining tons of propellant gush out. The firemen saw it, too, saw that they would be engulfed. They turned and ran.