Hold Zero! Read Free Page B

work,” she said. “Well, don’t stay up late.”
    Craig stared at black numbers until the door closed softly and the sounds of his family’s footsteps faded on the front steps. He repeated the numbers as he listened to the murmur of his transceiver, its switch opened to Steve’s house. The disappointment of the afternoon was at last layered over with thoughts of the work ahead at Batta. He rolled on his back and bicycled in the air.
    A loud sputter from his radio landed him on his feet on the floor. He turned up the volume.
    “Steve to Craig! Steve to Craig!” the radio sputtered. “Do you read me? Over.”
    Craig flicked his button to “broadcast” and picked up a square gray microphone. “Craig to Steve. I read you go. Over.”
    The radio crackled. Steve’s voice came in again. “Mom’s gone. Are you ready? Let’s meet at the swamp buggy in fifteen minutes. I’ll stop by for Johnny. Better get some paint for the rocket. If it looks good I think Officer Ricardo will let us put it off. Don’t you? Over.”
    “I dunno. Mr. Brundage still has to check it, and he’s pretty strong-minded when he gets going. Over.”
    “Yeah. Well, we’ve gotta try. See ya. Out.”
    “Roger and out.” Craig turned off the radio.
    Fifteen minutes had brought the sun to the rim of the northern ridge of the great marsh. Craig crossed Rushing Road and disappeared into a tangle of willows. He found the path that led to the wharf the four boys had built, its pilings hammered into the mud, its flooring nailed carefully to a square frame. Craig jumped on the wharf that stood in a gray-green screen of Phragmites grass. Beyond, according to the depth of the water, grew hard-stem bulrushes and water lilies. Then the slow stream stretched out into a meandering lake that formed the basis of the marsh. It was a half-mile wide and three-quarters of a mile long.
    Craig waited for John and Steve. He listened for the cracking of the bushes that would tell of their coming but heard only the arguments of the red-winged blackbirds settling on reeds and branches for the night. He snapped on his flashlight and lifted the plastic cover that protected the swamp buggy from the rain. He checked the gasoline in the old lawn mower engine that Mr. Olsen had given him and examined the paddle wheel that moved the craft. He remembered gathering the shingles for paddle blades when the Rovers renovated their house several years ago. But he was particularly proud of the iron hoops that held the blades. They had been taken from lobster barrels at the end of a neighborhood party. He stepped on the buggy and looked over the edge to see whether the oil drums that held the flat floor above the water were leaking. They seemed fine.
    He filled the gas tank, then sat down to wait for the others. A soft click in the willows attracted his attention. “Hi, Squawker!” he said as he peered into the cobweb of limbs to locate the friendly blue jay that roosted there every evening. A soft spot among the stiff branches was all Craig could see of the bird. He squinted, moved closer and saw that the breast feathers were fluffed. The heckler of the marsh appeared gentle. Craig thrust his fist toward him, first and little fingers raised, so that his hand and wrist made the outline of an owl. He knew Squawky would object, because an owl’s shape—live, dead, or badly imitated—made him angry. He could not help it; his mind was imprinted with hate for a round head and tufted ears. The bird screamed. Craig laughed and turned away.
    He lay down on the wharf and shone his flashlight into the water. Small animals were moving slowly in the cold. A dragonfly nymph clung to the stem of a splatterdock leaf. A water strider made six dents on the surface with its black feet as it walked. Craig thought about the water strider: he might make big feet for himself and his friends so they could walk across the water to Batta—but he did not get very far with the idea. He was diverted by