The sentence was never completed. The quiet was abruptly shattered by the strident blasting of the plane's alarm system!
Rick and Scotty were on their feet and running on the instant. Rick reached the door first and threw it open, almost upsetting Belsely, the tenant farmer.
The man's eyes were wide, and his face was pale under the tan.
"It's the ghost!" he shouted. "It's him! In the field, by the plane!"
The plane's klaxon horn wailed through the night with a noise audible for miles. The boys pushed past the tenant farmer and ran through the screen door on the porch. The plane was not yet in sight and it was very dark out. The moon was hidden by a bank of low-lying clouds, a precursor of rain.
Rick ran as fast as his long legs would carry him, which was fast enough to hold a track record or two at Whiteside High. Scotty, in spite of his greater weight, was not far behind.
At least one question was answered, Rick thought as he sped through the trees, ducking now and then as he caught a glimpse of a low branch. The ghost could set off an alarm system! He fumbled in his pocket to be sure that he had the keys to the plane, and wondered if he would be in time to keep the apparition from causing damage.
In the next instant he burst through the fringe of the orchard and broke stride as he saw a pale-blue light dancing in the air around the dark shadow of the Sky Wagon!
Scotty was right behind him. He, too, paused for an instant as he saw the light, then both boys were moving at their best speed again.
Rick tried to control his breathing. The spurt was taking its toll, but if he kept going he would get his second wind. He had to get to the plane! He wondered briefly if a supernatural being could do physical damage, then discarded the thought. He wasn't ready to accept that anything supernatural could trigger purely physical alarm systems!
The light seemed almost to have features as Rick drew closer, like a pale-blue jack-o'-lantern, but it was soon clear that this was no hollowed pumpkin head. It was like a human head illuminated from within by some ghastly luminescence.
"It's moving," Scotty called, his voice shaky. Rick saw at the same time that the apparition was retreating, slowly, away from the plane.
It kept the distance constant, always retreating as the boys neared. Their own pace had slowed; the initial sprint couldn't be kept up.
Rick ran directly for the plane, jumped the low wire fence, and inserted his key in the door. He turned the key and the deafening blast of the horn cut off, leaving a deep silence. He turned the key back again, resetting the alarm system, then he jumped the fence once more. "Where is it?"
"There." Scotty pointed to the bank of the creek. The ghostly blue light was swaying, as though in invitation, but it was no longer retreating.
"What is it?" Rick asked. "It looks like a human head lighted from within. But it's too far in the air to be at head level, unless this Union bluecoat was seven feet tall."
Scotty replied with conviction. "It has to be someone carrying a light."
"Can you see anyone under it?"
"No, but that means nothing. The trees make a dark background. I thought I caught a glimpse of a body under it while we were running, but I can't be certain."
"There's one way to find out," Rick said, and was astonished to find that he didn't get cold chills at the thought. "Let's catch him!"
Scotty's reply was to take off in a racing start toward the blue light. Rick had to stretch his legs to catch up, and saw the ghost begin its retreat again, always maintaining the distance between itself and the boys. It danced in the air like a will-o'-the-wisp, as though inviting the boys to hurry.
The pace was slower now, because the relatively smooth surface of the field had been left behind and the course led through bunch grass with an occasional clump of brambles. The ghost danced along the creek bank. Whatever might be under the light was constantly invisible against the fringe of trees. Then it vanished among the trees for a moment, only to reappear.
Rick thought grimly that it was going to be a long chase. Once he stopped in his tracks and whispered to Scotty to do the same. Both listened, but there was no sound other than the normal night noises. Rick knew their own passage had been noisy, marked by the crunching of dry bunch grass, the crack of an occasional small twig of brush, and other sounds of hurrying feet, but the ghost moved with the silence of a—well, a ghost!
In spite of himself Rick felt a moment's chill, then he pressed his lips tightly together and hurried on. It was no ghost, he told himself.It was no ghost!Someone was carrying a light, that was all. Ghosts do not carry lights.
The chase led into the trees, and onto rising ground. There were rocky outcroppings now, and Rick knew they had reached the foothills. The creek cut its way through the foothills for a short distance, then turned to follow an easier path on its way to the sea.
The underbrush was thicker now. This was typical Virginia second-growth forest, full of low brush and creepers. Rick knew it only by feel, however, because it was so dark he could only sense the presence of trees before crashing into them. The blue light vanished periodically behind trees, only to reappear again as though urging them on.
Then, as they broke into a denser thicket, the light vanished completely. Scotty muttered under his breath. Rick peered through the blackness eagerly, taking deep breaths. He had thought they were actually gaining for a moment.
He stood still, his chest heaving. Scotty stopped beside him. There was no sound. Even the night noises of the forest had ceased. There was a weird feeling of hollowness in the air, as though they stood in some great cavern. Rick whispered, "Where did it go?"
"Don't know," came Scotty's breathless reply. "Keep an eye out while I tie my shoe."
Rick sucked in his breath. The blue light! It was closer, tantalizingly close. He suddenly realized he stood on the edge of a clearing, and the blue light hovered on the opposite edge. It danced mockingly.
"Come on!" Rick bounded away from Scotty, and crashed through a dozen feet of underbrush, intent on the light. It wasn't moving! It hovered, as though waiting. For an instant his determination faltered. One thing to chase an object, another to have it wait for you!
He charged on, and his foot slid on soft dirt. He lost balance and his arms flailed to regain his footing, too late! He slid, his back striking painfully as he flew into blackness!
Rick fell, turning slowly through the air. He had time for one brief yell of fear and warning before the wind was smashed out of him. He plunged deep into icy water and struggled frantically as he plummeted into the depths.
It seemed to Rick as though he plunged downward for an eternity. He had no breath; it had been slammed out of him from impact with the water. But he resisted the terrible temptation to breathe and drove his arms downward to check his plunge. In a few seconds he was shooting to the surface again, his chest an agony from lack of air. His arms and legs worked as he literally clawed his way to the air once more, and he shot high into the blessed atmosphere as he broke the surface.
Rick floated, lying on his back, breathing deeply and grateful just to be alive. He heard Scotty calling his name, but had to wait for several breaths before he could manage a weak yell.
He didn't know what had happened, except for one clear thing: they had been mousetrapped. The ghost had lured them on, waiting until the pit was reached before pausing in flight to give them a chance to catch up. And the chance had turned out to be the trap.
"Rick! Can you hear me?"
"I hear you." Scotty seemed terribly far away. Then Rick saw his friend's silhouette, as a dark shape against the lesser darkness of the sky. At a guess Scotty was fifty feet up.
"Hang on while I get a light!"
Rick wondered if his pal was going all the way back to get one of the flashlights they had left behind in the precipitous chase. He wasn't worried about his ability to stay afloat.
He had his breath back somewhat now, so he paddled slowly to a point on the wall of the pit under Scotty's position. He bumped gently into rock and felt with his hands while treading water. The rock surface was rough, but the roughness was regular, the wall flat. Then his fingers felt a groove and his mind created the image to match it. A drill hole! He was in a quarry!
It made sense, Rick thought. This was good limestone country. The ghost had simply led them to an abandoned limestone quarry, and he had obligingly fallen in! A miracle he hadn't broken his neck.
Yellow light cut the darkness and he looked up. Scotty apparently didn't intend to be caught without matches again, for in a moment he appeared, a torch of dry twigs in his hand. It blazed brightly. Scotty placed it on the quarry's lip and added more fuel. The flames mounted higher as the wood caught. Only when the flames were high enough to see by did Scotty look down.
"See a way up, Rick?"
Rick was already searching. On the side to the right of where he had fallen in was a shelf about two feet above the water. It led to another shelf. He swam for it and pulled himself out, shaking water from his clothes. The second shelf was easily reached, but then he was stuck. It was easily twenty feet to the rim. The flickering light showed a sheer wall that could not be climbed without a rope.
Scotty could see the problem, too. "I guess it's us for a rope. I'm sure glad you didn't fall on that side."
"Amen." Where Rick had fallen was a sheer drop into the water. On any other side he would have landed on a shelf.
"Will you be okay?" Scotty asked. "I'll leave the fire burning."
"Take off," Rick replied. "I'm happy as a cliff swallow on my little shelf. Don't be long."
"Okay." Scotty was gone, leaving only the yellow glow of the fire for company.
Unless, Rick thought, the Blue Ghost was hovering nearby, snickering at the success of his efforts.
Thankful that it was a warm night, he removed his garments one at a time and wrung the water from them. The surface of the quarry pool caught the yellow light of the waning fire as he poured water from his shoes. He was very thoughtful. What was the meaning of the night's events?
His wringing out finished and his damp clothes back on, he sat down on the limestone shelf to be as comfortable as possible while waiting.
He had set out at top speed to catch a ghost, but the ghost had caught Richard Brant. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he was sure it meant something. He shivered, as much from reaction as the dampness. Maybe time would tell.
Rick Brant was filled with cold anger. It showed in the determined set of his lips as he swung Dr. Miller's car around the turn leading to the bridge across the creek. He was no longer content to wait for developments. After last night's episode, he and Scotty intended to take the war to the enemy—for war it had become, the moment the Blue Ghost had led them on the wild-goose chase ending with Rick in a deep quarry.
It was pure luck that Rick had not been hurt by the drop into the quarry. True, the ghost had led them to the side that dropped sheer into the water, but impact with the water after a fifty-foot drop was enough to cause damage if one landed in the wrong position. Rick had hit feet first, simply by chance.
Scotty looked at him as the car turned toward the picnic grounds. "Aren't we going to town?"
"Sure. But I want another look at the landscape."
"What do you expect to see?"
"I don't know," Rick admitted. "I'm just hoping for an idea."
He drove through the trees, across the picnic ground, and came to a stop before the mine shaft. There was no one in sight, and the grounds were just as they had left them.
Rick studied the scene, searching for anything offbeat, any anomaly. There was nothing, except for the iron pipe from which spring water flowed. That bothered him. Dr. Miller's explanation might be the right one, but he didn't really think so. If tailings from the mine had been dumped there, the hill would not be so steep or so regular. The years would have weathered the rock debris, but not to such a natural-looking formation.
"If they didn't dump the tailings there," he thought aloud, "where did they dump them?"
"Tailings?" Scotty prompted.
"Rock from the mine. Stuff with no ore in it, or such low-grade stuff that it was worthless."
"I see. Well, they didn't dump it in sight. But they couldn't have dumped it far from here. It wouldn't be sensible to cart worthless rock away any distance."
They hadn't used the tailings for roads around the mine. The roads were natural dirt, with good drainage and no sign of rock ballast. Rick tried to imagine another use, but couldn't, until Scotty spoke.
"Suppose they used up all the rocks throwing them at the Yankee soldiers?" Scotty asked whimsically.
The question started a train of thought that gave Rick the answer in a few seconds. "You've hit it. They didn't throw the rocks, but they used them against the Yankees. I'll bet on it. Come on."
He got out of the car and led the way through the trees to where the creek flowed on its quiet way. There were low embankments a few yards back from the water's edge. "There are the rocks."
"Where?" Scotty couldn't see them. "I don't see nary a rock."
"In the embankments, covered with dirt. See? There's a place where the dirt cover has been washed away by the rain. I've seen defenses like this before. They used rocks as a base, filled in the cracks with clay, then put dirt on top and planted grass to hold it. That gave them a permanent earthwork."
"Why plant grass?" Scotty wanted to know.
"To fool enemy reconnaissance, I guess. I can't think of any other reason, except to prevent erosion. In those days scouting was done by cavalry, and from the other side of the river these look like natural grassy banks."
Inspection of the embankment disclosed that Rick had guessed right. Scotty inspected the place where the rain had washed the topsoil away, probably because some careless picnicker had ruined the grass in that spot. The rocks were clearly of the kind in the mine.
Suddenly Scotty bent lower and began to pry at something. "Rick, there's something buried here."
Rick hurried to help out, and in a moment they had lifted away enough rocks to disclose a considerable amount of moldy cloth.
Scotty took a piece and shook it, then chuckled. "The answer is in the writing on the bag. Wilbur's Premium Portland Cement." He grew serious. "Only where was it used? I've seen no construction around here."
"Maybe someone brought picnic supplies in the bags and buried them with the garbage," Rick said.
"I doubt it. You can't get all the cement out of a bag, because the powder sticks in the fabric. If you try to wash it out, it only sets the cement."
Rick thought his pal probably was right. No one would use a cement bag for supplies, now that he thought about it. He looked up suddenly as a sound came through the trees. It was a motor, but a small two-cycle kind, like a scooter or a small motorcycle.
"Someone coming," he said. "Let's go see who it is."
Scotty held onto the bag. They walked back through the trees and into the camping ground in time to see a lanky, white-clad individual on a three-wheeled motor scooter—the kind where the driver sits on a cargo box—come to a stop. On the box were blue letters, dripping with white frost, that spelled FROSTOLA. Underneath the letters was a list of products: cream pies, frozen cones, cream sandwiches, icicles, and quarts and pints.
Although Rick had never heard of Frostola, it was immediately clear that this was an ice-cream vendor, of the kind that appears in swarms in warm weather with ringing bells and tooting horns, in trucks, on scooters, and even on bicycles.
The Frostola man gave them a cheery wave and tilted his white cap to the back of his head. "Hi! Where's the crowd?"
"We're it," Scotty answered. "Were you expecting more?"
"Wasn't expecting anything," the man retorted. "It's a nice day for a swim, so I thought I'd come sell refreshments to the swimmers."
"They're afraid of ghost fish," Rick said. "The place is haunted."
The man grinned. "I heard about the ghost. If he shows up I'll sell him a cream pie."
"Sell me one," Rick invited, and Scotty echoed the thought.
"Pleasure." The man got off the seat and Rick saw that he was over six feet tall, and built like a sapling. The boy also saw that he wasn't as young as he at first appeared. That was odd, because the peddlers on scooters were usually either very young or old.
The Frostola man opened the seat box and the boys looked in, at neat stacks of ice cream packaged in various ways. The stuff was kept frozen by slabs of dry ice wrapped in brown paper.
The cream pies were on a stick, and coated with chocolate, butterscotch, and vanilla with coconut. Rick paid for his selection and Scotty's, then commented, "It's a long way out here from town."
"Sure. But I enjoy the ride. It's a chance to get away from howling mobs of kids."
A strange comment from one who made most of his sales to kids, Rick thought. He noticed that the peddler was eying the bag Scotty had picked up, and was trying to be surreptitious about it. Anyone would be curious about someone carrying a moldy bag, but why try to conceal that curiosity? On impulse, Rick said, "There's a trash can, Scotty. Throw the bag away and let's go." To the peddler, he added, "We're doing our bit to keep the place clean."
"Good thing to do," the man admitted.
The boys got in the car. Rick turned it around and headed for town. The rear-view mirror told him that the Frostola man watched them until the trees hid them from view.
Rick said thoughtfully, "If you were anxious to make your fortune selling Frostola, where would you go to do it?"
Scotty grinned. "My thought exactly. I'd go where there are people. I'd either go up streets ringing my bell, or I'd park at an intersection where cars could stop. I wouldn't go to a deserted picnic ground—if I knew it was deserted."
"If he didn't know, he's a stranger here. Could he be a new man?"
Scotty shook his head. "A new man wouldn't know the way out here, and if he asked, he'd be told that people are staying away because of the ghost."
"True. Your thoughts are as lucid as Costin's Creek, ol' buddy. Also, he is not the typical ice-cream salesman, and he's not from around here. He's a little old for riding a scooter cart, and the look on his face and the way he carries himself are wrong. He doesn't fit the part. Besides, his speech isn't local. He's no more a Virginian than you are."
"He sounds more like a Yankee," Scotty agreed.
Rick sighed. "Well, we've got something, although I don't know what. Cement bags where there is no construction and an ice-cream man who doesn't fit the part. What do you make out of that?"
Scotty chuckled. "Simple. The Frostola man is building a secret ice-cream stand. A modern one, out of poured concrete walls. He's not building it where anyone can see it, because he doesn't want to be bothered by customers."
Rick grinned. "Okay, Hawkshaw. That's enough deduction for one morning. Take a look at that sky. Have you heard a weather report lately?"
Scotty glanced upward to where mare's-tails were making streaks across the sky. "Looks like a storm brewing. Why not turn on the radio?"
Rick did so, but there was only music from a nearby station, interspersed with local commercials. Before there was a chance to get a weather report they were rolling into town.
Lansdale was too small even to be called a "whistle stop," because no trains came near it. An interstate bus route passed through on the main highway, and that was the sole link with the towns to north and south, except for private cars.
Rick drove right up the main street. He saw a drugstore, an independent food market, a hardware-and-farm-supply store, a variety store, and two gas stations. On the outskirts of town was a huge farmers' market open only on Fridays and Saturdays.
The market was obviously the main center of trade for the farm people of the area. Lansdale would be very busy on Fridays and Saturdays, and just about abandoned, except for the few hundred people who lived in town, for most of the week.
He turned the car at the edge of town and drove back down the main street. Opposite the drugstore he found the sign he wanted. Jethro Collins, Real Estate and Notary Public. He parked in front of the house.
Collins had his office in what had once been the parlor of his own home. Rick could see him through the window, an enormously fat man in a white shirt and red suspenders. As Rick rang the bell, he yelled, "Well, come on in!"
Once inside, the bull voice was reduced in volume to fit the room, a small one, cluttered with photographs of houses.
"What can I do for you, kids?"
The question was not courteous. The tone said Collins was impatient at the interruption, that he was sure these kids would only waste his time, and that he hated kids and everyone else.
Rick thought he looked like a Chester White hog, only meaner, but he answered politely. "We've come from Dr. Miller's place, sir."
"So? Does he want to sell?"
"No, sir. Not without more information. If you could tell us the name of the purchaser ..."
"I can. I won't. None of your business. If Miller wants to talk business he can come see me. Now get out."
The boys lingered. "You must admit that it was an unusual offer, sir. The price was rather high for worthless land."
Piggish eyes surveyed them. The bull voice grated, "Get out!"
They went. There was nothing else to do.
Scotty started to get into the car, but Rick stopped him. "Let's go to the drugstore. I want to get a spray can of insect repellent."
"Okay." Scotty chuckled. "You can see why Dr. Miller is not fond of Mr. Collins."
"I'm going to join the anti-Collins club as soon as we get back. Look, druggists know everything about their town. Let's see if we can find out if the Frostola man is new."
Rick opened the screen door and they went into a drugstore that had not changed substantially for half a century, except for the addition of modern sales items. The druggist, a wisp of a man, was friendly. They sat down at the marble-topped soda fountain and Rick asked, "Got any Frostola cream pies?"
"Don't carry them," the druggist replied. "They're sold only by the route man."
"I see you have a new man in this territory," Rick said casually.
Bright eyes inspected him through rimless glasses. "Fairly new. Seems all right."
"He's pleasant enough," Rick assented. "Has he been on the job long?"
"Six weeks, more or less."
The boys settled for cokes, then drove back to the Millers. Rick was pleased. They hadn't made much progress, but at least they had uncovered an interesting character in the new Frostola man. His arrival, according to the druggist, coincided with the appearances of the Blue Ghost. He traveled to the mine area when no customers could be found there. He was curious about a cement bag. He didn't fit the character of an ice-cream route man.
Rick headed straight for the picnic ground. There was no sign of the Frostola scooter, which meant the man had left right behind them, otherwise they would have met him on the road on the return trip.
On a hunch, Rick got out of the car and walked to the trash can where Scotty had put the cement bag. The bag was gone.
Rick awoke to the sound of wind, a sign that the storm traveling northward from the middle south was approaching. He groaned. If the storm arrived before nightfall, the annual Sons of the Dominion affair would be postponed.
After yesterday's events he had decided to drop the idea of spreading the word that he and Scotty were ghost watching, in the hope the ghost would appear for just the two of them. His new plan wasn't completely worked out, but it would be before long.
Scotty grinned at him from the other bed. "No night alarms last night. Guess the ghost couldn't find anyone to play with."
"Maybe tonight," Rick replied. "Come on, sack hound. Rise and shine. We have things to do."
Scotty glanced through the window at the sky. "We'd better do 'em quick, then. Barring a shift in the weather system, we're due for some fine squalls."
After an excellent breakfast of pancakes and genuine pepper-cured Virginia ham, Rick borrowed an empty jar from Mrs. Miller, checked all the flashlights available, and explained to the Millers the purpose of the trip.
"I'm going to get a sample of the water from the pool and try to see if there's anything strange about it, then I thought we'd take a closer look at the mine to see if we can trace that water pipe. It still worries me."
To his surprise, Barby and Jan hurriedly finished their breakfasts and announced they were going, too.
"You're going into that mine," Barby explained. "We're going to be waiting outside, and if you're not out within ten minutes, we're going to come home for help."
Rick was touched. Both girls believed in the ghost, Barby more than Jan, while he and Scotty were convinced that it was man-made in some way they didn't yet understand. It took courage for the girls to accompany them, even if they only planned to wait at the mine entrance.
"Okay," he agreed. "Let's go."
Dr. Miller offered, "Take the car. I don't like the looks of the weather and there's no point in your getting caught in the rain."
Rick accepted and in a moment the four young people were on their way. He saw that the sky was filled with haze, with only a glimpse now and then through the haze of flying scud. Something was on the way, all right.
"It's a tropical storm," Jan explained. "The morning weather report from Washington said it would strike northern Virginia this morning."
"And not long from now," Scotty commented.
By the time Rick had collected his first sample, a jarful of water from the pool mixed with a scraping of algae from the bottom, there was an ominous line of black clouds on the horizon.
He hurried to the embankment where Scotty had found the cement bags, his pal close behind him. The girls had waited in the car.
To his surprise there were no bags. Raw earth showed where they had been dug up.
"What do you make of that?" he asked.
Scotty shook his head. "I don't know. The Frostola man must have taken them, but I can't imagine why. Come on. Let's get out of here. This is no time to stand around wondering. That storm is close!"
"No mine for us this morning," Rick said. "Wonder if the rain will last long enough to cancel out the Sons of the Old Dominion, or whether we'll just have some thundershowers?"
"Time will tell. Let's go."
They beat the storm to the house by minutes. It arrived with a rattle of windows and the flash of lightning, followed by thunder that reverberated among the mountains endlessly. The rain came in blinding sheets, covering the windows with a steady flow of water that blocked all vision.
Rick set up his microscope on the kitchen table and plugged in the substage illumination. Then, while the others watched, he selected a well slide, took his pipette, and captured a drop from the jar of pool water. The drop went into the well slide. He put on a cover glass, then applied his eye to the ocular.
After a moment of focusing and shifting the well slide, the drop of water suddenly turned to a strange aquarium populated by fantastic animals. He watched, counting the species aloud. "Lots of paramecia. A Volvox. Two Stephanoceros. One hydra. Not bad for a single drop. Want to look, anyone?"
Everyone did. Rick waited while the girls exclaimed over the microscopic creatures, and Mrs. Miller remarked to her scientist husband, "And we drink that water?"
Dr. Miller smiled. "No, dear. We drink the water from the pipe. This sample came from the pool."
"But if the animals are in the pool, they must have come from the spring!"
The scientist shook his head. "The spring water is pure. It probably has a lower bacteria count than our well. But the pool water is exposed to the air, and provides an excellent breeding place. Most of these animals propagate from spores, which are in the air."
Rick added, "That's right, Mrs. Miller. When I want a culture I just put some water with a little broth in it out in the open for a day or so, then put it out of direct sunlight. Within seventy-two hours I have a bigger mob of animals than this in every drop."
"Then the Blue Ghost didn't hurt the water of the pool?" Scotty asked.
"Can't tell," Rick explained. "There was no permanent harm done by any chemicals. We can say that much. But you can get a collection like this in three days, and it's been that long since the ghost appeared. So these animals would be in the pool by now, even if the Blue Ghost had done something to adulterate the pool temporarily."
The storm punctuated his remarks with a gust of wind that rattled the windows.
"It's getting worse," Mrs. Miller exclaimed. "I do hope that it doesn't damage the little apples on the trees. They're so good. We're planning to have bushels shipped to Spindrift when they ripen."
Jan Miller brought them back to the subject. "How could chemicals be harmless to the little animals, Rick?"
"Chemicals might kill off those in the pool, but the constant dropping of spring water would soon dilute the solution. Or, some chemicals would combine with the oxygen in the water to form harmless salts. I can't be sure, of course. I'm just trying to think of ways the ghost might be produced."
Barby sniffed. "You're a long way from an answer, I'd say. Even if your old chemicals could make the white mist, they couldn't make the Blue Ghost appear and go through the business of getting shot!"
"Too true, Sis. I'm not claiming a thing. So far we have only some pretty wild speculation, plus an interesting ice-cream man, an offer to buy part of this property, and some missing cement bags. Old ones, too."
Barby had to smile. "If you can tie all those things together into a ghost, I'll type up your science project for free, and as many copies as you need!"
Rick grinned. "And if I don't?"
"I won't be surprised, but you can get me a new record album."
"Done. You've got a bargain." Rick turned to Dr. Miller. "There's one bit of information your tenant farmer, Mr. Belsely, can get for us that none of the rest of us can get. That is, do the real-estate agent and the ice-cream man know each other, and in particular, are they friendly? He could ask around town without causing suspicion."
"I'll ask him right now," Dr. Miller replied. He went to the telephone in the big farm kitchen and dialed. After a moment he said, "Clara?... Is Tim there?" He waited, then said, "Tim, I have a little job for you.... No, not that. Just asking a casual question around town.... Tim.... Hello ..." He hung up and turned to the others. "The phone went dead."
Rick saw that his substage illumination was out, too. "So did the electricity."
Dr. Miller frowned. "It's unusual for both the phone and current to go out at once. That must mean a tree is down across the lines. Both lines cross the creek within a few feet about half a mile upstream."
There was nothing for it but to wait the storm out.
Rick and Dr. Miller resumed their chess tournament. Scotty spent the time making an improvised game of Yoot, an ancient Korean game that can be played almost anywhere, under nearly any circumstances. At its simplest, the Yoot board can be scratched in the dirt with a stick, and the Yoot throwing sticks that take the place of dice—or a spinning arrow—in similar Western games can be cut from a twig. Scotty sketched the board on a piece of cardboard from a box in which groceries had been carried and made the throwing sticks by splitting a piece of cane from an ancient cane chair in the woodshed. Checkers were used as counters, where in the outdoors pebbles would have served.
"It's like parcheesi," Scotty explained to the girls. "You try to beat your opponent around the spaces on the board. The four sticks get thrown into the air, and you can move one space for every stick that lands flat side up. If all four land flat side up, that's a 'yoot' and you get another throw on top of the four moves. You start, Barby, and I'll show you the other rules as we go along."
At lunchtime Mrs. Miller broiled hamburgers on the charcoal grill out in the woodshed, which connected to the kitchen. Then she used the glowing coals to make coffee in the old-fashioned way, putting the grounds directly into the pan of boiling water. Since the family coffeepot was an electric percolator, this was the only means she had.
Rick would have enjoyed it thoroughly were it not for his impatience to put his plan for catching the ghost into operation. It was certain by now that the affair at the picnic grounds was called off, but with radio and TV silent, there was no way of checking.
The storm continued through the afternoon and into the evening. Dinner was broiled steak, with a tossed salad. If the storm continued for a week, Rick told the group, they'd all get as fat as Collins from Mrs. Miller's charcoal cooking.
Over coffee he outlined the plan that had been stirring in his mind.
"We don't know the motive for the ghost's appearance yet. We don't know how he appears, either. But unless I'm way off, the Frostola man has something to do with it."
"I don't see how you can say that," Barby objected.
"It's an assumption," Rick admitted. "But what else have we but assumptions? We assume the ghost is man-made. All right. Who's the man? I give you Frostola, the product that produces ghosts.
"Seriously, we have to make some assumptions about our chase of the ghost. If it was a man, it was a tall one with some kind of lighted thing on his head. That wouldn't be hard to rig. Plastic comes in all shapes and sizes and colors, these days, including human heads that are used in store windows. It would be a cinch to rig up a flashlight bulb and battery inside one. Wouldn't take me five minutes if I had a little wire and a soldering iron."
"That's true," Dr. Miller agreed. "Making the Blue Ghost the boys chased would be absurdly easy."
"But leading us on took someone who was a good runner," Rick continued. "He also had to know his way around."
Jan Miller pointed out, "But he floated right over the quarry and you fell in."
"It wasn't like that," Scotty corrected. "We stopped because the ghost had vanished. It's not hard to see why. He switched off the light, walked around the edge of the quarry, then switched on again."
"That has to be it," Rick agreed. "Now, why try to lead us on like that? It was only an accident that Scotty and I didn't go in together, because his shoe needed tying. Otherwise, we'd both have been at the bottom of the quarry."
Dr. Miller shook his head, in bewilderment, not in negation. "You might very well have been hurt seriously or even killed. In which case people would have blamed the ghost. But why did the ghost do such a thing?"
Rick had wondered about this, too. "I can think of only one reason. The ghost can't stand investigation. He knew we were a menace because Scotty and I ran right up and tried to catch him that first night."
"But why did he tamper with your plane, or try to?" the scientist asked. "He couldn't have known about the alarm. You checked the plane, didn't you?"
"Yes. It wasn't touched, so far as we could see. Anyway, no harm was done. I can't imagine why he went for the plane, though, unless he figured on sabotaging us that way."
"You still haven't told us why you suspect the Frostola man," Barby pointed out.
Rick ticked off the points on his fingers. "He's new. He arrived just as the ghost started making appearances. But he's not so new that he hasn't had time to study the area or to make plans to lead nosy people to the quarry. He was at the picnic ground when there was no chance of selling much ice cream. He took the cement bags; we don't know why. He's tall and lean, so he could run fast enough to keep ahead of Scotty and me. He's also tall enough to qualify for the ghost we chased."
He stopped and took a deep breath. "And one more thing. He carries something that would make a marvelous mist for a ghost to appear in. Something that might harm the microscopic animals in the pool temporarily—although I'm not sure of this—but would be gone with the mist."
The others stared at him with complete interest.
Dr. Miller said softly, "Of course! Rick, that's brilliant. It fits perfectly!"
Jan Miller wailed, "What does?"
"Dry ice," Rick said.
The storm had given way to a fine drizzle of rain by morning. Rick stared out the window at the drenched land and considered the angles he had been turning over in his mind.
The dry-ice theory wasn't conclusive, he knew, but it was a strong indication. It didn't explain the Blue Ghost himself, but it could explain the mist.
Dry ice is simply solid carbon dioxide, which is a gas at normal temperatures. It becomes a solid at low temperatures, and because it is harmless, inexpensive, and clean, it is widely used to keep things cold, as in the case of ice-cream route men who have no means of refrigeration.
When the temperature is raised, dry ice passes directly from the solid to the gaseous state. When dropped into water it seems to boil, as the comparative warmth of the water turns it to gas, and it creates a fine white mist.
Rick was reasonably sure the Blue Ghost appeared in a carbon-dioxide cloud, and he was beginning to have an inkling of how this was accomplished—in principle, if not in specific terms. There were, after all, he reasoned, only a few ways of creating a visible image. He was going through the list of possibilities, eliminating them one by one.
If the Frostola man was connected with the ghostly appearances, it was only necessary to keep track of that tall individual. This was Rick's plan, necessarily postponed because of the storm.
"Wish we had a radio," he said. "I'd like to get a weather report."
Scotty grinned sympathetically. He knew that Rick was impatient when there was detecting to be done.
"We really should have a battery radio," Dr. Miller said. "Power here is not very dependable in stormy weather. I think I'll get one, although that won't help now."
"What we need is a radio that doesn't depend on power," Jan Miller said. "Then it would always be ready."
Rick stared at the girl, not really seeing her. A radio without power. He remembered a long talk with Dr. John Gordon of the Spindrift staff about the principles of radio. Dr. Gordon had sketched a circuit that needed no power, and then had told Rick of how American ingenuity had produced what soldiers called a "foxhole radio."
"I saw an old transformer in the woodshed," he said suddenly. "May I have it, Dr. Miller?" At the scientist's nod, he addressed Jan. "I'll bet you can find me a cardboard tube. Then, if I can have an old razor blade and permission to take the receiver off the telephone for a while, I can make a radio!"
The scientist, the girls, and Scotty looked at him with disbelief. "He's gone off his rocker at last," Scotty muttered. "How can anyone make a radio out of junk?"
"I'll need a pencil stub, a few screws, and a piece of board," Rick added. "A safety pin would help, too."
"Rick Brant, you're being silly," Barby said firmly. "This is no time for practical jokes!"
Dr. Miller held up his hand. "Peace, Barbara. Rick isn't joking. I believe I see what he has in mind. Rick, I've never heard of this, but I assume the oxide on the razor blade is to act as a rectifier?"
"That's right, sir. John Gordon told me about it."
The scientist rose. "Then it will work. Come on, gang. Let's build a radio out of junk."
With many hands to help, the work went quickly. Under Dr. Miller's direction, Scotty took the transformer out of its case and the girls went to work unwinding the quantities of wire from its coils.
Rick found a razor blade and anchored it to a rectangular piece of plywood he found in the woodshed. It was a double-edged blade, and one small screw from Dr. Miller's junk box served to hold it. He wrapped a short piece of insulated wire, one of the transformer's connecting leads, under the screw before he tightened it. He sharpened the lead pencil with his jackknife, uncoiled the safety pin, and pushed the sharp end into the exposed lead at the upper end of the pencil, which was a stub only two inches long.
The safety pin also was screwed to the board, the screw going through the space in the pin's head. It was placed in such a position that the sharp end of the lead pencil rested on the razor blade. Another short piece of insulated wire was wrapped around the screw before it was tightened. Rick bared the copper end of the wire in order to make a good contact.
Jan found a cardboard roll that had once held paper towels. Rick cut off about six inches of it and proceeded to wind it with wire from the transformer. He wound evenly and tightly, until the roll was full of wire. Then he stabbed a small hole in each end of the roll and pulled the wires through to hold the coil in position. The roll—now a coil—was tacked to the board with thumbtacks.
Dr. Miller, meanwhile, had taken the receiver from the telephone. Scotty strung yards of wire around the room and handed the loose end to Rick. That was the antenna. Then Scotty scraped a bright place on a water pipe with his knife and twisted a length of wire tightly around it. That was the ground.
Rick and Dr. Miller made connections. Rick gestured to the haywire apparatus with some pride. "Behold. Where there was junk is now a radio."
Jan Miller said, "I don't believe it!"
Rick had to laugh. "I'm not sure I do, either. But let's try." He sat down at the table and held the receiver to his ear. With the other hand he began the laborious job of locating a sensitive spot on the razor blade.
Dr. Gordon had told him that only an occasional spot on a blade will work. Some blades have no such spots. Others have many.
Rick was beginning to think that he had one of the no-spot kind, or that the whole idea was wrong, when he heard what he thought was a voice. He hastily concentrated on the spot, and in a few seconds music flooded into the earphone. He had caught a disk jockey in the process of introducing a record. For a long moment he listened, then held out the earphone with a broad grin. "Anyone care to listen?"
Everyone did. They took turns, with each application of the phone to an ear accompanied by expressions of astonishment.
Barby looked at her brother with new respect. "It's just fantastic! How on earth does it work?"
Dr. Miller chuckled. "I'm sure you don't want a full course in electronics, Barby. Actually, it's simple enough. The signal from the radio station is an alternating current that sets up a corresponding current in the antenna wire. This current goes through the coil and is rectified—that is, it's turned into pulsating direct current—by the razor blade. The receiver then converts it into audible sound."
Barby sighed. "I'll just have to take your word for it. But it's a miracle!"
"It may seem like one, but it's really the same kind of circuit you find in a crystal set," Rick explained. "The razor blade acts like the crystal. That's all."
The young people took turns listening to the station, located in a town nearby. Within the hour there was a weather report promising clearing skies before the end of the day. Later, in a roundup of local announcements, they heard that the annual Sons of the Old Dominion feast, postponed because of the storm, would be held the next night.
"That means we start keeping an eye on the ice-cream man tomorrow afternoon," Rick said.
Scotty nodded. "First, we'd better make a survey of the terrain. He has to approach by the road, but there are a million places he could go once he got into the mine area."
Rick looked out the window. "The rain has stopped. Maybe we can reconnoiter this afternoon."
Fortunately, the Miller farm was well equipped with boots and overshoes. The boys borrowed footgear suitable for any mud left by the rain and started out after lunch.
The picnic area was washed clean of footprints and it was clear no one had visited the area since the rain. They made their way to the top of the hill above the mine and surveyed the cornfield that had been planted on the hilltop field. The corn was not high. The plants came only to their knees. Either it was a second planting or a poor crop. Rick guessed that the second reason was probably the correct one, because the field hadn't been cultivated recently.
"This isn't Miller land," he mused. "Wonder who is farming it?"
"It must be Hilleboe's property," Scotty returned. "Maybe he rents it to some local farmer."
They walked to the downstream edge of the cornfield to where the woods resumed. Rick had a feeling that they were wasting time. The ghost couldn't be produced from such a distance by any means he had ever heard of. The apparition had to be created right in the vicinity of the mine.
He spoke his thoughts aloud, and added, "Let's go back."
"Just a minute." Scotty pointed to a pile of brush. "Aren't those more bags?"
They were, and of the same brand as those the boys had located on the stream bank. Scotty picked one up and tested it between his fingers. "Mighty curious. Water cures Portland cement. Turns it hard. These bags aren't hard, even though some powder is still in them."
Rick examined the bags, his brows creased with bewilderment. "They must have held something besides cement. But what? Fertilizer for the cornfield, maybe? And why two caches?"
"If it were fertilizer, the bags near the mine could have been for the field across the creek where the plane is," Scotty suggested. "These could have been for this field. But I don't think it was fertilizer. Isn't fertilizer soluble in water?"
Rick wasn't sure. "We can take the bag along," he said. "Maybe the microscope will tell us something, or maybe Dr. Miller will know."
He had a feeling that the bags meant something. They had been hidden, and only the erosion of rain had uncovered them, first at the creek embankment and now here. The Frostola man had almost certainly taken the others. Why? Unless they had something to do with the mystery? The bags were worthless, of themselves.
They finished the survey of the area. It was clear that whoever produced the ghost would have to enter by the road from town, because there was no other road on the side of the hill in which the mine was located. To be sure, the area could be reached by walking a considerable distance, but Rick couldn't see a man with equipment doing much walking through cornfields or woods filled with underbrush. He was certain the ghost had to be produced by equipment of some kind, probably electric powered—which meant batteries.
The problem was, where did the ghost producer operate? If dry ice was used to produce the mist, how did it get into the pool? He had no answers to these vital questions, nor did Scotty.
The dark-haired boy looked at him quizzically as they trudged back to the farmhouse. "Did it ever occur to you that it's impossible for anyone to produce the ghost? There is no place within sight of the pool where anyone could hide, except in a tree, and a man with equipment wouldn't go undetected by a gang at the picnic grounds."
"It did occur to me," Rick admitted. "But doesn't that put us back where we started? Either the ghost is a genuine spook, or it's man-made. We're not making many miles an hour in proving it's man-made, I admit. But if it isn't, where does that leave us?"
Rick remembered the chase through the woods, ending with a bath in the quarry. If they had been chasing a real ghost, and the ghost had led them into danger deliberately, that meant ... He wasn't sure what it meant except that it gave him goose pimples to think about it.
The electricity and telephone service had been restored by the time the boys got back. Dr. Miller told them that he had phoned the tenant farmer and arranged for the man to do a little inquiring in the town.
Rick displayed the bag. "Got a specimen," he told the group. He explained their interest in the bag and asked Dr. Miller if he could identify the contents.
The scientist examined the grayish powder from the bag. "It could be any one of a hundred things," he said. "Let's see what we can find out about it."
The farmhouse wasn't equipped for any kind of chemical analysis, but the scientist did what was possible. He tried to dissolve the powder in water, and failed. He tried vinegar, as the only acid available, and failed. He tried ammonia, and failed.
Finally he said, "Well, it isn't cement, and it isn't fertilizer. It's an inorganic substance. I suggest the microscope, Rick. It will at least give us a clue to its structure, if not its identity."
Rick spread a small amount on a slide, switched on the substage light, and put the slide on the stage. He focused, using his highest-power lens combination which gave a magnification of three hundred times.
The powder was clearly crystalline, a mineral of some kind. Rick couldn't identify it. He turned the eyepiece over to Dr. Miller. The scientist had no better luck.
Barby asked, "Could it be an explosive?"
"No, Barby. This is powdered rock of some kind," Dr. Miller answered, his eye at the instrument. "But why anyone should use powdered rock and then hide the bags certainly escapes me. I can't imagine what the powder is for. It isn't a powdered limestone, which might be used on the fields. The crystal structure is wrong for that."
"Wish we had a geologist with us," Rick said. "This calls for an expert." He stared helplessly at the microscope. There was only one more test that could be made, and he saw no use in making it.