The Scarlet Lake Mystery: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story. Goodwin Harold Leland

subspecies of sponprodders. Your ignorance surprises me, Cadet Scott."

      "I haven't been to the inner planets for a week," Scotty apologized. "I lose touch."

      They walked across the driveway, noting that the customary shrubs and plants were replaced here by artificial ones, made in a form that represented someone's idea of what plants from other worlds must look like. The effect was actually pretty good. The place had been built with imagination.

      The spacesuit-clad doorman nodded, and they saw that he was perspiring freely inside the transparent helmet.

      "Who ever heard of a non-airconditioned spacesuit?" Rick murmured. "Bet he couldn't survive the Venus-Mercury run in that rig."

      Inside were the inevitable slot machines, in banks of fifty or more. Rick decided the objective must be one slot machine for each person in town. Behind the slot machines were the dice layouts, roulette tables, and blackjack tables.

      Beyond the casino proper, however, was a pleasant lounge that included a snack bar and tables for dining. The boys wandered over to the snack bar and sat down on stools, looking around with appreciation. The walls were decorated with murals – photographic reproductions of a famous artist's conception of other planets.

      "This is nice," Rick said appreciatively.

      "Best place I've seen since Callisto Connie's joint on Jupiter," Scotty agreed whimsically.

      A waiter, not much older than they were, wandered down the counter. He was dressed in a loose tunic that glittered.

      "Howdy, fellas," he greeted them.

      Rick and Scotty "howdy'd" back.

      The counter clerk eyed them with interest. "Haven't seen you in here before."

      "First time," Rick admitted. "Nice place."

      "We like it. You from Scarlet Lake?"

      The boys stiffened. "What gave you that idea?" Scotty asked quickly.

      The waiter admired his fingernails. "Easy. You're not local folks and you don't look like tourists. So, you came here to work. Maybe the atomic test site, maybe Nellis, maybe Scarlet Lake. I said Scarlet Lake because a lot of people from there come in to eat when they're in town. Some of 'em here right now."

      "Where?" Rick asked.

      "At the tables over against the wall. What are you going to have?"

      Neither boy wanted any more food at the moment, and said so. They agreed on coffee.

      "Here or at a table?"

      "Table," Rick said. "Might as well move in with the people from Scarlet Lake, starting now." He led the way across the room and picked out a table next to two men in loud sports shirts. One man was big, nearly the size of Dr. Zircon of the Spindrift staff. He had red hair and a curly red beard. His eyes were dark and penetrating under bushy red eyebrows. He looked the boys over with slow deliberation, as though memorizing what they looked like.

      The second man was big, too, although he didn't approach the redhead in size. He was slightly over six feet, Rick guessed. He was dark-complexioned and clean-shaven. His eyes, a light blue, were a surprising contrast to his dark hair and heavily tanned skin.

      The redhead leaned over as the boys sat down. "I haven't seen you kids before. You from Scarlet Lake?"

      "We hope to be," Rick replied civilly. "We've applied for jobs at Lomac, but now we have to wait for a security check."

      The redhead turned to his friend. "Catching 'em kind of young these days, hey, Pancho?"

      Pancho showed white teeth in a smile. "Looks like it."

      "We can do a day's work," Scotty said shortly.

      "Never doubted it for a minute." The redhead thrust out a massive paw. "I'm Mac McCline. Big Mac, they call me. This here is Pancho Kelly."

      The boys shook hands and gave their names.

      "Any idea what you're getting into at Scarlet Lake?" Big Mac asked.

      "Not much," Rick said truthfully.

      Big Mac guffawed. "Well, I'll tell you. Heat, dirt, sidewinders, and crazy rockets. And if they don't get you, one thing will."

      "What's that?" Scotty asked.

      "The Earthman."

      CHAPTER IV

      Scarlet Lake

      Rick and Scotty never found out what Big Mac meant by his crack about the Earthman. He evaded their questions, apparently feeling that he had said too much. Otherwise he was cordial enough. As the days of waiting to hear from Lomac passed by, the boys made the Spaceman Casino their headquarters, hoping to pick up information from the Scarlet Lake people who hung out there.

      Men came and went, but Mac and Pancho were there every night. Once, Rick commented on their nightly presence at the casino and said jokingly that work on the base seemed to allow plenty of free time.

      "We don't go back to the base every night," Big Mac said. "Pancho and I do our job when there's work to be done. Other times we do what we want. If anyone at the base needs us, they know where to come."

      Rick thought that over. It seemed reasonable. He asked, "Is it okay to ask what you do?"

      "Sure it's okay. We're radar operators. We track the rockets on a radar set from a field station." Big Mac pulled a red-checkered handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose violently. "Good operators are scarce. That's why no one bothers us, so long as we're on the job when we're needed."

      Scotty leaned over and picked up something that had dropped to the floor when Mac pulled out his handkerchief. "You dropped this, Mr. McCline."

      Rick identified it easily. It was a tiny transistor, an integral part of modern electronic apparatus.

      Mac took it in his big fingers. "Thanks. I must have stuck it in my pocket absent-mindedly while we were repairing the equipment."

      "Where do you go when you're on a field radar job?" Rick asked. "Just tell me to mind my own business, if I get into anything classified."

      "There's no classification on what we do," Pancho Kelly said. "Only the results. We go to Careless Mesa. Everyone knows that."

      The boys let the conversation lag and ordered dinner. They didn't want to seem too inquisitive. Constant questions would only make Mac and Pancho suspicious.

      Later, as they rode through the star-studded night in their jeep, Scotty suddenly asked, "What do you think of Big Mac and Pancho?"

      Rick shrugged. He knew what had prompted Scotty's question. He had the same feeling himself. "They're friendly enough, but I think it's an act. What I mean, is …"

      "That they haven't any real interest in being friendly, they're just cordial for the sake of appearances," Scotty concluded.

      "On the nose, pal. I get the feeling they could switch from casual conversation to mayhem without batting an eye."

      Scotty thought it over for a moment. "Mac's the driving force of the pair, but I'd say they're equally tough. I'd guess Pancho is a combination of Irish and Mexican, both from his looks and his name."

      "Is Pancho a name? Or a nickname?"

      "Nickname. Usually short for Francisco."

      Rick thought back over the past few days, and their meetings with Big Mac and Pancho. "Funny thing, Scotty. The casino is usually pretty busy, and mostly with men from Scarlet Lake. But instead of getting acquainted with many of them we always seem to sit near those two."

      Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "What about it?"

      "I think we do it instinctively," Rick went on. "Every time we walk in, they're deep in conversation. There's a kind of atmosphere about them, as though the talk is always very secret. None of the other men seem like that. They're more – well, open. No secrets. Know what I mean?"

      Scotty nodded. "Now that you point it out, I do."

      "So I think we sort of gravitate toward them automatically. On a hunch that