Assignment: Rocket Base
Rick turned the phrase over and over in his head, trying to make sense
out of it. Earthman? Who wasn't an earthman? The whole human race was
composed of them. Of course ordinary people didn't refer to themselves
as _homo terrestrialis_, but that's what they were just the same.
Scotty was just as puzzled. "Do you make anything out of it?" he
inquired.
Rick shook his head mutely.
As Barby made a beeline for the library, Scotty called after her, "Where
are you going? It's lunchtime."
She answered without pausing. "I'm going to consult the dictionary
before Dr. Gordon comes down."
"Maybe she has something there," Rick said. "Let's go."
But the dictionary gave no clues. _Homo_ was simply "man," and
_terrestrial_ was simply "of earth."
"Terrestrial is in here, but not terrestrialis," Barby complained.
"Same thing," Rick said. "Adding 'is' just makes it a Latin form. No,
there's nothing strange about the term, except it's strange that anyone
should use it."
"We'll find out," Scotty reminded him. "John Gordon was just teasing us.
Let's go eat. Maybe he'll break down at lunch."
Rick realized the sense of what Scotty said, but he couldn't stop
worrying the problem as his dog, Dismal, might worry a bone. Then, when
they all sat down to lunch, his father effectively blocked discussion of
it, and their new assignment, by talking with Dr. Gordon about mutual
friends out West.
Finally Mrs. Brant came to her son's rescue. "Now, Hartson, and you too,
John. You've teased Rick and Scotty enough."
Mr. Brant chuckled. "I wondered how long he was going to put up with our
reminiscences before blowing a fuse or something."
Rick grinned sheepishly. He should have guessed that the two scientists
were deliberately keeping the conversation off the main subject just as
a joke.
John Gordon took a generous helping of salad. "All right. I'll talk, but
you'll have to excuse me if I mumble a little. I intend to go right on
eating. I've been looking forward to this for months!"
"We'll excuse you," Barby said quickly. "Only please start!"
Gordon smiled at her. "Can you keep secrets?"
"I always have," Barby retorted.
"All right. Then you can listen. But what I say must not be repeated."
The scientist paused long enough to drain his glass of milk and refill
it from the pitcher.
"Well, to begin with, we moved from New Mexico to Nevada only a short
while ago, in order to separate our work from military research. We
created a new test base in Nevada, not too far from the Atomic Energy
Commission's Nevada Test Site, although we have no connection with it."
"Then you're not on a military project?" Scotty asked.
"Yes and no. The work is sponsored jointly by the Department of Defense
and some other agencies, including the National Science Foundation.
However, we are not working on military projects, in the sense that our
rockets are not weapons. They're for research purposes. Of course some
of the things we're doing will be valuable for military application
later, and so our test base is closed to the public and most of our work
has a high classification. Usually the work is secret, but sometimes
it's top secret. Is that clear?"
Scotty and the Brants agreed that it was.
"Very well. Since we operate under security, every person who works on
the base is fully investigated and cleared for top secret. This is an
important point. You know how thorough these investigations are. Once a
security check for top secret is completed, there is literally nothing
of importance that isn't known about a person. But in spite of the most
careful security work, there is someone on our base about whom we do not
know everything.
"It's absolutely baffling," Gordon continued. "Our first project was a
simple one, with a tested rocket system. Actually, we used a modified
Aerobee, a rocket of proven dependability. Nothing should have gone
wrong. But when we fired, the rocket exploded at the top of the
launcher. We investigated thoroughly, of course, and found someone had
cleverly sabotaged the shoot."
"The what?" Barby asked.
"The shoot. When we launch a rocket we simply call it a shoot."
"Oh. Now I understand."
"Ask any questions you want. Well, we discovered that someone had rigged
a steel bar at the top of the launching tower. It was spring-loaded and
triggered to move right across the path of the rocket when we fired."
"What does spring-loaded mean?" Mrs. Brant asked.
"The bar was activated by a spring. The spring was under tension. The
steel bar lay along one of the pieces of the frame, and was held by a
latch. When the trigger withdrew the latch, the spring pushed the bar
across the path of the rocket. That's what spring-loaded means in this
case."
"Couldn't anyone have found the steel bar?" Scotty wanted to know.
"Yes, if anyone had looked for it. But once the launching tower was
erected, there was no reason for anyone to go to the top for an
inspection."
Scotty nodded his understanding.
"To go on, as soon as we found the bar and the spring mechanism we knew
we'd been sabotaged. But that wasn't all. Etched on the bar was a rather
good picture of a knight in armor, in the process of driving his sword
through a rocket. Underneath was the inscription: _Homo Terrestrialis_."
[Illustration: _Etched on the bar was a puzzling inscription_]
"I don't get it," Rick complained.
Gordon grinned. "Neither did we. And we still don't get it. But you can
be sure we started a few balls rolling. First, Security checked every
man's file again. They missed no one. Even the security officers and
guards were rechecked. Then they started a program to find out who on
the base had any talent as an artist. Nothing was found. The security
chief sent photos of the etched picture and the whole bar mechanism to
every security agency in the government, including the FBI, Central
Intelligence, and the military. He drew a blank. No one had ever heard
of anyone calling himself the Earthman, and the technique wasn't
familiar."
The scientist paused long enough to eat a little more, then resumed.
"Meanwhile, we were getting a Viking rocket ready to launch. We checked
it from nose to fins. We didn't miss a thing. Then we posted a guard
around it, and a guard to watch the guard. We took no chances at all.
The project engineer even slept near the rocket where he could keep an
eye on it."
"Did anyone climb the tower?" Barby asked.
"There was no tower. A Viking rests on its fins. Anyway, it took off. It
climbed ten miles, then went on an erratic course. We couldn't control
it. Fortunately it crashed on the Las Vegas Bombing and Gunnery Range,
which is a closed military area nearby, so no one was hurt. At first we
thought it was just one of those typical accidents that happen during
rocket research. Even the best-performing rockets sometimes go haywire.
But when we got into the wreckage, we found the steering vanes had been
tampered with, in a way that inspection couldn't have disclosed."
"Was there a picture?" Scotty asked.
"Not in or on the rocket. But when we got back to the base after
inspecting it, everyone was excited. Someone had sketched a knight in
armor with crayon right on the concrete of the launching pad."
Rick said thoughtfully, "Then you can eliminate those who went to
inspect the crashed Viking."
"Unfortunately, no. We have no way of telling when the picture was
drawn. No one was seen near the launching pad between the time the
rocket was fired and the discovery of the sketch on our return from the
gunnery range."
"Do you think this sabotage is the work of an enemy agent?" Hartson
Brant inquired.
John Gordon shrugged. "Perhaps. Yet we don't really think so. In the
first place, an enemy agent would probably not leave a calling card. And
second, we're reasonably sure no agent could have gotten past the
security check."
There was silence while Scotty and the Brants thought over what Gordon
had said. The scientist busied himself with the excellent food, and
finally accepted a cup of coffee.
Rick voiced aloud the angles that puzzled him the most. "If not an enemy
agent, then why the sabotage at all? Who would have anything to gain but
an enemy?"
"If we had the answers, we could find the saboteur," Gordon pointed out.
"If we knew why he calls himself 'The Earthman' we might also have a
lead. But as it is, we're stumped. It could be anyone on the base,
including me."
"Is it you?" Barby asked in a stage whisper.
Gordon looked around, as though to make sure there were no
eavesdroppers. "I don't think so," he whispered, "but I'll have to admit
I haven't looked since yesterday."
"What do you want the boys to do?" Mrs. Brant asked.
The scientist became serious again. "It's a desperate hope," he
admitted, "but there is always a possibility they might turn up
something if we plant them as undercover agents. Rick and Scotty not
only have good sense, but they're lucky. Maybe they'll be lucky enough
to stumble over or sniff out a lead."
"How do we do this?" Rick wanted to know. He was definitely interested
in the job. Just the idea of witnessing a big rocket shoot was exciting
enough, even without the added attraction of a saboteur to be uncovered.
"You get jobs," Gordon stated. "But you'll have to get them on your own
merits, because if I intervened in your behalf that would be a tip-off.
Only I and the Chief of Security will know about you."
"Can you trust the Chief of Security?" Barby asked.
Gordon smiled. "A fair question. All I can say is, trust must start
somewhere. If Tom Preston is the Earthman, I'll turn in my spaceman's
suit and proton disintegrator and resign from the human race."
Rick grinned. "All right. We'll trust the Chief of Security on your
say-so. What's the next step?"
"Well, you're not old enough to have much of a work history, so we'll
have to exaggerate your ages and the time you've worked. It will be safe
enough, so far as being found out is concerned," Gordon said. "Security
makes all reference checks, including employment, and Tom Preston will
handle your cases personally."
Dismal rubbed against Gordon's leg. The scientist slipped him a scrap of
cheese from the salad, then looked guiltily at Mrs. Brant.
"John Gordon! How many times have I told you not to feed Dismal at the
table?" she exclaimed in mock anger.
Gordon looked sheepish and hung his head. "I'm sorry. Anyway, boys, I'll
advance you funds. You fly to Las Vegas as soon as possible and apply to
Lomac for jobs."
"To who? I mean, to whom?"
"Lomac, Rick. The base is run by a contractor, an engineering firm by
the name of Logan and Macklin, Lomac for short. They hire all but a
handful of scientific personnel, like project directors and their chief
assistants, who come from a variety of places, including government
agencies, universities under contract to the government, and so on."
"Do we apply in Las Vegas?" Scotty asked.
"Yes. Lomac's recruiting office is there. I'll give you the address.
However, the base is some distance away, so you'll need transportation.
I suggest a jeep. You can pick one up secondhand after you arrive. I'll
give you sufficient funds. Also, prepare to hang around Las Vegas for a
while. It will take at least a week to process your papers."
"Are we supposed to know you once we get there?" Rick queried.
"Only casually, because of the Spindrift connection. You know who I am,
but you don't know me well because you've never worked on a project of
mine. I'll find occasion to talk with you privately as needed."
"Another question," Rick said. "Have there been any more sabotage
attempts besides the two you mentioned?"
"No. Those first projects went off in fast order, but the next shoot
isn't scheduled for about two weeks."
Scotty asked, "What's the name of this base? You haven't told us."
Gordon looked grim. "I hope the name isn't prophetic," he said. "The
base was named for the dry lake where the rocket pads are located:
Scarlet Lake."