The Empty Boat
The Swiss torsion clock on Steve Ames's fireplace mantle read 6:49. Rick and Scotty, in slacks, shirts, and moccasins, sat in armchairs and tried to stay awake. The small rocket, cleaned and dried, rested on a newspaper on Steve's table.
"Rockoon," Rick said. "That explains the funny antenna, the presence of the electronics expert, and why the stingarees are launched."
"Not to me, it doesn't," Scotty retorted. He sipped steaming coffee. "What was that word you used? Grain?"
Rick nodded sleepily. "That's what solid rocket fuel is called. It's poured into the casing around a form. The form is withdrawn after the fuel hardens. The shape is designed to give maximum burning surface. Since the solid fuel is grainy, it's called grain."
"Logical," Scotty replied with a languid wave of his hand. "All perfectly logical. I also understand that a rockoon is a combination of a rocket and a balloon. The balloon carries the rocket up to where the air is less dense, then the rocket fires and breaks away. How does the rocket know when to fire?"
"Two ways. A barometric switch can be installed that will act at a certain altitude, or a signal can be sent from the ground."
"The antenna," Scotty said. "It can send a signal."
"Sure."
"I'm with you all the way, until you say this shows why the stingarees fly. Why send up rockoons? What's the reason?"
Rick forgot he was holding a coffee cup and waved his hand. He recovered in time to keep from spilling the hot liquid on Steve's rug. "Scientific research is usually the reason for rockoons. They carry experiments."
Scotty snorted. "Are you telling me Lefty Camillion has turned scientist?"
"Nope." Rick yawned. "I take it back. We still don't know why the stingarees fly. We only know what they are. Where do you suppose Steve is?"
"That's the eighth time you've asked. He'll be here when that business of his is over."
The telephone rang. Rick jumped to his feet and beat Scotty to the phone only because he was four steps nearer. "Hello?"
An unfamiliar voice spoke. "Stay away from the creek, and stay away from the house. If you don't, your crab-catching buddy is going to be turned into crab food." The line went dead.
Rick turned, eyes wide. Suddenly he was no longer sleepy. "Did you hear that? He said to stay away from the creek and the house, or our crab-catching buddy would be turned into crab food!"
"He must have meant Orvil Harris!" Scotty exclaimed. "Rick, let's get going!"
The boys started for the door at a run, but Rick stopped as his eye caught the rocket. "Check the gas," he told Scotty. "Steve has a spare can in the workshop. The runabout tank must be getting low. I'm going to hide the rocket."
Scotty left at a run. Rick picked up the rocket and surveyed the scene. Where could he hide it? He hurried into the kitchen and examined the cabinets, then shook his head. Too obvious.
The refrigerator caught his eye. An apron at the bottom concealed the motor unit. He knelt and pulled the apron free from its fastenings. There was room next to the motor—unless the heat of the motor caused the rocket fuel to burn. He opened the refrigerator and examined the control, then turned it to "defrost." It wouldn't go on until they got back. Hurriedly he put the small rocket in at a slight angle. It just fit. He snapped the cover back in place and ran to join Scotty, who was already in the boat.
"Gas okay," Scotty called. "Let's go."
Rick cast off and jumped aboard. Scotty started the motor and backed into the stream, then turned sharply and headed toward the river. Neither boy spoke. Their sleepiness was gone now, forgotten in their fear for Orvil.
Scotty held the runabout wide open, at its top speed of nearly twenty miles an hour. They sped across the Little Choptank River straight for Swamp Creek, with no effort at concealment.
Rick saw a low, white boat some distance down the river and grabbed Scotty's arm. "Isn't that Orvil's boat?"
Scotty looked for a long moment. "It looks like it. Let's go see."
They swung onto a new course, in pursuit of the white boat. It might not be Orvil's, but it was like it. Both boys could now recognize the design characteristic of boats built on the Chesapeake Bay. The boats were known as "bay builts," and distinguished by their straight bows—almost vertical to the water line—square sterns, and flaring sides. The design was ideal for the shallow, choppy waters of the bay, and the boats could take a heavy bay storm with greater comfort and safety than most deep-water models.
As they came closer both boys looked for the boat's occupant, but there was no one in sight. Worried, Scotty held top speed until they were nearly alongside, then he throttled down and put his gunwale next to that of the crab boat.
"It's Orvil's," Rick said. "But where is he?"
"Get aboard," Scotty suggested.
"Okay." Rick stood up and timed his motion with the slight roll of both boats, then stepped into the crabber. Orvil's crab lines were coiled neatly in their barrels, the stone crab-line anchors and floats were stacked along the side of the boat. There were three covered bushel baskets of crabs, and extra baskets stacked in place. One open basket held a dozen jumbo crabs. Orvil's net was in its rack on the engine box, but there was no sign of Orvil himself.
Wait—there was a sign. Rick knelt by a small brown patch on the deck. He touched it, and a chill lanced through him. Blood, and only recently dried. Orvil's?
Rick straightened. Someone had turned the boat loose, idled down to its lowest speed. The stable crab boat had continued on course, heading out the mouth of the Little Choptank into the wide bay. Only a bloodstain showed that there had been violence aboard.
The flying stingaree had claimed another victim!