The Firebird Rocket Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - A Frantic Warning

  CHAPTER II - The Runaway Rocket

  CHAPTER III - The Blow-Up

  CHAPTER IV - A Strange Disappearance

  CHAPTER V - Night Visitor

  CHAPTER VI - A Ghostly Hand

  CHAPTER VII - Radioactive Evidence

  CHAPTER VIII - Danger in the Surf

  CHAPTER IX - The Porter’s Clue

  CHAPTER X - A Spy in the Crowd

  CHAPTER XI - Chet’s Clever Plan

  CHAPTER XII - Kangaroo Confrontation

  CHAPTER XIII - Daring Escape

  CHAPTER XIV - Frank Foils the Gang

  CHAPTER XV - A Deadly Snake

  CHAPTER XVI - Helicopter Hunt

  CHAPTER XVII - Woomera Welcome

  CHAPTER XVIII - The Trap

  CHAPTER XIX - The Rope Trick

  CHAPTER XX - Surprise in Port Augusta

  THE FIREBIRD ROCKET

  The launching of the Firebird Rocket is endangered when a famous rocket scientist disappears without a trace on his way to the Woomera Monitoring Station in Australia. Assigned to the case, Fenton Hardy tells his sons he needs their help. And Frank and Joe must turn down a request that they find the missing son of a prominent senator.

  The search for the scientist begins at the Princeton Space Laboratory, where the boys realize they are being hunted by an unknown adversary. Clues lead them to Australia, and again they are followed.

  Then suddenly their lives are in danger!

  Someone in an automobile tries to run them over; and, later, at dockside, a heavy cargo bale falls and just misses them. Disregarding the danger and warnings of worse to come, the boys follow the trail to a cattle station in the Australian Outback.

  With courage, wit, and clever detective work, the young detectives begin to close in on the enemy, only to discover that the tables have been turned. Captured by their cunning adversaries, the Hardys face certain death!

  Will they escape? Will the Firebird Rocket ever be launched? Read this exciting mystery about Frank and Joe’s most difficult case.

  “Your nitwit contraption smashed my hen house.”

  PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

  Copyright © 1978 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-76131

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07666-8

  2004 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  A Frantic Warning

  FRANK and Joe Hardy were performing a chemical test in the laboratory over their garage. The boys were checking out a clue for their father, famous private detective Fenton Hardy.

  Frank held a test tube up to the light. In it was a dark-colored solution soaked from a torn piece of cloth Mr. Hardy had sent from the Space Flight Center in Florida, where he was working on a new top-secret case.

  “If Dad’s hunch is right,” said Frank, “that cloth was stained with the invisible dye he uses to trap suspects.”

  Joe nodded. “The methyl test will tell us.”

  He picked up a plastic bottle labeled METHYL YELLOW. Unscrewing the cap, he tilted the bottle until a trickle fell into the solution.

  Pufff! A burst of acrid vapor shot up into the boys’ faces. They staggered back, clutching their throats! Frank dropped the test tube, which smashed, and the bottle fell from Joe’s nerveless fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor! The two boys rubbed their eyes, fought for breath, and felt giddy.

  “The bottle!” Joe croaked. “It contains the wrong chemical!”

  Desperately Frank groped about on the floor till his fingers closed over the plastic container, which was still oozing a wisp of vapor. He managed to screw the cap back on. Joe opened the window, and they collapsed on the sill.

  Fresh air poured into the lab, dispersing the fumes and clearing their heads.

  “That stuff was liquid tear gas, or I’m a monkey’s uncle!” Joe exclaimed.

  Frank examined the bottle. “It’s supposed to be methyl yellow,” he declared. “That’s what the label says.”

  “Somebody switched it!”

  “That’s possible. But who? And why?”

  “Let’s talk to the guy at the chemistry shop who sold us the bottle,” Joe suggested, always eager for a mystery.

  Joe Hardy was blond and seventeen. His darkhaired brother, Frank, was a year older.

  As they were clearing up the mess from the broken test tube, the Hardys heard the doorbell, which was wired to ring in the garage as well as the house.

  “Aunt Gertrude will answer it,” said Joe.

  “She can’t. She went out shopping with Mom,” Frank told him. “We’d better go see who it is.”

  Hurrying out of the garage, they went through the house and opened the front door. The caller was a well-dressed, portly man, clutching an ivory-headed cane. He peered at the boys through gold-rimmed pince-nez, which he held in place on his nose with thumb and forefinger.

  His gesture called their attention to the ring he was wearing. It was set with a huge red ruby.

  “Is this the Hardy house?” he inquired in a deep booming voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Frank replied.

  “I’m Oliver Ponsley,” the man announced. “I would like to consult Fenton Hardy on an urgent matter.”

  “Dad’s away on a case right now, but would you care to come in and tell us about it?” Frank said politely. “As soon as we hear from him, we can give him your message.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate a chance to explain my problem.”

  Frank led the way into the living room. Their visitor settled himself on the sofa, which groaned under his weight, and clasped his hands over his ivory-headed cane. Frank and Joe sat down in easy chairs and waited for him to speak.

  “You boys often assist your father on his cases, do you not?” Ponsley inquired, sizing them up with a shrewd glance.

  “That’s right, sir,” Frank replied.

  “And we’ve solved a few mysteries on our own,” Joe added, grinning modestly.

  “So I’ve heard. Well, then, perhaps you can help me with this one, at least until your father returns.”

  “We’ll be glad to do whatever we can, sir.”

  “Fine! My problem is this—a young man named Michael Moran has disappeared, and he must be found. Quickly!”

  “Have you notified the police, Mr. Ponsley?” Frank asked. “They should be able to help you on a missing persons case.”

  “Not on this one,” Ponsley retorted sharply. “We can’t risk the publicity. Michael Moran is the son of Senator Jeff Moran!”

  He reached into his pocket and produced an old snapshot, which he handed to Frank. The Hardys saw a clean-cut youth, not much older than Frank, holding a baseball bat on his shoulder.

  “That’s the last photograph of Michael before he left home,” Ponsley told them. “He’s been gone for over a year now.”

  “A year? Good night! Hasn’t his family tried to locate him at all?” Joe asked.

  “No. They felt he wanted to go away and think things out for himself, and that he’d come back when he was ready.”

  “Then why are they looking for him now?”

  “Michael used to work for the Mid-County Bank. As you may have heard, the bank was recently broken into and robbed.”

  “Gosh, yes. I remember hearing about that on the news!” Joe exclaimed.
>
  “The next day, the police caught the two crooks who pulled the job,” Frank recalled.

  “That’s right.” Ponsley nodded. “What you may not know is that the culprits are now trying to incriminate Mike Moran.”

  “How come?”

  “The bank’s alarm system was tampered with, which convinced the FBI that the robbers had inside help. So now those two scoundrels are saying it was Mike who gave them information on the wiring of the alarm system.”

  “Is there anything to support their accusation?” Frank asked.

  “Mike studied electrical engineering before he quit college to work at the bank. And a bank employe named Thurbow remembered that Mike showed some interest in the alarm system while he was there.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” said Joe.

  “Certainly not!” Oliver Ponsley boomed. “So far, the FBI has made no official charge against Mike, but his family is very upset, especially since Senator Moran is running for reelection. A scandal could wreck his political campaign. He’s sure Mike is innocent, and wants him to come home and clear his name.”

  “Mr. Ponsley, how are you involved?” Joe asked.

  “I’m on Senator Moran’s staff and a friend of the family’s. I want to prevent any bad publicity before the news leaks out. That’s why I came to see your father.”

  “Tell me,” Frank said, “when and where was Mike last seen?”

  “Leaving the bank one day last February. But he never arrived home that day.”

  “Has he written?”

  “Yes, a number of postcards from Chicago. The last one came about three months ago, saying he was leaving the country. After that—silence.”

  “Any other clues?” Joe asked.

  “Just one.” Ponsley slipped the ring from his finger and held it up to the light so the boys could see it better. Sunshine slanting in through the window seemed to bathe the room in the gem’s s lustrous red glow.

  “Michael always admired this stone,” Ponsley said. “He was fascinated by rubies, so his parents bought him one as big as mine and had it mounted in the same kind of setting. Find a ring like this, and you’ll find Mike Moran.”

  The Hardy boys examined the gem and felt sure they could easily spot a duplicate.

  “Now then,” said Ponsley, slipping the ring back on his finger, “I want you to get on the case right away. Fly to Chicago tomorrow and see if you can pick up Michael Moran’s trail. Make your first report to me by the end of next week. Speed is essential!”

  “But we can’t leave town right now,” Frank said. ”We’re waiting for a phone call from our father. He may need us to help him with his own case.”

  “Find a ring like this, and you’ll find Mike Moran.”

  “We’ll let you know as soon as we’re in touch with him,” Joe added.

  “Hmph.” Frowning, Ponsley rose to his feet and adjusted his pince-nez. “Very well. If that’s the best you can do, I’ll just have to wait. You can call me at this number.”

  He handed Frank his business card and the boys escorted him to the door. They watched him lumber down the steps, squeeze behind the wheel of an expensive car, and drive off.

  Frank and Joe returned to the living room.

  “How about that ruby?” Frank enthused.

  “Big as a pigeon’s egg!” Joe said. “Boy, that stone must be worth a bundle!”

  “Say, could thieves have gotten to Mike Moran?” Frank said suddenly. “Maybe they did him in for his ring!”

  The two boys exchanged worried looks. Joe felt cold chills prickle up and down his spine.

  “A ruby that size would sure attract crooks!” he agreed. “I wonder—”

  He broke off at the sound of brakes screeching out in the street. Tires grated harshly against the curb in front of their house, and a car jolted to a stop. Its door opened and slammed shut. Someone raced up the steps and pounded on the door.

  “Open up!” a man’s voice shouted. “You Hardy boys are in danger! You may be killed!”

  CHAPTER II

  The Runaway Rocket

  “WHO the dickens is that?” Joe blurted.

  “Search me, but he sounds pretty worked up!”

  The doorknob rattled violently, and the thumping continued. Then their caller began ringing the bell.

  “Take it easy! We’re coming!” Frank yelled.

  He yanked open the door. The man outside tumbled in and had some trouble regaining his balance.

  “It’s Mr. Oakes from the chemistry shop!” Joe exclaimed, recognizing his face.

  The man was gasping. He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a long plastic bottle. The label read METHYL YELLOW.

  “My assistant made a terrible mistake,” Oakes said, panting. “He put the wrong label on a bottle of liquid tear gas and sold it to you as methyl yellow. This is what he should have given you. If you use that other stuff in the wrong kind of chemical experiment, it could even blow up in your faces!”

  “We know. We found out the hard way,” said Frank. “We already had an accident.”

  “Great Scott! Was anyone hurt?” Oakes inquired anxiously.

  “No, luckily we reacted as soon as we inhaled the fumes, and Joe got a window open fast.”

  “Thank goodness!” The man sighed with relief. “My store phone’s out of order, so I hopped in the car and drove here the minute I discovered what Bob had done. You both have my deepest apologies. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Oakes,” Joe said. “We were just about to come back to your place and find out what happened.”

  “A mistake—a dreadful mistake! Would you please give me that wrong bottle now?”

  “Sure,” Joe said. “I’ll go get it.” He took the methyl yellow out to the laboratory over the garage and returned with the liquid tear gas.

  “We supply this stuff to various security guards around town,” Oakes explained. “In fact, one of them came into my shop to get some just before I told Bob to fill your order. I suppose that’s how the mix-up occurred.”

  After repeating his apology, the manager of the shop left with the dangerous chemical.

  “Well, that solves one mystery,” Frank said as he shut the front door. “Now we can concentrate on the Mike Moran case.”

  “Unless Dad needs us,” Joe reminded him. “But listen. Suppose we do get a chance to look for that guy. How would we trace him in Chicago?”

  “Good question. For one thing, we’d have to find out more about him—what his interests are, how he spends his spare time—stuff like that.”

  Frank broke off as the telephone rang. Joe hurried to pick it up, heard his father’s voice, and gestured to Frank to come and listen in.

  “Dad, where are you calling from?” he asked.

  “The Space Flight Center in Florida,” Fenton Hardy replied. “This case is turning out to be even tougher than I feared.”

  “Can you tell us anything about it?” Frank put in.

  “Not on the phone. The investigation’s being conducted under airtight security.”

  “We goofed on testing that scrap of cloth you sent us,” Joe said. He told his father about the accident in the lab.

  “That’s all right. No harm done,” said Mr. Hardy. “I identified the wearer by means of a polygraph test. I had him figured as a prime suspect in this case, but he cleared himself. Now I’ve got another job for you, at Princeton.”

  “You mean Princeton University?” Frank queried. “In New Jersey?”

  “Yes. I want you and Joe to go there tomorrow morning. Talk to Professor Arthur Young at the Aerospace Laboratory. He’ll clue you in on the case, and I hope he’ll give you a lead to work on. Report to me after you see Professor Young.”

  “Dad, how do we get in touch with you?”

  “You can reach me through a hot line to the Space Flight Center. The number is the Center’s initials followed by the first four digits—SFC- 1234. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Frank said.
r />   Mr. Hardy’s voice became tense. “Be careful,” he warned. “This job is too important for any slips. NASA is involved. An international incident could be in the making.”

  “We’ll be careful,” his sons promised, then Frank told his father about the visit by Oliver Ponsley.

  “He wants us to find Mike Moran.”

  “My case has priority,” Mr. Hardy replied. “After we’ve cracked it, you can look for young Moran. So long.” He hung up.

  Joe replaced the phone and the boys began to talk about their trip to Princeton.

  “The home of the Princeton tiger!” Joe said with enthusiasm. “Wow! Maybe we’ll get a chance to see some of their athletic teams work out.”

  “I think we’d better just stick to the Aerospace Lab,” Frank said. “We’re on a case, remember? I wonder what Professor Young knows about Dad’s investigation. Maybe somebody stole a missile!”

  “Yeah, sure.” Joe grinned. “Like maybe a crook slipped an interplanetary rocket up his sleeve and walked out unnoticed. If you ask me—”

  He was interrupted by a series of loud reports in the street. A clanking sound drew near.

  Frank grinned. “Chet Morton’s coming.”

  Joe peered out the window at the approaching jalopy. “Looks like he’s got the whole gang with him. Let’s go see what they’re up to!”

  As the Hardys grabbed their jackets and ran outside, Chet’s fire-engine-red car pulled up to the curb. Its roly-poly, freckle-faced driver applied the squeaky brakes and brought his car to a jolting halt that threw his passengers forward, then bounced them back in their seats.

  “Should we call a doctor?” Joe inquired. “Or are all of you still in one piece?”

  “Wait’ll we check,” said Biff Hooper, a husky six-footer. He was crowded into the back seat with Chet’s pretty sister Iola and Tony Prito.

  “No broken bones—yet,” Tony reported. “The question is, will we be able to walk away from this moving wreck?”

  “What I’m worried about is my back,” groaned Phil Cohen, who was sitting up front beside Chet. “I think I slipped a disk when we stopped.”

  Frank laughed at the driver’s indignant look. “What’s that you were telling us, Chet, about your rebuilt shocks and the smooth suspension you were engineering on this job?”