The Year When Stardust Fell Part 3

"No, thanks. Mother fed us before we left my place. I'm afraid I couldn't eat any more."

In a moment Maria was back. "Here are two whole sheets," she said. "I hope that will be enough."

"Plenty. I'll see you get repaid tomorrow. Good night, everybody."

"Good night, Ken."

He moved down the walk toward his car and got in. When he pressed die starter b.u.t.ton the engine groaned for a few seconds and came to a complete stop. He tried again; there was only a momentary, protesting grind.

Ken got out and raised the hood and leaned over the engine in disgusted contemplation. There was no visible clue to the cause of the trouble.

"Is your battery dead?" Professor La.r.s.en called.

"No. It's something else." Ken slammed the hood harder than he had intended. "I'll have to leave it here overnight and pick it up in the morning."

"I can push you home with my car, or at least give you a ride."

"No, please don't bother," Ken said. "I'll tow it home with Dad's car tomorrow. I'd just as soon walk, now. It's only a few blocks."

"As you wish. Good night, Ken."

"Good night, Professor."

Ken's clock radio woke him the next morning. He reached over to shut off the newscast it carried. There was only one item any commentator talked about now, the comet. Ken wondered how they could get away with a repet.i.tion of the same thing, over and over, but they seemed able to get an audience as long as they kept the proper tone of semi-hysteria in their voices.

As his hand touched the dial to switch it off, something new caught Ken's attention. "A curious story is coming in from all parts of the country this morning," the announcer said. "Auto mechanics are reporting a sudden, unusually brisk business. No one knows the reason, but there seems to be a virtual epidemic of car breakdowns. Some garagemen are said to be blaming new additives in gasoline and lubricating oil. It is reported that one major oil company is undertaking an investigation of these charges, but, in the meantime, no one really seems to have a good answer.

"In connection with the comet, however, from widely scattered areas comes the report that people are even blaming these engine failures on our poor, old comet. In the Middle Ages they blamed comets for everything from soured cream to fallen kingdoms. Maybe this modern age isn't so different, after all. At any rate, this comet will no doubt be happy to get back into open s.p.a.ce, where there are no Earthmen to blame it for all their accidents and shortcomings!"

Ken switched off the radio and lay back on the pillow. That was a real choice one--blaming the comet for car breakdowns! Page Granny Wicks!

The breakdowns were curious, however. There was no good reason why there should be a sudden rash of them. He wondered if they had actually occurred, or if the story was just the work of some reporter trying to make something out of his own inability to get into a couple of garages that were swamped by the usual weekend rush. This was most likely the case.

However it didn't explain why his own car had suddenly conked out, Ken thought irritably. He'd have to get it over to Art Matthews' garage as soon as school was out.

At school that morning there was little talk of anything but the comet.

After physics cla.s.s, Ken was met by Joe Walton and three other members of the science club, of which Ken was president.

"We want a special meeting," said Joe. "We've just had the most brilliant brainstorm of our brief careers."

"It had better be more brilliant than the last one," said Ken. "That drained the club treasury of its last peso."

"I was watching the comet last night, and I began to smell the dust of its tail as the Earth moved into it...."

"You must have been smelling something a lot more powerful than comet dust."

"I said to myself--why don't we collect some of that stuff and bottle it and see what it's made of? What do you think?" Joe asked eagerly.

Ken scowled. "Just how many molecules of material from the comet's tail do you think there are in the atmosphere over Mayfield right now?"

"How do I know? Six--maybe eight."

Ken laughed. "You're crazy, anyway. What have you got in mind?"

"I'm not sure," Joe answered seriously. "We know the comet's tail is so rarefied that it resembles a pretty fair vacuum, but it _is_ composed of something. As it mixes with the atmosphere we ought to be able to determine the changing makeup of the air and get a pretty good idea of the composition of the comet's tail. This is a chance n.o.body's ever had before--and maybe never will again, until we go right out there in s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps--being right inside a comet's tail long enough to a.n.a.lyze it!"

"It sounds like a terrific project," Ken admitted. "The universities will all be doing it, of course, but it would still be a neat trick if we could bring it off. Maybe Dad and Professor La.r.s.en will have ideas on how we could do it."

"We ought to be able to make most of the equipment," said Joe, "so it shouldn't be too expensive. Anyway, we'll have a meeting then, right after school?"

"Yes--no, wait. The engine in my car conked out. I've got to go over to Art's with it this afternoon. You go ahead without me. Kick the idea around and let me know what's decided. I'll go along with anything short of mortgaging the football field."

"Okay," said Joe. "I don't see why you don't just sell that hunk of junk and get a real automobile. You've got a good excuse now. This breakdown is a good omen!"

"Don't talk to me about omens!"

Art Matthews had the best equipped garage in town, and was a sort of unofficial G.o.dfather to all the hot-rodders in the county. He helped them plane the heads of their cars. He got their special cams and carburetor and manifold a.s.semblies wholesale, and he gave them fatherly advice about using their heads when they were behind the wheel.

Ken called him at noon. "I've got troubles, Art," he said. "Can I bring the car over after school?"

"I'm afraid I can't do a thing for you today," Art Matthews said. "I don't know what's happened, but I've had tow calls all day. Right now the shop is full and they're stacked four-high outside. I'm going to do a couple of highway patrol cars and Doc Adams'. I figured they ought to have priority."

Ken felt a sudden, uneasy sense of recognition. This was the same kind of thing he had heard about on the radio that morning! A rash of car breakdowns all over the country. Now, the same thing in Mayfield!

"What's wrong with them?" he asked the mechanic. "Why is everybody coming in with trouble at the same time?"

"They're not coming in," said Art. "I'm having to go out after them. I don't know yet what's wrong. They heat up and stall. It's the craziest thing I've run into in 30 years of garage work."

"Mine acted the same way," Ken said.

"Yeah? Well, you're in good company. Listen, why don't you and maybe Joe and Al come down and give me a hand after school? I'll never get on top here without some help. After we get these police and other priority cars out of the way, maybe we can get a quick look at what's wrong with yours."

"It's a deal."

Joe Walton wasn't much in favor of spending that afternoon and an unknown number of others in Art's garage; he was too overwhelmed by the idea of a.n.a.lyzing the material of the comet's tail. However Art had done all of them too many favors in the past to ignore his call for help.

"The trouble with this town," Joe said, "is that three-fourths of the so-called automobiles running around the streets belong down at Thompson's Auto Wrecking."

Al Miner agreed to come, too. When they reached the garage after school they saw Art had not been exaggerating. His place was surrounded by stalled cars, and the street outside was lined with them in both directions. Ken borrowed the tow truck and brought his own car back from the La.r.s.ens'. By that time the other two boys were at work.

"Batteries are all okay," Art told him. "Some of these engines will turn over, but most of them won't budge. I've jerked a couple of heads, but I can't see anything. I want you to take the pans off and take down the bearings to see if they're frozen. That's what they act like. When that's done, we'll take it from there."

Ken hoisted the front end of one of the police cars and slid under it on a creeper. Art's electric impact wrenches were all in use, so he began the laborious removal of the pan bolts by hand. He had scarcely started when he heard a yell from Joe who was beneath the other police car.