Danny Dunn and Heat Ray Read online

  “Yes,” Mr. Matthews said gloomily, “it’s a question I often ask myself. I’ll be flying along up there, and suddenly I say to myself, ‘What’s holding this crate up?’” Then, abruptly, he grinned. “I’m only joking,” he said, clapping Danny on the shoulder. “I’ll be glad to help you. Only, I haven’t the time right now. I’m a member of the C.A.P.—the Civil Air Patrol, you know—and I’ve got to go over to the airfield this afternoon. I’m afraid I have to leave right now.”

  The three looked disappointed at this, but he went on. “Tomorrow is Saturday, isn’t it? I’ll be flying a fire patrol tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come along with me, and we can talk in the plane? I’ll tell you whatever I can. Maybe it’ll be useful.”

  “That would be keen,” said Danny. “What time shall we meet you?”

  “Ten o’clock. But hold on. I’m afraid you can’t all come. I’m sorry, but you see, my plane’s a little Piper Colt, a two-seater. I wish I could squeeze you all in, but there’s only room for one passenger.”

  “I don’t mind not going,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t be much good for this anyway. It’s between Irene and Danny.”

  “Irene can go,” Danny said gallantly. But his face was overcast as he spoke.

  “No, that wouldn’t be fair at all,” said Irene. “We ought to choose between us somehow.”

  “Since you’re so interested in science, why don’t you do it scientifically?” Mr. Matthews suggested. “I know several scientists, and whenever they have an important choice to make they use a certain little device—”

  “A computer?” Danny asked.

  Mr. Matthews shook his head. Gravely, he dug into his pocket and brought out a half-dollar. “They toss a coin,” he said.

  “It doesn’t seem very scientific,” Irene said doubtfully.

  “Will it help if I call it a ‘circular, bipartite, limited-choice instrument’?” said Mr. Matthews. “Okay, that’s what it is. Now, what do you say, heads or tails?”

  “Heads,” said Irene.

  “Tails,” Danny said.

  Mr. Matthews flipped up the coin, caught it, and slapped it on the back of his other hand. “Tails it is,” he announced.

  “I’m sorry, Irene,” said Danny, but he couldn’t help the happy smile which spread over his face.

  “Right. I’ve got to get going,” Mr. Matthews said, picking up another cookie. “See you tomorrow at ten, at the airfield. You’ll know my plane,” he added, with a sorrowful sigh. “It’ll be the one with patches all over it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “A Peculiar Place to Park a Car”

  Of course, Mr. Matthews had been joking. His plane was a bright red, trim little machine, as neat and shining as if it had just been washed. Danny climbed into the cockpit beside the pilot, and Mr. Matthews, after getting his clearance from the control tower, taxied out on one of the strips. Soon, they were soaring lightly over the end of the field and the town of Midston lay below them like a toy village, with the broad, silver platter of the reservoir lake to the south and the smooth, brown folds of the hills circling it on the north and east.

  “In a little plane like this, you feel as though you’re really flying,” Danny said, peering out of the window beside him.

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” Mr. Matthews answered. “In one of those big commercial airplanes, you might as well be traveling by train, for all the difference it makes. You’re too high up, for one thing, and somehow you don’t feel as if you have wings.”

  “Is this your own plane?” asked Danny.

  Mr. Matthews nodded. “I came into a little money after I left the Air Force,” he said, “and I bought a Piper Cub. Then, later, I turned it in for this one. It’s my business, you know. I’m partners with a man named Abe Clark. We fly freight, and spray crops, and run a taxi service.”

  “And you work for the C.A.P. too,” said Danny.

  “Oh, that’s volunteer work,” Mr. Matthews said. “There are about twenty of us in the local squadron, some ex-Air Force pilots, some with private licenses. It’s a kind of flying club. The squadron owns two planes, and there are five more owned by members. We are often called on to help various organizations, or to do special work for the state—like this fire patrol work I’m doing now. All we get out of this is that the state pays for our fuel.”

  They were now flying over a high hill called the Sugarloaf, and its bare, rocky summit gleamed like a bald head in the sunshine. The little plane seemed to go very slowly. It bounced a bit on the air currents, but it was only by watching the ground slide away beneath them that Danny had any sense of forward motion, and looking at the speedometer he was surprised to see that they were moving at seventy-five miles an hour.

  “Do you always do fire patrolling?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Matthews. “It has been an unusually dry year, and there’s a good deal of danger from forest fires. So we’ve been asked to help out the wardens. You know, a few weeks ago there was a fire in the woods near Beckforth. I was the one who spotted that, and they were able to get it under control before it got too bad.”

  He settled himself more comfortably in his seat and went on, “Now, let’s see. You wanted to know what makes a plane fly, is that it?”

  “Well,” said Danny, “I sort of figured it must be the air itself which holds it up. But I don’t understand how.”

  “Not too difficult,” Mr. Matthews said. He had a clipboard with a pad of paper attached to it, hanging from the instrument panel. He put it on his knee, took out his pencil, and quickly drew a rough sketch that looked like this:

  “That’s the cross section of an airplane’s wing,” he explained. “It’s called the airfoil. Because of its shape and the fact that it is set at a slight angle, when the plane moves forward the air has farther to travel over the top of the wing than under its lower surface. That means that the air above is—well—sort of spread out, and thinner, while the air below is pushed together and is actually thicker. There’s greater air pressure below the wing than above it. So the wing is pushed upward by the difference in pressure.

  “If you are out riding your bike and you’re coasting rapidly down a hill, you can test this by pointing the palm of your hand forward. Hold it rigid and flat and then angle the tips of your fingers upward a little. You’ll feel the air push your hand up.

  “Well, that’s how a plane’s wings operate. The motor pulls the plane forward swiftly and the air pressure lifts it up. Obviously, the faster you can go the more lift you’ll have.”

  “I see,” Danny said. “And a glider works the same way?”

  “Yes, but gravity keeps a glider sliding downhill in the air,” said Mr. Matthews. “The wings, pushing against the air, create the same lift and keep it flying. If it can hit a current of rising air, or a good wind, it can go faster and get more lift, and so rise still higher. Same thing with a kite.”

  Danny nodded. “I suppose a bird can soar the same way,” he remarked.

  “Well—yes,” Mr. Matthews said slowly. “It’s pretty much what happens when, say, a hawk rises on an air current. But a person, even one with wings attached to his arms, couldn’t do the same thing. A bird has hollow bones, and powerful chest and wing muscles designed to give it the power to fly. We have to get that power from engines.”

  He pointed through the windshield at the propeller. “That’s what pulls us ahead,” he said. “If it were to stop, gravity would pull us down. Then, of course, the plane would act like a glider.”

  “I understand,” said Danny.

  “It helps if you think of air as a kind of fluid, like water almost,” Mr. Matthews went on. “So when you stall, the wing acts as a spoiler and creates all kinds of burbles—”

  “Huh? Burbles?”

  “Mm. The air fuddles over the top of the wing and spills over and bubbles behind it—”

  He broke off short, while Danny was still muttering, “Fuddles? Burbles?”

  “What on earth is that?” Mr. Matthews
said.

  “Where?”

  “Down there, in that field.”

  The airplane had swung round over Sugarloaf and the Midston Hills while they had been talking about flying, and Mr. Matthews had turned west. They were now above the rich farmland and thick woods that lay between Midston and the neighboring town of Derby. Just below them lay a wide stretch of pasture, flat and brown, with a pale gray ribbon of road running along beside it. And in the center of the pasture was a strange, gleaming, boxlike object surrounded by a jumble of black and white and brown forms.

  Mr. Matthews tilted the plane and circled above the pasture.

  “Cows—?” he said. “But what’s that other thing?”

  Danny craned his neck. “It’s a car,” he said. “A big, shiny car. A convertible. And there are cows all around it.”

  “What a peculiar place to park a car,” said Mr. Matthews. “Look, you can see his tire marks, pale on the dry grass. He drove right in from the road. Why?”

  “There’s a man in the car,” Danny said, staring down as they circled again. “He’s standing on the seat. Look, he’s waving at us. He’s motioning us to come down.”

  “He must be crazy,” Mr. Matthews said.

  “But he must be in some kind of trouble,” said Danny. “He’s waving like anything.” He pulled Mr. Matthews’ sleeve. “You could land down there. It hasn’t rained in so long the ground must be as hard as the airfield strip.”

  “Land? Down there?” Mr. Matthews frowned. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “You mean there isn’t enough room?”

  “Sure, there’s enough room. That field must be five hundred yards long and there aren’t any trees. Just low stone walls. And it’s all perfectly level.”

  “Oh. I see. You mean you aren’t good enough to land in a field,” Danny said, slyly.

  “Mf! Grf!” Mr. Matthews spluttered. “Good enough? I can land this thing on a deck of playing cards. I can land it on a fifty cent piece. I can land it on a daisy without bending the petals. It’s just that— I just don’t— Oh, bother! Buckle your seat belt.” With that, he swung the airplane around in a graceful curve, banked so that the ground seemed to swing up, on one side of it, and then slid smoothly down to the pasture. The field skimmed past. The wheels touched, they bounced once or twice and rolled to a standstill.

  “Gosh, that was beautiful, Mr. Matthews,” Danny said enthusiastically.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Pretty terrible landing, I thought,” said Mr. Matthews glumly, opening the door on his side of the cockpit.

  They scrambled out of the plane. The cows had scattered when they came swooping in. They walked toward the automobile.

  It was a Rolls Royce. It was immensely long, and its dark blue sides were as bright as mirrors. Its fittings were polished like silver, and its seats were covered with rich, heavy leather. Danny gave a long, low whistle.

  The man who had been standing on the seat now hopped out of the car and strode toward them briskly.

  “Good thing you came down when I waved,” he barked.

  “Are you in trouble?” asked Mr. Matthews.

  “That’s right. Need some help.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Lost my way,” said the stranger. “Which way is it to Midston University?”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Short-Cut Expert

  Danny and Mr. Matthews stared at the man in speechless astonishment. He was rather short, with a wide mouth and large eyes, and a head that seemed too big for his body so that there was something vaguely froglike about him. There was, however, a suggestion of great energy, as well, which was not at all froglike; his manner was crisp and sharp as if he expected people to jump when he called them.

  “Well?” he demanded, clasping his hands behind his back. “Speak up. Or don’t you know? If not, say so.”

  Mr. Matthews gurgled feebly once or twice. Then he said, “Do you mean to say you wanted me to come down and land here just so that you could ask me the way to Midston?”

  “Certainly. Why not?”

  “Why not? Bring my plane down and make a landing in a field full of cows just to answer a question you could have asked of the nearest passer-by—?”

  “What’s wrong with this field?” said the stranger. “Perfectly good field. And you were the nearest passer-by. Of course, you got rid of the cows for me, too. Had trouble with them. Couldn’t drive clear of them. Hate cows. Grateful for that.”

  He pulled a wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open, and took out a bill. Danny’s eyes opened wide. It was a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Take this,” the man said to Mr. Matthews. “Pay for your gas.”

  For a moment, it looked as though Mr. Matthews’ head was about to burst from the pressure of his blood vessels. He turned absolutely purple, and his mouth opened and shut soundlessly. Then he regained control of himself and beckoned to Danny with one finger.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before I add murder to my many other crimes.”

  Danny was fascinated by someone who would park a Rolls Royce in a field, and could pull hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket. “Oh, please wait a minute, Mr. Matthews,” he begged. “I’m sure this man didn’t mean to insult you.”

  The stranger put his money away and snapped his fingers. “My fault,” he said. “Often act without thinking. Should have known you were a gentleman and wouldn’t take money. Stupid of me. Sorry. Be friends.” He thrust out one hand. “Accept apology. Can’t say more, can I?”

  Mr. Matthews hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Oh, well, as long as I’m here I may as well stay,” he said. He took the other’s hand and shook it. “But you must admit it was a crazy thing to do.”

  “Absolutely,” said the stranger. “Admit anything you like. Always have been crazy. Act on impulse. That’s how I made my money. My name’s Pippit—Glenway Pippit. What’s yours?”

  “Charles Matthews. And this is my friend, Danny Dunn.”

  “Very good.” Mr. Pippit shook hands with Danny. “Glad to know you.”

  “How did you ever get into this field, sir?” Danny asked.

  Mr. Pippit snorted. “Drove in, of course. Wanted to get to Midston University before noon. Saw what looked like a tower in the distance and decided to take a short cut. Always take short cuts. Can’t resist ’em.”

  “This one hasn’t done you any good,” Danny said. “You’ve got to drive back up to the main road, then go east two miles, then take the first crossroad—that’s Windmill Lane—then—”

  “Stop!” cried Mr. Pippit. “Never will remember all that. Tell you what. Fly me to Midston. Pay you anything you like.”

  “What?” Mr. Matthews exclaimed.

  “All right, no pay if that’s how you want it,” said Mr. Pippit.

  “But—that’s ridiculous. What would you do with your car?”

  “Leave it. Buy another.”

  Mr. Matthews began to laugh. Danny said hastily, “You could give it to me. I mean, if you’re just going to leave it here. I’d love to have a Rolls Royce convertible. I could keep it until I was old enough to drive.”

  “Hold on, Dan.” Mr. Matthews wiped the tears of merriment from his eyes, patting Danny’s arm. “Mr. Pippit wouldn’t have to throw the car away. He could always send a garage man after it. But it’s impossible anyway. There isn’t room in the airplane for the three of us, and I’m certainly not going to leave you here to walk home. No, a much simpler way is for us to finish our tour and then, when we land at the airfield, arrange for someone to drive out and guide Mr. Pippit to the university.”

  Mr. Pippit thrust out his chin aggressively. “What? Sit here for an hour or more? Can’t be done. Got to meet the president of Midston at noon.”

  Danny had been eyeing the Rolls lovingly. “I could do it,” he said.

  “Do what? Wait here?” said Mr. Pippit.

  “No, guide you to the college.”

  “Fine,” Mr. Pippit snapped. “Jump in
.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Mr. Matthews began.

  “It’s the best solution,” Danny said. “I know the roads. And it really doesn’t matter whether I go back with you or not. And—well—I’ve never driven in a car like this.”

  “Okay,” said Mr. Matthews. “I can understand that. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Go ahead, then. And if there’s anything else you want to know about flying, telephone me.”

  “Thanks for everything, Mr. Matthews,” Danny said. “Oh, boy! I feel the way Joe does when there are two desserts for dinner. First a plane ride, then a Rolls Royce.”

  He got into the car and Mr. Pippit jumped in and started the motor. As they drove out of the field, Mr. Matthews’ engine roared and he taxied to the end of the pasture, turned his plane and took off. There was plenty of room and he soared up lightly, waggled his wings in farewell, and flew off.

  For all his strange and peppery behavior, Mr. Pippit was a good driver and Danny enjoyed himself immensely. The day was mild and the wind refreshing; the car made almost no sound and went as smoothly as if, like the airplane, it wasn’t touching the ground. Mr. Pippit had a way of firing off questions like bullets, and in the short time it took them to reach the edge of Midston he knew all about Danny’s friends, his school, his friendship with Professor Bullfinch, and his interest in science.

  “Want to be a scientist? Very good. Very good indeed,” he said, lighting a cigar. “Rocketry. There’s a good field. Interested in it myself. Got two plants turning out rocket engines.”

  “Oh, rocket engineering’s all right,” Danny said, “but I’m thinking of doing theoretical research.”

  “Rocketry,” said Mr. Pippit firmly. “Only thing for a young man. Come and see me when you’re a rocket expert.”

  “I’m more interested in the properties of matter,” Danny said.

  “Don’t argue. Can’t stand argument. Do whatever you want to. I need engineers in my business. They’re more practical.”

  Danny began to feel his quick temper rising. “Professor Bullfinch says that applied science wouldn’t get very far without theoretical science behind it,” he said.