"That's scranny! I've got to get Murph cigarettes! He's going to take
me up! Ain't that right, Murph?"
Murph had scrambled up, red and apologetic. "I'm sorry, lady--I didn't
know you wanted him home. I'm really sorry."
"You idiot!" was all she said, flouncing by him with Pete held by the
arm.
She shook Pete more and more angrily as they half ran toward home. Then
suddenly he felt her trembling all over, and she broke into tears.
She held him to her fiercely and suffocatingly. "They're _not_ going to
get you. You're going to promise!"
Bewildered and a little frightened, he pushed his head against her like
a stubborn calf and was silent.
* * * * *
He felt a little chastened by the time they arrived home, but then
things blew up again. Grammy pulled the trigger. Smiling, she hugged
him and said, "Cheer up, Pete--tomorrow's the picnic on Indian Hill."
They were using Indian Hill to cancel out his last day with the Hester!
He gritted his teeth with a scrawtch that raised goose pimples even on
himself. "I won't go! It doesn't have to be tomorrow!"
Grammy's face began to winter and his mother's face grew harder as she
said, very firmly, "It's tomorrow, and you certainly _are_ coming."
"I won't!" he exploded, and ran out to the barn.
He lay in the hay in the tallest now, feeling like a miserable sick
solitary cat. After awhile he dialed his radio, 29 on the eight orb,
and Murph came right in.
"How's it goin', Murph?"
"Oh--it's you. You in trouble?"
"Nah--but I can't see you today. I wondered if you could take me up
tomorrow? I mean, if there's room, that is?"
"Your Ma want you to go up?"
"It's okay--they just wanted me for chores today. How about it?"
"Sure, if there's room."
"Hooray! See you tomorrow."
"Okay, kid. And look--if you don't make it, I'll blow you a kiss."
"What's that?"
"I thought you knew. You know how the jet flame is? Blue. Well, if
you change the fuel mix it goes orange. That's blowing a kiss. Every
rocketman knows about it."
"Wow! I'll be there, though. You won't have to blow me one."
"Okay, Pete."
"Okay, Murph."
They dialed out.
He lay in the hay a long time, making his plans. In the morning the
women were delighted with him. He bubbled about relics and Indian bones
and pranced and paced and kept running to the window to look for Mr.
Fobey's copter. When it settled and the port opened he whooped aboard,
the first one on, and scrambled into the baggage hold. He slammed the
little door and slid a screwdriver between the knob and the door frame.
Up forward, he heard the others boarding. I gotta work fast, he told
himself.
Somebody began to pound on the little door. "Petey's in there!" piped
a voice. "He won't let anybody else in!"
He could tell it was old blabbermouth Sally Doolittle, that all the
kids called a nosey little squirt.
"I'm gonna watch through the glass deck!" he yelled. "It's my party,
and I'm gonna watch alone."
Crouching in the small hold, he began to work at the catches of the
unloading hatch. He wasn't sure it opened from the inside--but it had
to. He had to drop through before the copter left the ground.
The motors started.
He heard his mother's voice. "That's not like you, Pete. What are you
doing in there? Open this door!"
"I'm trying," he called. "The lock's busted."
He got the last catch loose and strained up on the hatch. As it opened
the copter lifted. He stared downward. They were high and getting
higher. He'd better drop quick. Murph wouldn't have been scared he told
himself, and plummeted through the opening.
He hit on his toes, let his legs buckle, and rolled into a hedge. His
feet felt as though bombs had gone off under them. He lay half stunned;
waiting for the copter to get well off, then tried to stand up.
He was able to. He tried to walk, and was able to. He began to run
across the fields, skirting trees and bushes. If the baggage door held
shut and they didn't see him above, he had plenty of time to get to
Murph and into the Hester.
* * * * *
He was halfway there when the copter veered and came humming back. It
came dropping toward him and he knew he was spotted. He ran stumbling
into a stretch of trees and woods, altered course and dropped behind a
big rock at the edge of the trees. There were leaves drifted against it
and he burrowed under them. Panting, sweaty and itching, with aching
legs, he watched and listened as the copter landed.
The port opened and they poured out. "He doesn't know what he's doing,"
said his mother. "We're going to find him."
Mr. Fobey drew back a little, his rubbery face pink-creased and
nervous. "In there--in all the brush and snakes and swamp?"