“Well, Dad, it was like this: We were making a full-power captive run on the new rocket and-” He sketched out the events.
Mr. Jenkins nodded and said, “I see. Come along, boys.” He started toward the converted stable which housed the family car. “Ross, run tell your mother where we are going. Tell her I said not to worry.” He went on, leaning on his cane a bit as he walked. Mr. Jenkins was a retired electrical engineer, even-tempered and taciturn.
Art could not remember his own father; Morrie’s father was still living but a very different personality. Mr. Abrams ruled a large and noisy, children-cluttered household by combining a loud voice with lavish affection.
When Ross returned, puffing, his father waved away his offer to drive. “No, thank you. I want us to get there.”
The trip was made in silence. Mr. Jenkins left them in the foyer of the hospital with an injunction to wait.
“What do you think he will do?” Morrie asked nervously.
“I don’t know. Dad’ll be fair about it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Morrie admitted. “Right now I don’t want justice; I want charity.”
“I hope Uncle Don is all right,” Art put in.
“Huh? Oh, yes, indeed! Sorry, Art, I’m afraid we’ve kind of forgotten your feelings. The principal thing is for him to get well, of course.”
“To tell the truth, before I knew it was Uncle Don, I was more worried over the chance that I might have gotten Mother into a law suit than I was over what we might have done to a stranger.”
“Forget it,” Ross advised. “A person can’t help worrying over his own troubles. Dad says the test is in what you do, not in what you think. We all did what we could for him.”
“Which was mostly not to touch him before the doctor came,” Morrie pointed out.
“Which was what he needed.”
“Yes,” agreed Art, “but I don’t check you, Ross, on it not mattering what you think as long as you act all right. It seems to me that wrong ideas can be just as bad as wrong ways to do things.”
“Easy, now. If a guy does something brave when he’s scared to death is he braver than the guy who does the same thing but isn’t scared?”
“He’s less . . . . no, he’s more. . . . You’ve got me all mixed up. It’s not the same thing.”
“Not quite, maybe. Skip it.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Then Morrie said, “Anyhow, I hope he’s all right.”
Mr. Jenkins came out with news. “Well, boys, this is your lucky day. Skull uninjured according to the X-ray. The patient woke when they sewed up his scalp. I talked with him and he has decided not to scalp any of you in return.” He smiled.
“May I see him?” asked Art.
“Not tonight. They’ve given him a hypo and he is asleep. I telephoned your mother, Art.”
“You did? Thank you, sir.”
“She’s expecting you. I’ll drop you by.”
Art’s interview with his mother was not too difficult; Mr. Jenkins had laid a good foundation. In fact, Mrs. Mueller was incapable of believing that Art could be “bad.” But she did worry about him and Mr. Jenkins had soothed her, not only about Art but also as to the welfare of her brother. Morrie had still less trouble with Mr. Abrams. After being assured that the innocent bystander was not badly hurt, he had shrugged. “So what? So we have lawyers in the family for such things. At fifty cents a week it’ll take you about five hundred years to pay it off. Go to bed.”
“Yes, Poppa.”
The boys gathered at the rocket testing grounds the next morning, after being assured by a telephone call to the hospital that Doctor Cargraves had spent a good night. They planned to call on him that afternoon; at the moment they wanted to hold a post-mortem on the ill-starred Starstruck V.
The first job was to gather up the pieces, try to reassemble them, and then try to figure out what had happened. Art’s film of the event would be necessary to complete the story, but it was not yet ready.