“Oh, no. We do it in the high-school shop. If the shop instructor okays you, you can work after school on your own.”
“It must be quite a high school,” the physicist commented. “The one I went to didn’t have a machine shop.”
“I guess it is a pretty progressive school,” Ross agreed. “It’s a mechanical-arts-and-science high school and it has more courses in math and science and shop work than most. It’s nice to be able to use the shops. That’s where we built our telescope.”
“Astronomers too, eh?”
“Well-Morrie is the astronomer of the three of us.”
“Is that so?,” Cargraves inquired, turning to Morrie.
Morrie shrugged. “Oh, not exactly. We all have our hobbies. Ross goes in for chemistry and rocket fuels. Art is a radio ham and a camera nut. You can study astronomy sitting down.”
“I see,” the physicist replied gravely. “A matter of efficient self-protection. I knew about Art’s hobbies. By the way, Art, I owe you an apology; yesterday afternoon I took a look in your basement. But don’t worry-I didn’t touch anything.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about your touching stuff, Uncle Don,” Art protested, turning pinker, “but the place must have looked a mess.”
“It didn’t look like a drawing room but it did look like a working laboratory. I see you keep notebooks — no, I didn’t touch them, either!”
“We all keep notebooks,” Morrie volunteered. “That’s the influence of Ross’s old man.”
“Dad told me he did not care,” Ross explained, “how much I messed around as long as I kept it above the tinker-toy level. He used to make me submit notes to him on everything I tried and he would grade them on clearness and completeness. After a while I got the idea and he quit.”
“Does he help you with your projects?”
“Not a bit. He says they’re our babies and we’ll have to nurse them.”
They prepared to adjourn to their clubhouse, an out-building left over from the days when the Old Ross Place was worked as a farm. They gathered up the forlorn pieces of Starstruck V, while Ross checked each item. “I guess that’s all,” he announced and started to pick up the remains.
“Wait a minute,” Morrie suggested. “We never did search for the piece that clipped Doctor Cargraves.”
“That’s right,” the scientist agreed. “I have a personal interest in that item, blunt instrument, missile, shrapnel, or whatever. I want to know how close I came to playing a harp.”
Ross looked puzzled. “Come here, Art,” he said in a low voice.
“I am here. What do you want?”
“Tell me what piece is still missing-”
“What difference does it make?” But he bent over the box containing the broken rocket and checked the items. Presently he too looked puzzled.
“Ross-”
“Yeah?”
“There isn’t anything missing.”
“That’s what I thought. But there has to be.”
“Wouldn’t it be more to the point,” suggested Cargraves, “to look around near where I was hit?”
“I suppose so.”
They all searched, they found nothing. Presently they organized a system which covered the ground with such thoroughness that anything larger than a medium-small ant should have come to light. They found a penny and a broken Indian arrowhead, but nothing resembling a piece of the exploded rocket.
“This is getting us nowhere,” the doctor admitted. “Just where was I when you found me?”
“Right in the gateway,” Morrie told him. “You were collapsed on your face and-”
“Just a minute. On my face?”
“Yes. You were-”
“But how did I get knocked on my face? I was facing toward your testing ground when the lights went out. I’m sure of that. I should have fallen backwards.”
“Well . . . I’m sure you didn’t, sir. Maybe it was a ricochet, as you said.”
“Hmm. . . maybe.” The doctor looked around. There was nothing near the gate which would make a ricochet probable. He looked at the spot where he had lain and spoke to himself.
“What did you say, doctor?”
“Uh? Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Forget it. It was just a silly idea I had. It couldn’t be.” He straightened up as if dismissing the whole thing.