Ken Holt - Mystery Of Green Flame Part 16

180.

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"Here." Sandy thrust the box at him. "If you're in such a hurry do it yourself!"

In the next instant they both realized what was happening to them. Sandy shook his head. "Sorry, Ken," he muttered. Ken shoved the box gently back toward his friend. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just wish I knew enough about things like that to be able to help you."

"Don't worry." Sandy was setting the box carefully on the floor. From his pocket he pulled a stub of a pencil and the small Spanish dictionary which they had had so little opportunity to use. "We'll both have plenty to do when I figure out where to start. Just give me a couple of minutes-and a lot of luck." He bit the end of the pencil for a moment and then he began to draw a diagram on a blank page at the back of the dictionary.

Ken watched briefly. The lines and squiggles on the paper were meaningless to him. He forced himself to move away, to leave Sandy alone. Roberto gave him a small scared smile and Ken walked over to him.

"Feeling better?" Ken asked, ruffling the youngster's black hair. And when Roberto nodded, Ken found another question to ask him-and then another. Roberto's fearfulness gave way in the comfort of Ken's presence close beside him. He talked eagerly about his widowed mother, who had a small taco stand on the square, and about his three brothers and three sisters, all younger than himself.

But in spite of Ken's best efforts he could only give Roberto the surface of his attention. He was acutely aware of the minutes ticking slowly away, one by one, and the complete silence behind him that indicated Sandy was still struggling over his diagram.

"O.K.," Sandy said suddenly, and Ken swung swiftly around. "I know as much now as I'll ever know."

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Ken started toward him, his hands itching for action, any kind of action. Then he heard Roberto's quivering intake of breath at being left alone again. Ken turned back. "Come on, Roberto," he said, lifting the youngster down. "We have to help Sandy now." Roberto's black eyes thanked him silently.

Sandy held out the small sheet of paper. "This is the idea," he said. "If we can-"

Ken, looking at the maze of penciled lines, interrupted him. "It would take you all day to explain it to me," he said. "Just tell me what to do."

"O.K. I'm not sure I could explain it, anyway." Sandy flashed him a brief glance of grim amus.e.m.e.nt. "Get the fifty-foot flash-bulb extension wire out of my camera case and sc.r.a.pe the insulation off one end of the wire. You'll need this." He handed Ken his pocketknife. "Then wrap the bare copper end of the wire around the handle of one of those five-gallon kerosene cans we saw here somewhere. You'll have to sc.r.a.pe the rust off the handle first, so the connection will be good. The can and the wire are going to be our antenna. Fasten the can to the end of one of those old planks and raise it as high up in the air as you can. Got it?"

Ken nodded. "Come on, Roberto," he said. "I'll find a screw driver and you can clean off the handle of the can."

It was good to have something to do. They worked in silence, all of them. Sandy was bent over the coil box, using a nail file to polish the metal disks set flush with its surface. Roberto sc.r.a.ped busily away at the handle of the kerosene can. And Ken found the wire in Sandy's camera case and carefully removed the insulation from a six-inch length at one end of it.

Time went quickly now. In what seemed a very few DESPERATE ERROR 183.

minutes Ken was twisting the bright copper end of his wire around the newly bright handle of the kerosene can. Then he slung the can over one end of one of the splintery wooden planks and held it firmly in place with a loop of wire. Carefully he raised that end of the plank high in the air and let it come to rest against the wall. He made sure the lower end was firmly set into one of the cracks between the stones of the floor.

Sandy glanced over and saw that he had finished. "All right," he said. "Now bring the free end of the wire here. We have to make a ground connection, and that means we're going to have to pry up one of these stones." His foot tapped a spot about ten feet to one side of the convertible. "This one looks as if it might be fairly easy to move. Try the jack handle on it."

"Right." Ken found the jack handle and set to work. Roberto tried to help him, but there was little he could do. The ground around the stone was packed nearly as hard as the stone itself, and Roberto's screw driver sc.r.a.ped away only tiny particles of dust. At first Ken thought he was making little more headway himself, but gradually he found he could dig the jack handle far enough in so that he could begin to worry the stone very slightly.

He was only vaguely aware, as he sweated at his task, that Sandy was equally busy. The redhead was sc.r.a.ping clean another length of extension wire from his camera case. Then he cut the bare copper wire into shorter pieces, and wrapped the pieces around the coil box, in such a way that each wire was in contact with one of the metal disks in the box's walls.

Ken gave one last powerful lift with the jack handle and the stone rose up. He jammed his foot against it, and Roberto's small hands pushed strongly, to keep it 184 .

from falling back again into its hole. A moment later Ken heaved it clear out and toppled it back onto the adjoining stone. The hole it left smelled dank.

"The stone's out," Ken reported, breathing heavily. He dashed sweat from his forehead with the back of a dirty hand. "Now what?"

"Bury the end of this wire at the bottom of the hole." Sandy handed him a short length of wire with a shiny stretch of bare copper at its end. "Then pour water over the dirt until it's good and wet."

Ken looked at him. "Water? Have we got water in a thermos?" It struck him that he was painfully thirsty.

"Not that I know of," Sandy said shortly. "But there's water in the car radiator."

"Oh-sure." Ken swallowed and forced himself to think of the job at hand. With the screw driver he sc.r.a.ped a groove in the hard earth at the bottom of his hole, laid the wire in it, and covered it up. Then he took one of the other kerosene cans, pried off its rusted lid, and used it as a container for the water he drained out of the convertible's radiator. He wasted cupfuls of the precious liquid because it was difficult to direct the flow into the small opening in the can's top.

Sandy, working close beside him, was removing a spark plug from the convertible's engine. "Save all you can of that," he muttered. "We'll need it."

For the first time in many long minutes a voice shouted to them from outside. "Getting hungry in there?" it taunted. "Or thirsty? We've got plenty of sandwiches and stuff out here." A derisive laugh punctuated the words. "All you've got to do is open up."

"Friendly, aren't they?" Sandy said furiously under his breath.

Ken swallowed again, trying not to think of his own DESPERATE ERROR 185.

thirst. Had the men outside heard their conversation? he wondered. But he reminded himself that he and Sandy had been speaking quietly, and he knew that only a raised voice could penetrate those heavy doors.

"Real friendly," he agreed. "Glad they're enjoying themselves." He bit the words off hard. "But he who laughs last-"

"Sure," Sandy said. "Let's just hope it's us." He carried the spark plug away with him and placed it and the coil box on a plank which he laid beside the hole in the floor. Then he began to connect wire after wire, until he seemed to be sitting in the middle of a wildly tangled confusion. One wire ran to the coil from the cigar lighter on the convertible's dashboard. Two ran from the coil to the spark plug. One connected the spark plug to the makeshift antenna. And still another ran from the metal body of the spark plug to the ground wire Ken had buried in the earth.

Ken came over with the can of water. He took one look at the maze of wires and then looked away. If he'd known what the job involved, he thought, he might not have had the courage to suggest that Sandy tackle it. Carefully Ken poured water into the hole, until the earth in which the ground wire was buried was a small sea of sticky mud.

"Now what?" he asked.

Sandy glanced down at the mud and nodded. "This is about it," he said then. He was kneeling before the plank and he ran his tongue nervously over his lips as he looked up at Ken.

Roberto was watching them both with tense, wide-eyed interest.

"I'm getting power to run the thing from the convertible," Sandy explained. He pointed to a pair of wires 186 .

whose bright ends were a scant half inch apart. "When I touch those two wires together, current from the convertible's battery will flow through the primary of the coil."

Ken wished Sandy would dispense with the explanation, but he sensed that his friend was deliberately delaying for one last moment the trial of his laboriously constructed mechanism.

"That will set the vibrator in motion," Sandy went on, "which will generate a high voltage in the secondary of the coil. This will make a spark jump across the gap in the spark plug. And this spark will send radio waves out through the antenna. Understand?"

Ken shook his head. "No. But I don't have to. As long as you understand it, that's all that matters."

"I hope I do." Sandy spoke the words almost silently. And then his right hand moved toward one of the wires. Grasping it between thumb and forefinger, he moved it gently toward the other wire a fraction of an inch away.

The wires touched. A faint blue spark showed. But there was no answering spark at the spark plug.

Sandy looked quickly up at Ken and then back at the coil again. Once more he brought the two wires into contact. Again a feeble spark was created, but the plug itself remained dead.

Beads of perspiration stood out clearly on Sandy's forehead. He had to clear his throat before he could speak.

"I don't even know what's wrong," he said finally. "Of course the coil itself might have been exposed to dampness for too many years."

Ken made himself speak calmly, as if they had all the time in the world. "There were four of those boxes in DESPERATE ERROR 187.

the Ford, weren't there? Maybe another one of them is all right."

"Maybe." Sandy was staring fixedly at his maze of wires. He seemed only half-conscious of what Ken was saying.

"I'll get one," Ken said firmly. "I'll clean up those little disks, the way you did, and-"

"Wait a minute!" Sandy's voice crackled with renewed hope. He was peering so closely at some part of the coil that his red hair almost touched the floor. "Here's some contact points I forgot to clean. That could be-" He didn't bother finishing the sentence. He was giving all his attention to the delicate task of working the nail file back and forth between the tiny points on the coil's vibrator. Without looking up, he murmured, "Flashlight."

Ken s.n.a.t.c.hed up the light and knelt down to hold it on the spot where Sandy was working. Sandy moved the vibrator gently up and down, making certain that the two newly bright nubs of metal met each other squarely.

"O.K.," he said finally. "We'll try it again." He wiped damp hands on his trousers, took a deep breath, and then picked up the wire between his fingers. He flicked it forward and it touched the wire from the coil.

An angry buzz sounded from the vibrator, and across the spark-plug gap a blue spark leaped, crackling nois-ily.

Sandy held the wires together for a long second. The spark snarled and quivered, hot and blue.

"You did it!" Ken's hand gripped Sandy's knee violently. "You did it!"

A faint ghost of a triumphant smile lighted Sandy's 188 .

face, and he flicked the two wires together several times, as if still unable to believe what he had achieved.

Roberto cautiously moved closer. His bright eyes reflected the boys' excitement. "Now we can talk to the police?" he whispered. "Now we can ask them to come and take away the men who wait out there?"

Ken and Sandy stared at each other for a long incredulous moment. Sandy finally spoke the staggering thought that was in both their minds. "What dopes we are!" he groaned. "We've got this all rigged up-and we don't know any code! What good is it?" On the last words his voice rose and cracked.

From something he had read long ago, printed letters on a page leaped into Ken's mind. He waited an instant, afraid to rely on this sudden recollection. Then he knew that it would be better to take a chance than to discard all their hard work in complete despair.

"I know the code for-" His voice was thin and uncertain. He started over, firmly. "I know the code for SOS, the international distress signal. Anyway, I think I do-three dots, three dashes, three dots."

Sandy stared at him. Slowly his face became illuminated. "You know," he said softly, "I think you're right." Without another word he bent over his mechanism again. He brought the two wires together and then parted them, three times in quick succession. Each time they touched, the spark crackled. Then he made three longer contacts, and followed them with another trio of short ones.

"That's it, all right," he breathed. "That's the S O S signal." He went through the routine once more.

Zzz-zzz-zzz. Zzzzzzz-zzzzzz-zzzzzz. Zzz-zzz-zzz.

His hands were steady now. His face was set in concentrated purpose. "Switch to our parking lights," he DESPERATE ERROR 189.

told Ken briefly. "We have to save the battery for this." Then, carefully, timing his signals, he began to send again.

"Check." Ken leaped for the car and the wide glow of the headlights reduced itself to two small beams that flattened themselves against the big doors. In the dimness that now filled the whole big room the little sparks glowed more brightly. Ken stationed himself beside Roberto, with a rea.s.suring arm across the slight shoulders, and they both watched and listened as Sandy kept steadily on with his task. Five long minutes went by.

Ken found himself picturing the police station, and the activity that might be taking place there now because their signal had crackled its way through the police radio receiver. But suppose the receiver wasn't turned on? And even if it was, were their signals strong enough to interrupt normal reception?

Suddenly he struck his forehead with his fist. "We can at least find out if we're getting through," he said, running the few steps to the car again. It had belatedly occurred to him that they could check the effects of their sparks on their own radio. He flipped the switch, keeping the volume low. "Any idea where I should turn to on the dial?" he asked Sandy.

"It shouldn't make any difference," Sandy told him, pausing briefly. "These sparks ought to be blanketing the entire dial-if they're doing anything at all." He went to work again.

And suddenly the car's radio speaker erupted violently. In perfect time with Sandy's sparks, it snapped and crackled.

"You're sending!" Ken didn't have to say the words aloud. Sandy, too, had heard the echo of his carefully s.p.a.ced sparks.

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Ken turned the dial. The crackling followed wherever he moved. "It's all over!" Ken reported. "They can't miss it! You must be ruining reception all over town!"

But Sandy shook his head. "We can't be sure how far the effects are felt," he said. "They may not reach those planes in the air. They may not even reach the police station. And if not, we're wasting our time." But he kept grimly on, changing hands when one grew too unsteady for the delicate task.

Ken looked at his watch. It was noon. What were Mort Phillips and Gonzalez doing? If they were hearing these signals, would they realize where they came from? Surely they would at least suspect that the boys might be sending them out. And in that case they probably would already have their patrols scouring the town of Rio Claro, trying to run them down. They would- Of course!

"Roberto!" Ken said suddenly. "What is the frequency of the local radio station?"

Roberto blinked. "The-? I do not understand, se-nor."

"Come here a minute," Ken told him. And when Roberto climbed into the car beside him, Ken said, "Can you find the Rio Claro station on this dial?"

"That is what you ask me? But yes-it is here." Roberto's small fingers twisted the dial until the pointer was set at one thousand kilocycles.

Faintly, behind the noisy static of the sparks, Ken could hear music. Then the music stopped and he heard the shadow of a voice. He leaned closer.

"Sandy!" he said suddenly. "Stop transmitting for a minute." He turned the volume up as the crackle of the sparks ceased.

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An instant later Sandy was beside the car too. There was no mistaking Mort Phillips' clear voice.

"Holt and Allen? Holt and Allen? This is Phillips. This is Phillips. We're picking up an S O S. We're picking up an S O S. If you are sending this signal, reply by transmitting five dots. Reply by transmitting five dots."

Sandy was back at the transmitter before Phillips had given the order a second time. His wrist flicked five times, and five times the speaker crackled. Then he stopped.

"Got it!" The relief and triumph in Phillips' tone was evident. "Nice going-mighty nice going. Now listen closely. Can you answer this message in Morse code? Answer two dots for Yes and one dot for No."

Grimly Sandy tapped out the brief negative.

For a moment the speaker was silent, as if Phillips were gathering himself to face a more difficult problem than he had expected. Then he began to speak again.

"Using two dots for Yes, one for No, tell us this: Are you being held somewhere by force?"

Sandy sent out two quick dots.

"Do you know where you are?" Phillips asked.

Again Sandy transmitted the double signal that meant Yes.

The radio was silent for the s.p.a.ce of a breath. Then Phillips said, "We're trying to trace your position through your transmitter, but that's a slow process. So is this Yes-and-No question business. We can communicate faster if I give you the international code signals. O.K.? Have you got pencil and paper with you?"

Sandy signaled in the affirmative while Ken rummaged frantically in the glove compartment and came up with a sheaf of yellow copy paper, left there from 192 .

some recent Advance a.s.signment. Sandy waved his pencil stub in the air and Roberto grabbed it quickly and hurried back to the car to give it to Ken.