Читать книгу The Planetoid of Amazement - Mel Gilden - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN

Rodney Congruent lived in a big museum and didn’t like it. With his eyes closed, he carefully descended the stairs to breakfast carrying his schoolbooks in one hand and his black pebbled kazoo case in the other. With each step, his kazoo case banged against his leg. His eyes were closed because he didn’t want to look at the stuff around him. Unless he kept his eyes closed, not looking was impossible, because stuff was everywhere. He’d seen all of it hundreds of times.

On the walls were paintings, enlarged photographs, and framed letters. Some of the pictures were of a man who wore a leather jacket, leather flight hel­met, tall black boots, and pants that flared at the hips. He had a chin like a brick. In most pictures, this guy held a squat brown jar of a breakfast drink called “Chocolatron” as if he’d won it. All the other pic­tures were of some woman who had a paper bag over her head and a pair of milk cartons strapped to her back. She stood with her fists on her hips, a noble tilt to her paper bag. The man in the flight outfit was Captain Conquer, and the woman with the paper bag was the Tuatara. They were both heroes not only of the world at large, but of Rodney’s parents in particular. When his parents had been kids, a series of docudramas about Captain Conquer had been on TV, and the Tuatara had been featured in her own comic book. Both presenta­tions had supposedly been based on truth. Rodney was unsure how much of the stories had been invented, and his parents did not seem very clear on this them­selves.

Only two things were certain: The first was that Rodney’s father was the famous Watson Congruent, who had helped Captain Conquer save the Earth from the Puddentakers’ plan to turn the atmosphere into cherry Jell-O. The second was that Rodney’s mother was the former Pennyperfect Lieberman, who for years had been the Tuatara’s able assistant. But all that was a long time ago, before Rodney was born.

The mantel over the fireplace held statues of Cap­tain Conquer and the Tuatara; some of them were solid, others had once held shampoo, bubble bath, or children’s vitamins. End tables acted as landing pads for models of the captain’s ship, the Great Auk, and both of the Tuatara’s ships, the Flying Pterodactyl and the Mitzenmacher 260.

Scattered among the statues and the models were mementos of the more famous adventures the two heroes had had: replicas of microbrains from the Penguin star, cheese-blight-shooting ray guns that had been prizes in jars of Chocolatron, and even a leather helmet that Mr. Congruent claimed had been worn by the captain himself.

The framed letters were from mayors and presi­dents, grateful for what Captain Conquer or the Tu­atara had done. Sometimes Rodney’s parents were mentioned by name.

Rodney was almost at the bottom of the stairs when Mrs. Congruent rushed by him, and against his will he opened his eyes. His mother was a handsome woman who had short silvery hair cut close, like a helmet, against her head. Her gray jumpsuit showed no wrinkles. She called out, “Have you seen my de­coder ring, Rodney?” and didn’t wait for an answer.

Rodney himself was a hefty kid with a head of brown hair that was more curly than he liked. Just as well his mom had hustled on. He didn’t know where her old decoder ring was. He didn’t want to know. He wished all the decoder rings in the world would disappear.

When Rodney arrived in the breakfast room, eyes open, and set his books and kazoo on the table, Mrs. Congruent was there, listening to Rodney’s father say, “The decoder was on your dresser last night, next to your hyperspanner.” Mr. Congruent was an older, rounder version of his son, though he had less hair. He was dressed more or less like Captain Conquer. Because of the warm sunlight falling in through the tall windows, his leather flight jacket hung open.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Congruent. “I must have put them both into the toolbox.” She marched from the room.

“If she can’t find it,” Mr. Congruent said, “I guess we can share mine.” He tore open a paper packet and poured brown grainy powder into a mug of hot water before him. The smell of hot chocolate bloomed in the round room. “Have some Chocolatron, Rodney?”

Chocolatron had been Captain Conquer’s favorite drink—he had made it famous. To Mr. and Mrs. Con­gruent it represented their exciting pasts, their mo­ments of noisy fame. Rodney doubted if either of his parents would bother with Chocolatron otherwise. It was basically for kids.

“No thanks, Dad,” Rodney said. He never drank Chocolatron, but his parents were hopeful he would start. Rodney was honest enough to admit that he was jealous of them. They’d both had adventures, while he had never done anything more exciting than play the kazoo in the Raff Street Junior High School orchestra. He liked playing the kazoo, but it wasn’t the same as saving the planet.

The problem was that he was untested in the he­roics department. He might be fine. But what if he couldn’t hack it? What if, when the time came for bold action or daring escapes, his nerve failed him, or his cleverness, or his strength? Unthinkable. Yet here he was thinking it. The uncertainty was making him crazy.

Rodney said, “Wouldn’t things be a lot simpler if the Chocolatron business reports weren’t in code?”

“True, but most of us feel that Captain Conquer would have wanted them that way. Tradition is worth the bother of decoding.” Mr. Congruent sipped his Chocolatron and said, “I mixed some Chocolatron with my oatmeal this morning.”

“Hmm,” said Rodney.

“Well,” Mr. Congruent went on enthusiastically, “I thought I’d present my idea at the sales conference. What do you think?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“What’s the matter, Rodney? That business with the adventures again?”

Rodney shrugged. How could his father understand?

“We’ll be gone a few days at the sales conference.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I know that. You’re a responsible lad. But just think, while we’re gone you might have an adventure.”

“Sure.”

“You never know what might set one off. When my father gave me this Official Captain Conquer Signet Ring for my thirteenth birthday, I had no idea that it would plunge me into the adventure of my lifetime.” He chuckled as he turned his hand, showing off the big, clunky ring for the umpteenth time. “Boy, was I one naive kid.”

His parents were always pointing out possible adventures to Rodney. Anything could trigger them: a flat tire, getting lost (“You’re not lost till you’re out of gas!”), a wrong number on the telephone, sirens in the night, meetings with unknown relatives who sud­denly turned up. Each event had been interesting, but not one of them had led to a real adventure. It was no use his parents being jolly.

Rodney said, “An adventure would be swell, yeah. But I don’t think I’ll ever have one. Those days are gone.”

“You never know what might set off an adventure.” Mr. Congruent said again. “Anything can happen.”

Mrs. Congruent returned to the breakfast room and began to make herself a hot cup of Chocolatron. “I found the ring,” she said. “Right in the toolbox next to the hyperspanner.” She shook the hand with the ring on it in their direction.

When she sat down, she said, “I heard you practic­ing this morning, Rodney. You’re getting better and better on that kazoo.”

“Maybe I inherited Granddad’s talent along with the instrument.” Rodney shook his head.

“What’s the problem?” Mrs. Congruent said.

Rodney shrugged.

“He wants an adventure,” Mr. Congruent said.

“I like the kazoo. Really, Mom.”

Mrs. Congruent shook her head. “So you haven’t had an adventure. You’re just a kid, Rodney. You’re not dead yet.”

I might as well be, Rodney thought.

After breakfast, Rodney collected his books and his kazoo and left his parents at the table synchronizing their watches. When he opened the front door to leave for school, a man was standing there, his finger poised over the doorbell button. The man was dressed like Captain Conquer.

“Mom, Dad,” Rodney called. “Your ride is here.”

The man at the door helped them gather together their luggage and their briefcases and their lap-top computers. Rodney tried to help too, but the man treated him as if he were a piece of furniture that was just in the way.

As if it were the worst thing that could happen in the universe, the man said, “We’ll be late for the plane,” and hustled Mr. and Mrs. Congruent out the door. Rodney barely had a chance to say good-bye.

As Mr. Congruent was pulled out the door, he called after Rodney, “Anything can happen!”

“Right,” Rodney said. He watched the man load his parents into a limousine shaped like Captain Conquer’s mighty stratoship, the Great Auk. It pulled away from the curb with a roar.

Rodney stood at the door. Sometimes he imagined himself aboard a fancy ship like the Great Auk. Other times he wondered why he bothered.

* * * * * * *

Anything could happen, Rodney thought, but mostly it was just the same old stuff over and over again. He sat on the same old bus, swaying to its familiar rhythm. His books were in his lap, along with the elec­tronic kazoo in its black pebbled case. He wasn’t pay­ing much attention to the world around him. It would take at least twenty minutes for the bus to creep through the morning Raff Street traffic to his school.

A fat guy huffed as he sat down in the empty seat next to Rodney. The guy was dressed in striped denim bib overalls and a railroad engineer’s hat. His labored breathing sounded like a soft, tiny train whistle. Could this be the start of something big? Rodney watched carefully, feeling his every nerve tuned to any suggestion that the guy was about to ask him for help with some bizarre problem. But no. The guy got off two stops later and left nothing behind.

More of nothing happened after that. He rode the bus a little farther, then got off at school.

It was spring and everybody was a little crazy with its soft promises. School would be over in a month or so. Kids and teachers could see what Mr. Congruent persisted in calling “the light at the end of the tunnel.” Despite his problem, Rodney felt pretty good. He carefully skirted a crowd of jocks who were horsing around, and went to sit with his friends.

“Morons,” said Waldo, looking up from his nuclear physics book and gesturing with his head in the direc­tion of the jocks; at the moment they were experi­menting with shoving each other backward over the lunch benches. Waldo himself would never be a jock. He was enormously tall and thin. The black stuff on his head was more like toothbrush bristles than hair, and it stood up, Waldo said, because he’d once been struck by lightning. Rodney had never believed the lightning story. Waldo knew that and he didn’t seem to mind.

Rodney made it through first-period gym class without offending his instructor too much. Second period was math, which he really kind of enjoyed, mostly because the teacher used to be a big-band singer; with spring in the air, it was not difficult con­vincing her to sing songs instead of teach math.

Third period was orchestra. Mr. Weinschweig taught the class in a bungalow away from the other buildings so that regular classes wouldn’t be disturbed by all the noise of junior high school kids trying to make music.

The inside of the bungalow was shabby but friendly. The tile floor was faded and badly scuffed. The walls needed a new coat of green paint. In one corner was Mr. Weinschweig’s desk. It was as old as anything else in the room, and it was piled high with sheet music. Though Mr. Weinschweig was not a little guy, when he sat at his desk he was hidden by the sheet music except for his bald head and maybe the top of his tortoiseshell glasses.

Mr. Weinschweig nodded to Rodney when he en­tered the bungalow, then went back to scribbling notes on music paper. It was no secret that Mr. Weinschweig was writing a symphony.

The thing that only Rodney knew, because Mr. Weinschweig had admitted it during a kazoo lesson, was that he’d been composing the first movement for the past fourteen years, since about the time Rodney had been born. He was always changing things—sometimes little tiddles, sometimes vast melodies. “I want it perfect,” Mr. Weinschweig had told him. Maybe. But the result was that no one had ever heard one note of Mr. Weinschweig’s symphony. Maybe it was great. Maybe it was rotten. Probably nobody would ever know.

A lot of kids were already in the bungalow warming up by running their instruments up and down lopsided scales and playing bits of popular songs. The violins outnumbered everybody else, but the trumpets were the loudest. Once in a while the kid who played the drums would beat out a riff. The resulting chaos sounded like some of the overly modern music Rodney had heard on the radio.

Rodney sat down and plugged in his kazoo to con­serve the battery power. He hummed into the kazoo and made a sound like a flying bee. He made the bee hum scales, adding to the confusion around him. Generally, Rodney wasn’t much of a team player, but he liked playing in the orchestra. It was fun being in the middle of all that loud organized sound and seeing how all the parts fit together. As a matter of fact, Rodney’s kazoo was one of the few highlights in his otherwise bleak life. Give him a kazoo and an empty room, and he could invent concerts that always got a standing ovation.

Pretty soon Mr. Weinschweig walked to the front of the room and began to conduct. If you took into account that they were just a junior high school or­chestra, they sounded pretty good. They played the “Latvian Sailor’s Dance” (traditional) and the “Robin Hood Overture” by Rooski-Pedruski. Mr. Wein­schweig sometimes got so carried away that he closed his eyes and pretended he was playing an invisible violin with his baton. It was all pretty entertaining.

Orchestra class always seemed the shortest one of the day, and pretty soon it was time for the students to put away their instruments.

While Rodney swabbed out his kazoo with a rag of old T-shirt, he thought, So much for adventure. So much for excitement.

* * * * * * *

The house was empty when Rodney got home. Af­ter a moment he remembered that his parents were at the Chocolatron sales conference.

Just as well. He felt like being alone. After he put his books and his kazoo away, he picked up a stack of letters from the floor in front of the front door and sorted through them.

His parents must have been on some funny lists. They got advertisements from some magazines that wanted to make them millionaires, and from others that wanted them to “discover the romance of col­lecting antique slot machines”; from manufacturers who wanted to sell them Chocolatron scoops, from societies dedicated to the UFO method of tax prepa­ration. Each envelope said something like YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PASS UP THIS OPPORTU­NITY! Or SAVE THE UNIVERSE. SAVE YOURSELF! Or even YOU MAY ALREADY BE IMMORTAL AND NOT EVEN KNOW IT!

That was why when Rodney saw an envelope with a headline written in curlicues and dots and splashes of color, he didn’t think much of it. He guessed you were supposed to wonder what all that fancy art meant, and tear open the envelope in a sweat of curi­osity. Like a lot of the other advertising, it was for his dad, but instead of it being typed or printed, the ad­dress was written in the scraggly longhand of a little kid. It was one curious package, all right. Rodney had to give the advertiser that.

He sat down with a plastic bag full of cherries and waited for his mom or dad to call in and ask about the mail.