Danny Dunn and Heat Ray Page 5

  He beamed, and sat down. Miss Arnold said, “Very well, Eddie. You may go and get your project. George, you may help him carry it.” Eddie Philips, wearing a wide cat-grin, got up and left the room, with George Bessel following him.

  “Whew!” Danny whispered to Joe, who sat in front of him. “He must have worked like a slave on that atomic model.”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t too hard to make,” Joe returned. “Just a bunch of balls and some wire.”

  Irene, who sat next to Dan, said across the aisle, “Let’s wait and see what it looks like. It may be more complicated than you think.”

  “We’ll soon see,” Danny said. “Here they come.”

  The two boys came back into the room. Between them, they carried a long, red box, open at both ends.

  Danny began to get up, his mouth opening in protest. Joe pulled him down again.

  “But it’s—it’s our wind tunnel!” Danny gulped.

  “Shh!” said Joe. “It’s a wind tunnel, all right, but not yours. Yours is blue. Anyway, you can’t say anything in front of Mr. Standish. It’ll just look as though you’re jealous.”

  Irene was blushing with indignation, but she held herself in check. She leaned over to Danny and said softly, “Did you register our idea with Miss Arnold?”

  He clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, golly, I forgot. I was going to do it on Monday, and all I could think of was getting the sheet of plastic from the hardware store.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Irene. “When Eddie saw our project, he must have decided it was better than his. Then he checked with Miss Arnold and found that it hadn’t been registered with her, so he decided he’d get there first.”

  Danny groaned. “Well, there’s no law that says he can’t,” he said gloomily. “It’s my own fault for not having told Miss Arnold what we were working on.”

  Eddie and George were setting up the wind tunnel on a table facing an open window. It was a more elaborate construction than Danny’s and Irene’s, being made of plywood, trimly finished and painted, with one whole side neatly fitted with glass instead of plastic. The whole thing was bound with shining copper strips. Instead of a model wing, there was a small glider mounted on a wire stand inside. Eddie put a tin container in one end and set up an electric fan in front of it.

  “How did he get it done so quickly? That’s what I can’t understand,” said Joe. “He isn’t that good at making things. And that one’s much fancier than yours.”

  “I can guess,” Danny replied, bitterly. “Eddie’s father is a building contractor. I’ll bet you he put a couple of his carpenters on the job and they built it for him in no time. I wonder what the tin can is for?”

  Eddie stood before the class. For a moment, his eyes met Danny’s and then he blushed and glanced away.

  “Well, now,” he said, “this is a wind tunnel. It demonstrates how a plane flies. I am going to blow air through the box with this electric fan. I will light some oily rags in this tin can to make smoke so that you can see how the air moves around the wings of the glider and lifts it.”

  Danny snorted. “So that’s it! That’s the one thing I didn’t tell him—how we were going to make the smoke. I guess he can get credit for that, anyway.”

  Mr. Standish, Mrs. Roth, and Miss Arnold stood up so that they could see better. The children in the back of the room moved down to desks nearer the front, doubling up with their friends. Irene was gnawing her handkerchief in anger, and Danny kept punching his fist into his palm and growling under his breath. Eddie carefully lighted a match and touched it to the oily rags. Dark, greasy smoke coiled up.

  “You can see that the plane is just hanging loosely on its wire stand,” Eddie said, tapping the glass panel with a pencil. “Now we’ll start the fan, and you will see the plane rise.”

  Miss Arnold was beginning to look nervously at the ceiling, where the smoke was making a sooty circle. Before she could say anything, Eddie snapped on the electric fan.

  Perhaps the fan was more powerful than Eddie had anticipated. Or perhaps the little wire stand had not been fastened securely in place. First, it blew straight out. Then, with a clatter, the model sailed right through the wind tunnel with the wire stand behind it, and vanished out of the open window.

  “Hey!” yelled George. “Grab it!”

  “Watch out for that tin can!” Danny cried, jumping to his feet.

  The draft had fanned the rags into flame. At the same moment, Eddie made a grab for the model. He knocked over the fan and fell sprawling. The fan knocked over the tin can. A spout of flame shot through the wind tunnel.

  Danny was already out of his seat and in the hall. A foam-type fire extinguisher hung on its bracket near the classroom door. Dan grabbed it and ran back into the room with it.

  The whole thing had happened so rapidly that no one else had moved. But as Danny rushed back in, Mrs. Roth screamed. Mr. Standish whirled around to find the fire extinguisher and collided with Miss Arnold who had had the same idea. Danny darted around them, and pressed down the trigger of the extinguisher. In seconds, the fire was out.

  Eddie got to his feet wiping his head and face, for he had been spattered by the foam. The rest of the class was babbling with excitement. Irene caught Danny’s arm.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Quick thinking, young man,” said Mr. Standish, coming up behind them. He patted Dan’s shoulder. “Not a spark left. You ought to get a medal for that. But too bad about the demonstration.”

  Miss Arnold appeared. She had been inspecting the mess—the scorched box, the ruined electric fan, the pools and blobs of foam all over the table, floor, and window. She had had some of the children open the other windows to remove the smell of smoke.

  She said, in the calm, chilly voice she used when she was particularly annoyed, “Eddie.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. Big as he was, he seemed to shrink to the size of a first-grader.

  “I want to ask you something. Did you test this apparatus before you brought it to class today?”

  “Well—” Eddie looked at the ceiling, and around the classroom, and then at Mr. Standish. At last, with his eyes on the floor, he said, “No, ma’am.”

  Mr. Standish clucked. “Well, well,” he said. “That’s a different matter.”

  “Exactly,” said Miss Arnold. “This was an accident that happened because of plain carelessness. If it hadn’t been for Danny, the only one of us who was alert to the danger, the whole classroom might have gone up in smoke. It could all have been avoided if Eddie had tried out his wind tunnel first. Then he’d have found out what was wrong and corrected it.” She took a long breath. “Perhaps it’s as much my fault as his. But I gave my students credit for being careful enough to test out their projects before showing them. Eddie, you can clean up this mess, now. I’m sorry you had to come down for nothing, Mr. Standish. We’ll be much more careful in the future.”

  Joe said, in Danny’s ear, “Poor old Snitch. He was in too much of a hurry. Even after he swiped the idea, he was afraid he might not get here first with it. What are you going to do now? Tell Miss Arnold about it?”

  Danny shook his head. “No, I’m not going to do anything. He’s had his punishment.”

  Irene smiled at him. “You’re right,” she said. “For a minute, I wanted to—oooh, just kill him. I could have bashed him with a chair. But now I feel sort of sorry for him.”

  Joe snickered. “His name should be changed from Snitcher.”

  “To what?” asked Danny.

  “To Mud.”

  Irene laughed. But Danny suddenly frowned, intently. “Mud,” he repeated. “Hey, what an idea. Mud! That’s the solution.”

  Joe blinked. “Huh? A solution of mud? What kind of a solution is that?”

  Danny swung the fire extinguisher, which he had been holding all this time. He chuckled.

  “The practical use for the laser,” he said. “I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to put this extinguisher ba
ck.”

  Joe gaped after him. “I don’t get it,” he said to Irene. “He baffles me. Is he thinking of using the laser to bake mud pies?”

  “We’ll talk about it after school,” said Irene. “We’d better get back to our seats. Miss Arnold is beginning to get that look in her eye that means thunderstorms coming.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Irene Tries Glamour

  On the way home from school they stopped at Joe’s house, at his insistence, to pick up the notebook in which he wrote his poems. Joe wanted to be a writer when he grew up, and was well known in school for the poetry he composed.

  “I want to have the notebook handy,” he explained, stuffing it in his back pocket, “because maybe I’ll think of some rhymes for laser. And don’t say ‘blazer’ because I’ve got that,” he added.

  “Are you making a poem about it?” Danny asked.

  “Uh-huh. Might come in handy. If Mr. Pippit decides to buy the thing, maybe he can use a good poem to celebrate it.”

  Irene said, “While we’re on the subject, Danny, tell us your idea for a practical use for the laser. Don’t be so mysterious. What did you mean by a muddy solution?”

  Danny tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “One of my best ideas,” he said. “This is so good it scares me.”

  “Hmm,” muttered Joe. “Should I start running now?”

  “Take it easy. Now, look, you know Burton’s Bog?”

  “The big marshy place near Mr. Glenn’s farm?” said Irene. “Of course. The place where they say a cow once sank in and vanished in the quicksand.”

  “Yep. Well, there must be hundreds—thousands—of such places all over the country. They’re no good to anybody. But if you could find a way of draining away the water and making the ground solid, farmers could grow things on the dry earth. Okay, my idea is to build a big laser and use it to evaporate the water. No need to drain a marsh, then. You could just dry it out with the heat ray. Simple?”

  Joe shook his head gloomily. “Too simple. There’s something wrong with it. I don’t know what, but I’m sure it’ll end in trouble.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Irene said. “It’s a fine idea, Danny.”

  “Suppose it sets fire to the whole countryside?” Joe grumbled. “Suppose it burns a hole right down to the center of the earth and starts a volcano?”

  Danny winked at Irene. She nodded. Suddenly, they caught hold of Joe from each side and began tickling him unmercifully, in the ribs.

  “Wait! Stop!” he yelled, squirming. “Cut it out! I can’t—hee, hee, hee—stand it! Eek, ook, awk! Yow! No, no, no!”

  He collapsed and fell to the sidewalk, and they let him alone. He finished laughing, sat up, and wiped his face.

  “All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want to answer intelligent scientific criticism—now, wait a minute. Don’t tickle me any more, my stomach hurts from laughing. But seriously, how are you going to build a laser big enough to dry up Burton’s Bog?”

  “Oh, we won’t. We’ll use the Professor’s laser,” said Danny.

  “But that’s so small it won’t dry up more than a square yard.”

  “A square yard is all we need. We’ll take a couple of buckets of water and make a muddy patch in the garden, behind my house,” Danny explained. “A kind of model marsh. It’ll be enough to demonstrate how the idea will work.”

  They had reached Elm Street by now. Danny went on, “Let’s hurry. I want to tell the Professor about it. There’s no reason why he can’t do it right now, this afternoon.”

  They ran across the street. Irene said, “Look how brown all the grass is, from the dryness. The Professor will have to be careful.”

  “He’ll be careful.” Danny stopped and sniffed. “I can smell smoke. I’ll bet there’s another forest fire up on the slopes of Sugarloaf. I wonder if Mr. Matthews is out flying?”

  He went on to his own front gate, and the others followed him. But when they found Mrs. Dunn, who was ironing in the living room in front of the television set, she told them that the Professor had gone to Midston University for a very important conference with several faculty heads.

  “He’ll be back in time for dinner, I expect,” she said. “You’ll just have to be patient.” They tramped out to the kitchen and found some cookies and milk.

  “I don’t see why we have to be so patient,” Danny said. “It’s such a simple thing to do. If Mr. Pippit could just see it— Gosh, why shouldn’t we do it ourselves? I wonder if Mr. Pippit is at his hotel?”

  “Probably not,” said Irene.

  Danny scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Why don’t you try him?” he said.

  “Me? Try him? Why me?” Irene sat up straight, switching her pony tail over her shoulder.

  “Because,” Danny said, patiently, “if I get him on the phone he’ll hang up as soon as he knows who it is. But you could find out if he’s in and then go see him, and—well, you could be charming and glamorous and talk him into coming here. Girls are supposed to be able to do things like that, aren’t they?”

  “And you and Joe will sit here and eat cookies, I suppose, until I come back with Mr. Pippit following me like Mary’s little lamb.”

  “Joe and I will get the ground properly wet,” Danny answered, with dignity. “And we’ll set up the laser and prepare the whole experiment.”

  “Maybe you don’t know how to work the laser?” Joe said.

  “Nothing to it. I watched the Professor. All he did was turn the power on when the voltage was reached. It isn’t all that complicated a device.”

  “What if he won’t come?” said Irene. “That is, if he’s in, in the first place.”

  “Then we’ll have a little mud in the yard,” Danny said. “And the Professor can try him tomorrow. How about it, Irene?”

  “All right. Where do you think he’s staying?”

  “Only one place he would stay,” said Danny. “The Imperial Hotel. It’s the fanciest place in town.”

  He got the phone book and looked up the number. Irene dialed, and asked for Mr. Pippit.

  “They’re ringing his room,” she said to the others, covering the mouthpiece with her hand, “so this is where he’s staying. But I’ll bet he’s not— Oh, hello. Mr. Pippit?”

  They could hear his sharp voice, speaking tinnily.

  “My name is Irene Miller, Mr. Pippit. I wonder if I could come and see you this afternoon? It’s about Professor Bullfinch’s machine, the laser— Oh, yes, it’s very important—I’ll explain that when I come—in fifteen minutes? Oh, yes, I can make it easily. Goodbye.”

  She hung up and blew out a long breath. Then she tugged her skirt straight, tucked her blouse in smoothly, and patted her hair.

  “I’ll have to run all the way,” she said. “I hope I have wind enough left to be glamorous. And you get that thing working—and don’t be like Eddie. Test it, and make sure it doesn’t fail.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Danny. “It’ll be A-OK.”

  * * * *

  Mr. Pippit had settled into the best suite of the Imperial Hotel, and the place already showed signs of his energetic personality. Clothing was scattered about from open suitcases as though he had had no time to hang anything up; there were newspapers, reports, scribbled notations, and file folders on every flat surface in both the rooms he occupied. A public stenographer sat with her pad ready in one corner. A second telephone had been installed. When Irene arrived, Mr. Pippit was pacing restlessly back and forth with one of the telephones in his hand. It had a long, trailing cord which he kept tripping over. At her knock, he jerked the door open and let her in, and then said, almost in one breath:

  To Irene: “Come in. Be with you in a minute.”

  To the stenographer: “‘Will discuss the matter at length on that date.’ Did you get that? Then go type it out.”

  To the telephone: “Don’t argue, George. Can’t stand argument. Want those proxies ready for the meeting on the fourth. Good-by.”

&n
bsp; He slammed down the phone and whirled to inspect Irene. “What do you want? Got the wrong room?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think so, Mr. Pippit,” Irene said, rather timidly. “I’m Irene Miller. I phoned you about an appointment.”

  Mr. Pippit snorted. “But you’re a kid,” he said. “Sounded like a woman on the phone. Thought you were Bullfinch’s secretary.”

  “Well, I’m not,” said Irene, beginning to feel a little snappish herself. “Do you want me to go? Or shall I tell you why I called?”

  “Don’t lose your temper,” said Mr. Pippit. He pulled out a long cigar and lit it, peering at her over the match. “Bad for the digestion. Never lose my temper. Healthy as an ox. Sit down.”

  She took a chair. He clasped his hands behind his back and stuck his chin out at her. “Go ahead,” he said. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “It’s about Professor Bullfinch’s laser. We’ve found a good use for it,” Irene said.

  “We? Who’s we?”

  Irene said, somewhat self-consciously, “Why—um—Danny and I.”

  “Danny? Dunn? I know him. Boy who led me through every cellar in Midston. Ruined my suit. Ran into my stomach. Ruined my lunch. Hmph! Don’t want anything to do with him.”

  At this, in spite of Mr. Pippit’s warning, Irene did lose her temper. She shot up out of her chair and said angrily, “I think you care more about your old suit than you do about science or—or business, or anything! I thought important people like you didn’t care how old a person was, as long as they had bright ideas. Danny’s got a perfectly wonderful idea for using the laser. Somebody will understand it and—and make a lot of money with it. But it won’t be you. You’ll be too busy sneering at what you call kids.”