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

CHAPTER XIII
Fly the Winged Horse!

Rick held a servomotor in place while Phil Sherman, one of the other technicians, bolted it securely.

"There you are," Phil said. "Anything else?"

"That does it. Thanks, Phil. I can wire it up now." Rick got to work, connecting up the newly installed servo. Like other servomotors it was tiny and powerful, translating electronic signals into mechanical actions. This particular one was no larger than a spool of thread, but it would actuate control tabs on the wings of Pegasus. Other motors ranged in size from even smaller to quite large ones about as big as a gallon can. The small ones were terrifically expensive, probably the reason they had been attractive to the Earthman and his gang.

When Rick was finished with the simple connections, he called Dr. Bond. The elderly scientist checked carefully, then nodded approval.

Phil Sherman stuck his head in the door. "Dick Earle wants everyone out front. Staff meeting."

Rick and Dr. Bond hurriedly disconnected soldering irons and went out to the main shed.

The Pegasus staff was gathering around Dr. Gordon, who was using a large packing case for a podium. Rick saw the section chiefs conversing in low tones next to Gordon's perch, and his heart pounded. Had the Earthman appeared again?

Then, as the staff finally collected and Dr. Gordon began, Rick relaxed a little. This wasn't about the Earthman, apparently.

"We are about to make a major schedule change," Gordon began. "However, until we consult with the Pegasus group, we will not know if the change is feasible.

"The Cetus group has run into a major roadblock. One essential piece of apparatus cannot be delivered on schedule, because of trouble at the factory where it's being made. In all probability Cetus will be held up about three weeks. Now, as some of you know, the Cetus staff had already begun work at the pad, and in the blockhouse. The question is, does Pegasus wish to take over the Cetus schedule?"

Gordon held up his hand as a murmur swept the Pegasus crew. "This does not mean you must shoot on their firing date. It merely means that you must be out of the way by the time they are ready to move in again. If you can, we will switch the schedule around and put you next. If you can't, it will only mean that your firing date must be delayed. It's up to you – specifically, it's up to your chiefs. However, we wanted you all to know about Cetus just to spike any wild rumors that might get started. The delay is not due to anything but a factory failure to deliver."

Dr. Gordon yielded his improvised speaker's stand to Dr. Howard Bernais, the project technical director. Dr. Bernais was administrative and technical head of the entire project. Presumably he met with the section chiefs fairly often, but he had an office near John Gordon in the main administrative building and seldom came to the project.

The technical director was a gray-haired, gaunt, bespectacled man who surveyed the staff through thick lenses. His voice filled the great shed, not that he spoke loudly, but because he had that indefinable something known as "command presence." Rick was impressed.

"We sometimes forget, we technical people, that we live in a democracy," Dr. Bernais began. "We're so used to taking orders that when someone offers us a free choice we're rather surprised. However, when John Gordon spoke to me about a change in schedule, I felt we should talk it over. If you, as the people who will make Pegasus live up to its name, are eager and willing, the change will work. If you have doubts, it may not."

The technical director peered through his thick lenses and located Lars Jannsson. "You have some difficult problems with the third-stage motor, Lars. Can you be ready?"

Jannsson turned to his crew for confirmation, then nodded. "We will be ready whenever you say, Dr. Bernais."

Robert Bialkin, head of the air-frame section, spoke up. "We're just about done anyway, Doctor. We have a few minor modifications of the airfoils, then we're finished."

"Good. Where is Cliff Damon?.. What shape are you in?"

Before Damon could reply, Prince Machiavelli put in an appearance. The little spacemonk had apparently decided it was too lonely in the workshop. Now he jumped from head to head, ignoring the surprised cries of the staff, until he landed on Rick's shoulder.

Amid the laughter, Cliff Damon said, "Here's one of our chief instruments to speak for himself. I think he's ready."

Dr. Bernais peered at the marmoset, then nodded gravely. "Just one suggestion. He will undoubtedly be man- or monk-of-the-week on the cover of a news magazine. Perhaps you should give him a crew haircut, so he'll look more like one of the staff." He held up his hand and the chuckles subsided. "Then you can be ready, Cliff?.. Good. Dick Earle! It's now up to you. How say you?"

Dick hesitated. Rick watched him, anxious to see what his chief would say. He cuddled the spacemonk in his arms and stroked the silky head.

"We'll have to put in plenty of overtime," Dick said finally. "I think we can make it all right, but it will put a load on the staff. What do you think, boys?"

Rick joined in the chorus of yeas! If every other section could be ready, electronics would be, too.

"There's your answer, Doctor," Dick Earle said.

"Thank you. Now I ask for a unanimous opinion. Can we fly our winged horse on this new schedule?"

The shout sent Prince Machiavelli skittering up to Rick's neck and down inside his shirt.

Pegasus was committed to flight!

The problem of the Earthman was looming larger, Rick thought. The next target for the saboteur would be his own project. The very idea made him a little ill. Pegasus was too big, too important to be sabotaged! But he recalled ruefully, Orion had also been too big and important. Of course no trace of the Earthman had been found by the Orion staff, but the servomotor theft seemed to tie the Earthman to the disaster.

"I'm going to be up to my neck in spaghetti," Rick told Scotty when they met for supper. "I don't see how there'll be much chance to look for the Earthman."

"It should be better than ever," Scotty objected. "For the first time, you'll be right on the target."

That was true, Rick agreed. He hadn't looked at it in quite that way. "What are your plans?" he asked.

"I'm going to concentrate on the warehouse. Remember what Colonel Preston said about the clerks? They swore they hadn't seen any unauthorized person entering while they were watching the shoot."

"But they couldn't have kept an eye on the warehouses," Rick objected. "Anyone could have sneaked in."

Scotty shook his head. "I don't think so. Of course they watched the shoots, but you can also bet they were turning pretty often to look at the warehouses. They must have seen some activity. Otherwise, why would they say unauthorized persons?"

"I can't imagine," Rick admitted. "What's your idea?"

"The only people who could go in and out without being noticed particularly, or challenged, would be members of the service staff."

"Like the postman?"

"Yes. Or telephone repairmen, or power men, or janitors, or plumbers. There must be a dozen different kinds of people who have the run of the base because of their duties. I'm going to keep an eye open to see who goes in and out regularly – and Luis Hermosa is going to help."

"Luis? How can he help?"

"The fire station has a good view of the warehouses. You know how firemen are. When they're not cleaning or making repairs, they like to sit out front. Luis is out of the infirmary and back on limited duty, and another pair of eyes will help. Once we establish who has free run of the warehouses, I'll try to see which of them have any connection with Mac or Pancho. Okay?"

"Sounds good," Rick agreed. "And I'll keep my red-rimmed eyes wide open down at the pad, too. We'll get something on this Earthman yet!"

CHAPTER XIV
Check Pilot

Rick had joined in the enthusiasm for moving up the date of the Pegasus shoot, but as he gazed around the project he began to wonder if they hadn't all been carried away. There were parts and pieces everywhere. He couldn't begin to make heads or tails out of all the confusion.

Fortunately, he didn't have to. Now that zero hour was closer, the confusion turned into order like a miracle.

Rick continued to work on the drone section. The drone mechanism was actually in two parts. The part on which Rick worked was to be installed in the rocket. The other part would be installed in the blockhouse where it would be operated by the drone pilot.

Dick Earle maintained a constant check on the work, and Frank Miller was always on hand. Miller had designed the drone system, based on principles developed by Dr. Bond and other pioneers. As Rick worked, he learned how the system operated. The drone pilot in the blockhouse sat at a panel on which normal plane controls were duplicated in miniature. In front of him were elaborate radar screens. The drone pilot watched the radar screens and "flew" the rocket. As he moved the controls, code signals were transmitted and picked up by the unit inside the rocket where they were translated into mechanical movements of the rocket's control surfaces by the number of servomotors.

Rick had to consult with Frank Miller several times, and he began to grow apprehensive about the design engineer's health. Miller's face was gray with pain most of the time, and he often held both hands on his stomach when he thought no one was watching. Rick mentioned it to Dick Earle.

"I know," Earle said. "I've tried to get him out of here, at least to see the doctor, but he won't go. He says there'll be plenty of time when the shoot is over."

Then, in the coolness of a Scarlet Lake dawn, Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Lipton, one of the Air Force's crack pilots, arrived in one of the latest jet trainers. The staff of Pegasus greeted him and got to work at once. The jet trainer would take the place of the rocket for testing purposes.

This was the field test of the drone system – the only time it would be checked in actual flight until the day of use. While Rick, Dr. Bond, and Dick Earle installed the flying portion of the system in the plane, Gee-Gee Gould, Phil Sherman, and Charlie Kassick installed the control section in the blockhouse.

The installation took all day. The sun was dropping behind the blockhouse when final checks were made.

A guard arrived at Dick Earle's summons and mounted watch on the plane. Another guard was always on duty at the blockhouse, and still another at the now fenced-in pad where the sections of Pegasus were being assembled.

The staff secured for the night. Test flight was scheduled for midmorning. Rick had asked, and been given permission, to see the test from the blockhouse. Jerry Lipton would run the blockhouse controls. Another test pilot, who was driving up from the big test station at Muroc Dry Lake, was due in the morning to serve as check pilot in the drone-controlled jet trainer.

Rick went back to his barracks filled with excitement. The flying horse was about to try his brains, if not his wings. Zero hour was getting close.

When Scotty asked how things were coming, Rick described their activities in enthusiastic detail. But Scotty only grinned. "I didn't want a connection-by-connection description of each circuit in the rocket. What I meant was, is there anything new on the Earthman?"

Rick shook his head. "I've kept my eyes open, but everything's normal as Sunday at home."

Scotty got serious. "Better be alert every second. Don't forget, boy. You're now sitting on the target."

"You're dead right," Rick agreed, somewhat subdued. "How are you doing?"

"Not bad. I have a list of eight people who go in and out of the warehouses regularly. They go in and out so often none of them would even be noticed. Also, I think I know how the transistors and servos were taken out."

Rick stared. "Honest?"

"I think so. Ever notice how the cleaning men work? They have carts. Big ones, made of metal. At one end is a kind of well, for brooms, mops, and the vacuum cleaner wand and tubes. But most of the cart is just a metal box. The sides open. They carry rags, soap, that sawdust stuff for the floor, and so on. Get the picture? The warehouse janitor could have had empty boxes all ready inside his cart. Then, in about two minutes flat, he could have changed them for full boxes."

"You've got something there," Rick said with excitement. "Any idea which janitor?"

Scotty nodded. "The one who gets the warehouses to clean most often is a character named Dusty Rhoads. He's in and out a dozen times a day, pushing his wagon. He empties the waste cans and sweeps up and generally puts things in order. No one even notices him."

"Have you reported this to Preston or John Gordon?"

"No. It's only an idea so far. No evidence at all. There's nothing to connect him with Mac or Pancho."

"Well," Rick said, "you're sure making faster progress than I am. There's absolutely nothing suspicious at the project, and, believe me, I'm watching closely."

Morning brought trouble, but not of the suspicious kind. Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Lipton walked into the project shed with a note in his hand.

"Test is off," the pilot said. "For today at least."

Dick Earle motioned to Rick. "Get Dr. Bernais."

Rick rushed to the phone and called the project technical director. Dr. Bernais promised to come over at once. He wasted no time, arriving almost before Rick had a chance to report back to Dick Earle. With him was John Gordon.

Jerry Lipton greeted them. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. The other pilot cracked up in his car last night on Route 66 just west of Barstow. He's not in bad shape, but he won't be flying for a week or two. We can get another pilot, but it will take a day."

"We can't spare a day," Bernais said forcefully. "Surely there must be something we can do!"

John Gordon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You've controlled drones many times, Colonel. Is there anything unusual about this job?"

"There is nothing unusual about the test we're going to run. There will be plenty unusual about the actual rocket flight," Lipton replied.

"Then the pilot who sits in the plane doesn't necessarily have to be what you might call a 'hot shot'?"

Lipton shrugged. "Not particularly. He only takes over if the drone control goes out."

"Then any pilot would do?"

"Any pilot who could handle the jet."

Rick wondered what Gordon was leading up to.

"Then why can't we find a check pilot here on the base?"

Rick now understood what Gordon was leading up to!

"We could do that," Lipton agreed. "Do you have any pilots on hand?"

Gordon turned suddenly and looked straight at Rick. "Don't I recall that you were flying your own plane when you worked on that job at Spindrift?"

Rick gulped. "Yes, sir. I fly my own plane. But it isn't a jet, sir!"

"What is it?" Lipton asked.

Rick named it.

"Ever fly a jet?"

Rick had, and for the moment he was sorry. Thanks to his friends at JANIG, he had been given an opportunity to try out a Navy jet trainer after the case of The Wailing Octopus in the Virgin Islands. Steve Ames had made special arrangements at the Naval Air Station when Rick wistfully said he would like to fly a jet just once.

Lipton studied him. "Hmmm. This jet is hotter than those trainers by a factor of three, except in landing. Since landing is the critical factor, I'll buy it. First, though, we'll take a little ride."

Rick was filled with mixed excitement and apprehension.

"I'll be glad to try, sir," he said, with more confidence than he felt.

The test pilot rode to the lake bed with Rick in the jeep. On the way he inspected the boy critically. "You're pretty young," he said at last.

"Yes, sir," Rick said, thinking that Lipton wasn't very old himself, especially for his rank.

"Remember the first rule of flying?"

"Yes, sir. Keep your nerve and your flying speed."

"Correct. Remember that, and follow it, and you'll have no trouble."

Lipton followed with a rapid-fire description of instruments, controls, and procedures that left Rick's mind reeling. Finally the test pilot produced a check list. "Think you can follow it?"

Rick swallowed hard. "Can I sit in the plane for a few minutes and study, sir?"

Lipton smiled. "Sure. Call me when you're ready."

Rick climbed into the pilot's seat and took the stick, put his feet in the stirrups, and started getting acquainted with the feel of the controls while eyes and brain concentrated on the incredible clutter of instruments that every pilot has to know better than the working of his own hand.

More study wouldn't help. It was now or never. He called to the pilot. "Ready, sir."

Lipton climbed up on the wing and motioned to Rick to put on the helmet and plug in his phones. There was a spare helmet-and-phone set in the rear seat for the Air Force officer. Rick switched the radio on and heard the soft hum of dynamotors. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do you read me?"

"All right, Rick. Follow your check list and start the blowtorch going."

Rick mopped sweat from his face and went through the starting procedure. The jet flared into sudden life with a roar.

"Ready to taxi," he said.

"Roger. Proceed when ready."

Cautiously Rick fed throttle, aware of the tremendous power under his hand – power that could be deadly if misused. Using the brakes he turned the jet and then let it roll forward to the edge of the black strip that marked the runway.

"Ready to take off, sir," he said.

"Roger. Fire away."

He made a quick survey of the sky to be sure no other aircraft were in the vicinity. There was no control tower with which to check out. Now! He made himself relax a little and pushed the throttle to take-off position.

Fast acceleration snapped him back against the seat. The jet began to wander a little and he corrected automatically, and almost overcorrected! With infinite care he straightened out again, just as the plane was air-borne. Eyes riveted on the horizon, he felt for the switch that pulled up the landing gear and felt the plane spurt ahead as the drag of wheels and struts was removed.

Lipton's voice came through the phones, relaxed and a little amused. "No need to treat this bucket of bolts like a baby, Rick. You've got power to burn. Go, man! Make like a bird!"

Rick had to grin. He was flying automatically, as he flew his own Sky Wagon. But Lipton was right. This was a jet, not a low-powered sports plane. Suddenly exuberant he cracked the throttle and stood the jet on its tail. It climbed vertically, an amazing sensation for Rick. Power to burn!

The altimeter read ten thousand feet. He asked, "Can I sort of toss it around a little?"

Lipton chuckled. "You're flying, and I have a strong stomach."

Rick kicked the plane over and let it drop, saw the Nevada mountains rushing up to meet him. He leveled off and pulled into a tight turn, much as he might turn the Sky Wagon. G forces slammed him into the bucket seat and the world went gray as blood drained from his head.

"Let up," Lipton snapped.

Rick corrected groggily. Wow! He had forgotten that power had its limitations, too. A tight turn meant pulling too many G's – too many times the force of gravity – for safety. "Sorry," he said huskily.

"It's all right. Feel your way."

Rick did so, for an ecstatic ten minutes, then, realizing that time was moving and he was burning fuel at a terrific rate, he asked reluctantly, "What now, sir?"

"Let's go home," Lipton said calmly.

Landing was the tricky part. He hurriedly read through the landing checkoff list, then started in. Flaps, throttle setting. Then, wheels down and locked. Air speed correct.

"Better keep flying speed," he thought grimly. "This bucket has the gliding angle of a brick."

For a moment habit almost fouled him up again, as he waited for the plane to "sell out," then he remembered that he had to fly it in. With an anxious eye on his air-speed indicator he gave it a little more throttle, then felt the struts compress as the wheels hit. He chopped the throttle and tried out the brakes with tender care. He didn't intend to flip them over through carelessness now. Gradually he brought the jet to a halt, reset flaps, and then rolled the plane back to their starting point. After he had killed the engine he just sat there, too limp to move. Then, slowly, and with vast relief, he started to get up.

Jerry Lipton, who had climbed out on the wing, reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

Rick looked up in surprise. "I was getting out, sir."

"Stay put. I'm getting out. You're going for another ride."

He asked weakly, "Right now, sir?"

"No time like the present," Lipton said. He grinned. "How did you like it?"

Rick returned the grin. "I guess you know the answer to that."

"I guess I do. It was a good flight, Rick. You only let your normal habits get in the way twice, and you corrected fast both times. Keep your helmet on now. I'll be talking to you from the blockhouse in five minutes."

It was less than that. Apparently Dick Earle and the staff had the control circuits warmed and ready.

Lipton's voice came through the phones. "Visual take-off, Rick. The radar will pick you up at five hundred feet. I may overcontrol a little until I'm used to the equipment, but don't let it bother you. Do not take control yourself unless I give the word. There is one exception. If we lose communication in anyway, take over at once and bring it in. Now, repeat back."

"I will not take over controls, except on order from you. If communications fail, I will assume control at once and land the plane."

"Correct. Now, switch on. Start 'er up."

Rick did so.

"Release all controls and sit back. I am now controlling."

"Roger. Controls are all yours."

Servomotors held the brakes and advanced the throttle. The plane turned and taxied to the end of the runway. Rick sat there, trying not to feel uneasy. Just the same, it was weird to realize that Jerry was handling the plane from within the blockhouse.

"Take off. Here goes."

The roar increased and the plane picked up speed. Rick marveled as it lifted smoothly and the wheels retracted. Then, almost before he realized it, the plane had climbed and the earphones emitted, "I have lost visual contact. You are now under control by radarscope."

The jet climbed rapidly, then started through a series of maneuvers. Rick began to enjoy it. But the flight was almost over. "I'm bringing you in," the pilot said.

The plane turned, leveled, and the throttle was retarded. The nose dropped, in perfect alignment with the runway.

"You're off the scope and I have you on visual contact. Have faith, boy. You're almost home."

Rick braced himself and waited for the shock of landing. There was none. The jet skimmed along the runway, touched wheels, and settled so smoothly he couldn't have said exactly when the plane touched down.

Lipton, Earle, and the staff came hurrying from the blockhouse. Rick climbed down, pulling the helmet off hair that was swimming-wet with perspiration.

Now the brains for winged horse had been tried and proved. Rick looked at the great rocket, almost hidden by the crane and its equipment. Soon, he thought. Soon Pegasus would make the payoff flight!