A Mixture of Genius by Arnold Castle (read people like a book .TXT) 📖

rocket? What was the point of it, anyway?"

Sigmund Loeffler opened a folder which lay on his desk and started sifting through its contents. He pulled out several memoranda and a list of names, closing the folder again.

"There was a gang of eight, all in the eleventh or twelfth grades at Eisenhower High. Five of them were members of the school rocket club. Three of them had juvenile delinquency records—minor stuff, mostly, like copter stunting and public disturbance. The youngest had won a couple of science awards for demonstrations in—" he glanced significantly at the senator, "the chemistry of explosives."

Duran said nothing, but his sense of concern was growing.

"Let's see," Loeffler went on. "Two of the boys were taking vocational courses. One had his own machine shop, in fact. Then there was the electronics expert—Ceasar Grasso's son—know him?"

The senator nodded.

"He runs the highschool T-V station. Knows a lot about radio, I understand. Oh, yes. There was also the lad who drew up the plans for the gadget. Pretty sharp at engineering design, they say—"

Duran peered numbly across the desk at the grim faced official. This was what he had been fearing all along. But despite his apprehension, he was not entirely ready for it.

"That, I suppose," he said quietly, "was my son Roger."

Loeffler nodded slowly. "That was your boy, Vance. Sorry I had to be the one to break it to you."

"But where is he?" Duran asked. "And does Molly know about it?"

"She knows he's been detained, but not how serious the charges are."

"Just how serious are the charges?"

"I don't know yet," said Loeffler. "That's not really my province, of course," said Loeffler. "But the problem is complicated by the fact that Lake Wakataoga is state property, with the island merely leased to Skinner."

Duran fumbled through his pockets for his cigarettes. He found them and lit one.

"When did this happen?" he asked, aware that the painfully tangled knot in his stomach was beginning to untie itself.

"This afternoon around one-thirty. A couple of guys fishing on the lake saw the explosion and called the local civil defense head-quarters. They claim they heard the rocket fall. Damned near had a war scare till the pieces were found. They were easy enough to trace, and the kids gave themselves away by all eight of them being awol from their one o'clock classes. Especially since five of them were absent from a physics class—that was one class they never cut."

"I don't see how they managed to go all the way through with it without someone finding out," Duran said, bewilderedly.

"I know," agreed Loeffler, nodding. "That's the way we all felt. But they admit doing it—hell, they're proud of it!—and we found the shed where the thing was assembled."

"I don't suppose they offered any motive," Duran said.

"Oh, sure. They claim they'd been planning it ever since Skinner wouldn't let them land copters on the island. Pretty weak, huh?"

The senator made no response.

"Well, Vance, I guess you'll want to talk to the boy," Loeffler concluded. "I had him brought up here. Figured it would be best all around that way. I knew you had to get back to Washington tomorrow and probably wouldn't have time to see him then. Shall I have him come in?"

When Duran hesitated, he added, "Oh, I've got to duck out for a few minutes. Get some supper. Got a long evening ahead of me."

"Okay, Loeffler, send him in. And—" This was the hardest part. "And I appreciate this."

"No trouble, Vance," the man said, rising and stepping around the desk. "No more than we've got already."

He removed a suit coat from a hanger and left the office with it under his arm. A moment later the door opened again and the senator saw the shaggy head of his older son peer into the room. The boy was the one who finally broke the silence which followed.

"Hi, Dad," he said, sauntering casually into the office. "Guess you're pretty sore at me. Can't blame you."

Duran remained seated, indicating a chair against one wall. He waited till his son had sat down.

"I'm a little dumbfounded, Rog, that's all. I suppose you had a good reason for it."

"Sure. Old skinflint Skinner wouldn't let us—"

"Roger!" the senator growled threateningly. He was not going to allow the interview to start off with a half-truth.

"Yeah, but that's state land," the boy persisted. "He hadn't any right—"

"Roger, I said a good reason."

"Okay, Dad," he sighed. "No, we didn't have that kind of a reason."

"What it amounted to," Duran said, "was that you wanted to do something spectacular like building a rocket and firing it at something. Only to be fun it had to be illegal, if not immoral. And Melvin Skinner's place seemed like the least objectionable target. Isn't that about it?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Only we had just about finished the rocket before we started wondering about a target. That was the trouble. Once we'd built it, we had to do something with it."

"How do you think that's going to sound in court?"

"I don't know, Dad. You're the lawyer."

Duran cringed, but tried not to show it.

"Roger," he said slowly. "Flippancy is the easiest defense, and the least effective. I hope you won't feel you have to resort to it too often."

The boy said nothing.

"Well, tell me about it," his father suggested, sensing his son's isolation.

"About what?"

"The rocket. Wouldn't a jet have been easier to make?"

"A rocket was cheaper."

The source of the money required for the project was something Duran had overlooked. However, it was, he realized, one best postponed for the present. The important thing now was to regain his son's confidence.

"Did you design it?"

"Yeah. Well, I drew it up. Nothing very original about it. But it was a good little machine."

Duran noticed the boy's restless squirming, saw him perfunctorily place a hand to the baggy pocket of his jacket and quickly withdraw it, then arrived at a decision. Reaching into his own coat, Duran took out the pack of cigarettes, extending it to his son.

"Care for a cigarette?" he asked.

The youth looked at him doubtfully for an instant. Then he smiled his first smile that evening.

"Thanks, Dad," he responded, taking one and lighting it self-consciously. He added, "You've been out of town so much, I didn't think you knew I'd started—"

"I know, Rog," the man said, aware of a rising flood of self-condemnation. "Go on, son. About the rocket. What kind of fuel did you use?"

"Oh, nothing special. It had a liquid bi-propellant motor. We used ethanol and liquid oxygen. Pretty old-fashioned. But we didn't know how to get hold of the fancier stuff, and didn't have any way of synthesizing it. Then, at the last minute, we found that one of the valves feeding into the nozzle was clogged up. That's why we were late to class."

"Couldn't that have been dangerous?" Duran asked, and realized at once that he had said the wrong thing.

The boy merely shrugged.

"Well, it must have been a pretty good machine if it flew sixty miles and hit its target," Duran went on.

"Oh, we had it radio-controlled, with a midget T.V. transmitter mounted in it. Grasso took care of that. He did a terrific job. Of course, it was pretty expensive."

He glanced at his father tentatively for a moment, then bent his gaze to the cigarette.

"I don't have my car any more. But I guess I won't be needing it now."

There was a cautious knock on the door.

"Listen, Rog," Duran began, "I'll try to get to see you tomorrow before I leave. Remember that your mother and I are both on your side, without qualification. You've done a pretty terrible thing, of course. But I have to admit, at the same time, that I'm really rather proud of you. Does that make sense?"

"Sure," said Roger huskily, "I guess so."