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
