The Firebird Rocket (2 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Firebird Rocket
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“Mr. Ponsley, how are you involved?” Joe asked.
“I'm on Senator Moran's staff and a friend of the family's. I want to prevent any bad publicity before the news leaks out. That's why I came to see your father.”
“Tell me,” Frank said, “when and where was Mike last seen?”
“Leaving the bank one day last February. But he never arrived home that day.”
“Has he written?”
“Yes, a number of postcards from Chicago. The last one came about three months ago, saying he was leaving the country. After that—silence.”
“Any other clues?” Joe asked.
“Just one.” Ponsley slipped the ring from his finger and held it up to the light so the boys could see it better. Sunshine slanting in through the window seemed to bathe the room in the gem's s lustrous red glow.
“Michael always admired this stone,” Ponsley said. “He was fascinated by rubies, so his parents bought him one as big as mine and had it mounted in the same kind of setting. Find a ring like this, and you'll find Mike Moran.”
The Hardy boys examined the gem and felt sure they could easily spot a duplicate.
“Now then,” said Ponsley, slipping the ring back on his finger, “I want you to get on the case right away. Fly to Chicago tomorrow and see if you can pick up Michael Moran's trail. Make your first report to me by the end of next week. Speed is essential!”
“But we can't leave town right now,” Frank said. ”We're waiting for a phone call from our father. He may need us to help him with his own case.”
“Find a ring like this, and you'll find Mike Moran.”
“We'll let you know as soon as we're in touch with him,” Joe added.
“Hmph.” Frowning, Ponsley rose to his feet and adjusted his pince-nez. “Very well. If that's the best you can do, I'll just have to wait. You can call me at this number.”
He handed Frank his business card and the boys escorted him to the door. They watched him lumber down the steps, squeeze behind the wheel of an expensive car, and drive off.
Frank and Joe returned to the living room.
“How about that ruby?” Frank enthused.
“Big as a pigeon's egg!” Joe said. “Boy, that stone must be worth a bundle!”
“Say, could thieves have gotten to Mike Moran?” Frank said suddenly. “Maybe they did him in for his ring!”
The two boys exchanged worried looks. Joe felt cold chills prickle up and down his spine.
“A ruby that size would sure attract crooks!” he agreed. “I wonder—”
He broke off at the sound of brakes screeching out in the street. Tires grated harshly against the curb in front of their house, and a car jolted to a stop. Its door opened and slammed shut. Someone raced up the steps and pounded on the door.
“Open up!” a man's voice shouted. “You Hardy boys are in danger! You may be killed!”
CHAPTER II
The Runaway Rocket
“WHO the dickens is that?” Joe blurted.
“Search me, but he sounds pretty worked up!”
The doorknob rattled violently, and the thumping continued. Then their caller began ringing the bell.
“Take it easy! We're coming!” Frank yelled.
He yanked open the door. The man outside tumbled in and had some trouble regaining his balance.
“It's Mr. Oakes from the chemistry shop!” Joe exclaimed, recognizing his face.
The man was gasping. He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a long plastic bottle. The label read METHYL YELLOW.
“My assistant made a terrible mistake,” Oakes said, panting. “He put the wrong label on a bottle of liquid tear gas and sold it to you as methyl yellow. This is what he should have given you. If you use that other stuff in the wrong kind of chemical experiment, it could even blow up in your faces!”
“We know. We found out the hard way,” said Frank. “We already had an accident.”
“Great Scott! Was anyone hurt?” Oakes inquired anxiously.
“No, luckily we reacted as soon as we inhaled the fumes, and Joe got a window open fast.”
“Thank goodness!” The man sighed with relief. “My store phone's out of order, so I hopped in the car and drove here the minute I discovered what Bob had done. You both have my deepest apologies. I'm terribly sorry.”
“That's all right, Mr. Oakes,” Joe said. “We were just about to come back to your place and find out what happened.”
“A mistake—a dreadful mistake! Would you please give me that wrong bottle now?”
“Sure,” Joe said. “I'll go get it.” He took the methyl yellow out to the laboratory over the garage and returned with the liquid tear gas.
“We supply this stuff to various security guards around town,” Oakes explained. “In fact, one of them came into my shop to get some just before I told Bob to fill your order. I suppose that's how the mix-up occurred.”
After repeating his apology, the manager of the shop left with the dangerous chemical.
“Well, that solves one mystery,” Frank said as he shut the front door. “Now we can concentrate on the Mike Moran case.”
“Unless Dad needs us,” Joe reminded him. “But listen. Suppose we do get a chance to look for that guy. How would we trace him in Chicago?”
“Good question. For one thing, we'd have to find out more about him—what his interests are, how he spends his spare time—stuff like that.”
Frank broke off as the telephone rang. Joe hurried to pick it up, heard his father's voice, and gestured to Frank to come and listen in.
“Dad, where are you calling from?” he asked.
“The Space Flight Center in Florida,” Fenton Hardy replied. “This case is turning out to be even tougher than I feared.”
“Can you tell us anything about it?” Frank put in.
“Not on the phone. The investigation's being conducted under airtight security.”
“We goofed on testing that scrap of cloth you sent us,” Joe said. He told his father about the accident in the lab.
“That's all right. No harm done,” said Mr. Hardy. “I identified the wearer by means of a polygraph test. I had him figured as a prime suspect in this case, but he cleared himself. Now I've got another job for you, at Princeton.”
“You mean Princeton University?” Frank queried. “In New Jersey?”
“Yes. I want you and Joe to go there tomorrow morning. Talk to Professor Arthur Young at the Aerospace Laboratory. He'll clue you in on the case, and I hope he'll give you a lead to work on. Report to me after you see Professor Young.”
“Dad, how do we get in touch with you?”
“You can reach me through a hot line to the Space Flight Center. The number is the Center's initials followed by the first four digits—SFC- 1234. Got it?”
“Got it,” Frank said.
Mr. Hardy's voice became tense. “Be careful,” he warned. “This job is too important for any slips. NASA is involved. An international incident could be in the making.”
“We'll be careful,” his sons promised, then Frank told his father about the visit by Oliver Ponsley.
“He wants us to find Mike Moran.”
“My case has priority,” Mr. Hardy replied. “After we've cracked it, you can look for young Moran. So long.” He hung up.
Joe replaced the phone and the boys began to talk about their trip to Princeton.
“The home of the Princeton tiger!” Joe said with enthusiasm. “Wow! Maybe we'll get a chance to see some of their athletic teams work out.”
“I think we'd better just stick to the Aerospace Lab,” Frank said. “We're on a case, remember? I wonder what Professor Young knows about Dad's investigation. Maybe somebody stole a missile!”
“Yeah, sure.” Joe grinned. “Like maybe a crook slipped an interplanetary rocket up his sleeve and walked out unnoticed. If you ask me—”
He was interrupted by a series of loud reports in the street. A clanking sound drew near.
Frank grinned. “Chet Morton's coming.”
Joe peered out the window at the approaching jalopy. “Looks like he's got the whole gang with him. Let's go see what they're up to!”
As the Hardys grabbed their jackets and ran outside, Chet's fire-engine-red car pulled up to the curb. Its roly-poly, freckle-faced driver applied the squeaky brakes and brought his car to a jolting halt that threw his passengers forward, then bounced them back in their seats.
“Should we call a doctor?” Joe inquired. “Or are all of you still in one piece?”
“Wait'll we check,” said Biff Hooper, a husky six-footer. He was crowded into the back seat with Chet's pretty sister Iola and Tony Prito.
“No broken bones—yet,” Tony reported. “The question is, will we be able to walk away from this moving wreck?”
“What I'm worried about is my back,” groaned Phil Cohen, who was sitting up front beside Chet. “I think I slipped a disk when we stopped.”
Frank laughed at the driver's indignant look. “What's that you were telling us, Chet, about your rebuilt shocks and the smooth suspension you were engineering on this job?”
“So it's got a few bugs.” The stout youth shrugged. “I notice that doesn't stop these wise guys from thumbing a ride in my racer whenever they need a lift. You'll have to admit it's really sharp looking!”
“Pedestrians call it the
Red Menace,”
Phil wisecracked.
The car's body metal had a worn, battered look but gleamed with a fresh coat of paint.
“Not bad for an old heap,” Joe said, grinning. “When are you going to install a refrigerator?”
“Hey, that's an idea!” Chet said, snapping his fingers.
The Hardys' plump pal had helped them on many investigations. Even though he preferred food to danger, Chet never let Frank and Joe down when they were in a tight spot.
“Hop in, you two. We're wasting time!” he went on. “We can talk about food supplies later. Right now we're on our way to Bayport Meadow.”
“What's going on there?” Frank asked.
“The most exciting scientific event of the century!” Chet exclaimed. “Up, up, and away! Don't miss it.”
“Chet just finished his rocket,” Iola confided. “He can't wait to try it out. It's in the trunk.”
Laughing, Frank and Joe crowded into the car, practically sitting on their friends' laps. By now they were used to Chet's mania for new hobbies. His latest was rockets, and he had been working on one in his basement for weeks. He intended to enter it in a national high-school science contest.
The jalopy sagged under the extra weight but began to move. Chet drove it noisily through Bayport and headed for the meadow outside of town, while the others chatted and joked about the contest.
Joe had managed to squeeze into a place next to Iola. He usually dated her when the gang went to picnics or dances.
“Chet just might win,” Iola told him. “He's really worked hard on this project.”
“We'll all be cheering him on,” Joe promised.
In a few minutes they reached the meadow, a large open area covered with dry brown grass. The soil was still slightly frozen from the winter's cold.
Chet parked and they all got out and checked the area to make sure no one was in the way of the test.
“Looks like you've got a clear firing range,” Tony observed.
“As long as he aims straight,” said Frank.
“Don't worry,” Chet boasted confidently. “I've designed a foolproof steering system.”
He opened the car trunk and lifted out his rocket. It was a two foot long cylinder with a pointed nose and tail fins. For a launching pad, Chet stuck two pipes in the ground, mounted a cradle on them, and placed the rocket in it. The missile tilted at an angle with its upper end pointing skyward. Then Chet attached a control wire with a switch at one end.
At last the tubby teen-ager stepped back proudly to survey his handiwork. “Ah! Ready for the countdown!”
“Man, that looks like a space probe to the planet Mars!” Frank joked admiringly.
“Powerful enough to carry an astronaut to the moon,” Joe suggested.
“Any astronaut but Chet,” said Biff. “With a payload that heavy, even a Saturn rocket would never get into orbit.”
“Quiet, you guys!” Chet commanded. “The Morton Moon Grazer is about to be launched. My electrical igniter will do the trick. Here goes!”
He pressed a remote-control switch. There were a flash and loud report, followed by a burst of smoke. The rocket shuddered, left its cradle, and shot high in the air. Chet's friends were impressed and burst into applause.

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