Ron Carver watched the back of the young boy's neck for twenty minutes, while he steered the ancient copter expertly across the skies. He figured that the boy might have been fourteen or fifteen, but there was a competence in the way his hands moved over the controls, and a steeliness in the way his head sat on his thin neck. They didn't make much conversation, but Ron gathered that the boy was a member of something called the Red Rockets, an organization with some inexplicable purpose.
It was only after the copter had landed on the roof of a half-decayed slum in the worst part of town, that Ron realized who the Red Rockets were. They were kids, all of them, banded together for mutual defense and in common antagonism toward the world. When he clambered out of the copter, his rescuer grinned and said:
"This is it, pal. This is where the gang meets."
"The Red Rockets?"
"Yeah. This is Shock's house. He's the leader."
They had to descend by stairs; there was no building elevator. When they reached the second floor, the boy put a finger to his lips, and rapped one-two, two-two on the apartment door.
A boy no older than Ron's new body opened it. His dark pinched face grew smaller and darker when he saw the stranger. He looked back into the room before letting them in.
The room was a study in decay. Someone had once wallpapered it in an optimistic pink pattern that was now sardonic in the surroundings. The furniture was rudimentary, and there were no working light fixtures. A battery lamp was sitting in the middle of a wooden table, and three youngsters were playing with a ragged deck of cards.
The tallest of them arose when the newcomers entered. He was the only one wearing a jacket; the others were in shirtsleeves. His hair was black, and unruly to the point of being ludicrous. His wide mouth twisted when he spoke.
"Who's this?" he said. "What's the idea?"
"He's okay," Ron's protector said. "He's an okay kid. I spotted him on a rooftop down on Park. A million cops after him. I dropped down in the copter and picked him up."
The tall boy studied Ron's face. "What's your name?"
"Ron."
"What were the cops chasin' you for?"
Ron hesitated. "Any of your business?"
The tall boy smiled. "Maybe not." He looked towards the others, and winked as if pleased. "Guess he's okay." He held his right hand out to Ron, while his left ducked into his jacket pocket. "My name's Shock, pal. And I'm the leader here. And just so's you don't forget it—"
Pain lanced through Ron's arm and struck the base of his skull. He tried to free himself from the tall boy's grip, but his fingers wouldn't part from the other's flesh. He dropped to his knees in agony, until the grip was broken.
He looked up, his face damp.
"That's your 'nitiation," the tall boy grinned. "Now you know what's what, Ronnie boy. So if you want to join the Rockets, you'll know where your orders come from."
Shock helped him to his feet. "Right, Ronnie boy?"
Ron shook his head, still bewildered.
"Good deal," Shock said. "Now let's finish that game. You play, kid?"
"No," Ron said. He staggered towards a wooden chair on the side of the room and dropped on it heavily. "No," he repeated, still trying to regain his breath.
Play the game....
His rescuer sat beside him. "Don't mind that guy," he whispered. "He does that to everybody. He got some kind of a power in his hands. But he's not a bad guy. Honest."
"Sure," Ron said weakly.
"We get a lot of kicks," the boy said eagerly. "You'll see. We have dogfights with the other gangs. With copters. We only got one, that ain't so much. But we're figurin' on gettin' some PF's next year, if we can collect enough dough in the treasury...."
"That'll be great," Ron said. Then he dropped his hand on the other's arm. "Listen—is there any chance of takin' a trip? In the copter?"
"Yeah, sure," the boy said warily. "Only you gotta ask for it in advance. I mean, it's Rocket property, and you gotta sign for it. And even then, if Shock wants to use it—well...."
"Why?" Ron said. "Why's that? Because he's the leader?"
"Sure," the boy said simply. "That's the reason."
Ron looked across the room at the card players.
"How do you get to be the leader?"
"I dunno. Shock's the leader 'cause he can lick anybody in the Rockets. That makes sense, don't it?"
"Yes. I suppose so." He chewed his lip. "Listen. Let's say I was leader. Could I use the copter then? Any time I wanted?"
"Sure. I mean, if you're the leader, who's gonna stop you?"
"Yes," Ron said. He stood up and walked to the table, watching the cards as they were slapped on the wood.
"Hey, Shock," he said.
The tall boy didn't look up. "What is it?"
"You cheat." A thrill ran through Ron's new body as he said it, and he muttered a small prayer that his guess about Shock's power was correct.
"I what?"
"I've been watching you play, and you cheat. You don't even cheat good. You cheat sloppy."
The tall boy stood up slowly, and the other chairs were scraped back in anticipation.
"Now that's something," he said. "That's really something! The kid's here ten minutes, and right away he wants to be buried." His face became grim. "Boy, we've had 'em wise before, pal. But never like this."
Ron planted himself in front of him.
"So?" he said.
Shock's face clouded. "Say, are you kidding? You really like trouble that bad?"
His right hand lashed out, while the left headed for his jacket pocket. But it wasn't the right that Ron avoided. Both of his short arms shot out towards the tall boy's left, and stopped the descent of the arm. Shock's right hand thudded against Ron's shoulder, the blow only stinging him.
"Hey!" Shock cried. "Hey, you—"
It was a triumph for Ron. He had been right about the electrical circuit woven through Shock's clothing, the circuit he couldn't complete without his left hand tripping the mechanism in his pocket. With the power off, Shock's weapon was useless. He was caught by surprise, and Ron's quick-moving hands tumbled him to the floor.
Before he had a chance to do anything else, Ron was upon him with an upraised chair. He closed his eyes before he swung. The sound of the crash might have sickened him in other circumstances; now it sounded good and satisfying.
Ron looked around the room, panting.
"I'm the leader now," he said. "Understand? I'm the leader!"
The looked at each other uncertainly.
"I'm taking the copter for a while," Ron said, backing towards the door. "Any arguments?"
Nobody answered.
"Swell. So long, pals."
Outside the door, he ran all the way back to the roof and was off before the gang could follow.
The trip took almost two hours. Even Ron's experienced guidance of the controls couldn't push the old copter past its limits, and he was keeping a worried eye on the fuel gauge. It was with a sigh of relief that he dropped the vehicle atop a public parking station in the downtown district, within walking distance of the Government Medical Center.
The sun was dropping fast, and the Washington streets were still filled with Sunday sightseers who found nothing odd in the sight of a solitary twelve-year-old. When he entered the enormous U-shaped edifice that housed a hundred and one government medical projects, he was thinking fast about a plausible story for the receptionist. The best he could do was:
"I'm looking for Dr. Wilfred Minton. He—he's my uncle."
"Dr. Minton?" She was young, and the efficient type. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Minton's been on special assignment for some time. It's not easy to locate him."
"Oh, I know about that," Ron said airily. "But I was supposed to see him today. You see, my mom—his sister that is—she was in a very bad accident...." He swallowed hard, wondering if he was being believed.
The woman frowned. "Well, if it's an emergency, I suppose I could check with central control. If it's really important."
"Oh, it's important, all right!" He said this with great conviction.
"Very well, then." She picked up her telephone, and there was much transferring from party to party. Finally, she lowered the receiver, saying: "He's in the east wing. It's Security territory, so I'll have to see about a pass."
It took another ten minutes for her to locate the authority she was seeking. A young man with crinkly hair and a grim expression came briskly to the desk, asked him a few questions, and then signed his name on a document. Ron put the paper into the pocket of his coveralls, and followed the man to a bank of private elevators.
The man waved him inside one, and he couldn't resist a wide-eyed question.
"Gosh, mister. Are you from the FBI?"
The man couldn't conceal a small pleased grin. "That's right, son. Only you keep it a secret."
"Sure," Ron said. When the door closed and the elevator ascended, he grinned too. Being twelve had its advantages sometimes.
He got off the elevator, and a uniformed guard checked his paper and led him into an anteroom.
"You wait here, son," he said, and left.
Ron waited five minutes. When nothing happened, he tried an adjoining door. It was open. He stepped inside the next room, and saw that it was a bare room with nothing but a row of filing cabinets and an abandoned swivel chair with a definite list to port.
He went to the files and peered at the designation cards.
They read:
PROJECT SCHOLAR.
 
He shrugged, and tried to open the top file. It was locked. He tried the others, with no better luck.
Then he heard the voices in the anteroom.
For some reason, he sensed danger. He knew he shouldn't be in the file room, that if he were found his visit to Dr. Minton might come to a sudden end. He couldn't take the chance. He tiptoed to the front door of the file room and turned the knob. He slipped out, and ran on his toes down the empty corridor.
Quickly, without thought of the consequence, Ron opened still another door and closed it behind him.
He looked at the shining brass fixtures and ultra modern appliances, and wondered what a kitchen was doing in a government medical building. Then, when he heard a sound in the adjoining room, he reasoned that he had stumbled into someone's living quarters.
He went to a brown mahogany door and pushed against it gently, until he widened the crack sufficiently to make out the figure walking up and down in the other room.
When the man crossed his line of vision, Ron's breath tumbled out in a gasp.
It was his own body. His thirty-year-old body, with its six-foot-two frame of big bones and long muscles, its sandy, close-cropped hair, its brooding eyes and full mouth. It was Ron Carver. It was himself as he had been before.
"Here's the little rascal," a voice said behind him.