Tom Corbett Space Cadet

by Carey Rockwell

  "Wait, Astro… wait!"

  Astro suddenly wheeled around to see Tom shaking his head weakly and trying to rise up on his elbows. He rushed back to the fallen boy's side.

  Roger shouted at him angrily, "Leave him alone!"

  "Ahhh—go blow your jets!" was Astro's snarling reply as he bent over Tom, who was now sitting up. "Tom, are you O.K.?"

  "Yeah—yeah," he replied weakly. "But stay out of this. You're the referee. How much time left?"

  "Twenty seconds," said Astro. "Roger smacked you after I called time."

  "If he did, I didn't know a thing about it. I was out." Tom managed a cold smile. "Nice punch, Roger."

  "Ten seconds," said Astro, stepping back off the mat.

  "Thanks for the compliment, Corbett." Roger eyed the other cadet speculatively. "But are you sure you want to go on?"

  "I was saved by the bell, wasn't I?"

  "Yeah—sure—but if you'd rather quit—"

  "Time!" cried Astro.

  Tom rose to his feet—shook his head—and brought up his hands. He wasn't a moment too soon. Roger had rushed across the mat, trying to land another murderous right. Tom brought up his shoulder just in time, slipping with the punch, and at the same time, bringing up a terrific left to Roger's open mid-section. Manning let out a grunt and clinched. Tom pursued his advantage, pumping rights and lefts to the body, and he could feel the arrogant cadet weakening. Suddenly, Roger crowded in close, wrestling Tom around so that Astro was on the opposite side of the mat, then brought up his head under Tom's chin. The pop of Tom's teeth could be heard all over the great hall. Roger quickly stepped back, and back-pedaled until Astro called time.

  "Thanks for teaching me that one, Roger. Learned two tricks from you today," said Tom, breathing heavily, but with the same cold smile on his face.

  "That's all right, Corbett. Any time," said Manning.

  "What tricks?" asked Astro. He looked suspiciously at Manning, who was doubled over, finding it hard to breath.

  "Nothing I can't handle in time," said Tom, looking at Roger.

  "Time!" called Astro and stepped off the mat.

  The two boys got to their feet slowly. The pace was beginning to show on them and they boxed carefully.

  The boys were perfectly matched, Tom constantly snapping Roger's head back with the jolting left jabs and following to the head or heart with a right cross. And Roger counterpunching, slipping hooks and body punches in under Tom's long leads. It was a savage fight. The three weeks of hard physical training had conditioned the boys perfectly.

  At the end of the twelfth round, both boys showed many signs of wear. Roger's cheeks were as red as the glow of a jet blast deflector from the hundreds of lefts Tom had pumped into his face, while Tom's ribs and mid-section were bruised and raw where Roger's punches had landed successfully.

  It couldn't last much longer, thought Astro, as he called time for the beginning of the thirteenth round.

  Roger quickened his pace, dancing in and out, trying to move in under Tom's lefts, but suddenly Tom caught him with a right hand that was cocked and ready. It staggered him and he fell back, covering up. Tom pressed his advantage, showering rights and lefts everywhere he could find an opening. In desperation, his knees buckling, Roger clinched tightly, quickly brought up his open glove and gouged his thumb into Tom's eyes. Tom pulled back, instinctively pawing at his eye with his right glove. Roger, spotting the opening, took immediate advantage of it, shooting a hard looping right that landed flush on Tom's jaw. Tom went down.

  Unaware of Roger's tactics, Astro jumped into the ring and his arm pumped the deadly count.

  "One—two—three—four—"

  It was going to be tough if Roger won, Astro thought, as he counted.

  "Five—six—"

  Arrogant enough now, he would be impossible to live with.

  "Seven—eight—"

  Tom struggled up to a sitting position and stared angrily at his opponent in the far corner.

  "Nine—"

  With one convulsive effort, Tom regained his feet. His left eye was closed and swollen, his right bleary with fatigue. He wobbled drunkenly on his feet. But he pressed forward. This was one fight he had to win.

  Roger moved in for the finish. He slammed a left into Tom's shell, trying to find an opening for the last finishing blow. But Tom remained in his shell, forearms picking off the smashes that even hurt his arms, as he waited for the strength to return to his legs and arms and his head to clear. He knew that he couldn't go another round. He wouldn't be able to see. It would have to be this round, and he had to beat Roger. Not because he wanted to, but because Roger was a member of the unit. And he had to keep the unit together.

  He circled his unit-mate with care, shielding himself from the shower of rights and lefts that rained around him. He waited—waited for the one perfect opening.

  "Come on! Open up and fight, Corbett," panted Roger.

  Tom snapped his right in reply. He noticed that Roger moved in with a hook every time he tried to cross his right. He waited—his legs began to shake. Roger circled and Tom shot out the left again, dropped into a semicrouch and feinted with the right cross. Roger moved in, cocking his fist for the left hook and Tom was ready for him. He threw the right, threw it with every ounce of strength left in his body. Roger was caught moving in and took the blow flush on the chin. He stopped as if poleaxed. His eyes turned glassy and then he dropped to the mat. He was out cold.

  Astro didn't even bother to count.

  Tom squatted on the mat beside Roger and rubbed the blond head with his glove.

  "Get some water, Astro," he said, gasping for breath. "I'm glad I don't have to fight this guy again. And I'll tell you something else—"

  "What?" asked Astro.

  "Anybody that wants to win as much as this guy does, is going to win, and I want to have him on my side!"

  Astro merely grunted as he turned toward the water cooler.

  "Maybe," he called back. "But he ought to read a book of rules first!"

  When he came back to the mat with the water, Roger was sitting up, biting the knots of the laces on his gloves. Tom helped him, and when the soggy leather was finally discarded, he stuck out his hand. "Well, Roger, I'm ready to forget everything we've said and start all over again."

  Roger looked at the extended hand for a moment, his eyes blank and expressionless. Then, with a quick movement, he slapped it away and lurched to his feet.

  "Go blow your jets," he snarled, and turning his back on them, stumbled across the gym.

  Tom watched him go, bewilderment and pain mirrored on his face.

  "I thought sure this would work, Astro," he sighed. "I thought he'd come to his senses if—"

  "Nothing'll make that space creep come to his senses," Astro broke in disgustedly. "At least, nothing short of an atomic war head! Come on. Let's get you cleaned up!"

  Putting his arm around Tom's shoulder, the big Venusian led him across the floor of the deserted gym, and as they disappeared through the automatic sliding doors, a tall figure in the uniform of the Solar Guard stepped out of the shadows on the balcony above. It was Captain Strong.

  He stood silently at the rail, looking down at the mats and the soggy discarded boxing gloves. Tom had won the fight, he thought, but he had lost the war. The unit was now farther apart than it had ever been.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Well, Steve, how's everything going?"

  Captain Steve Strong didn't answer right away. He returned the salute of a Space Cadet passing on the opposite slidewalk and then faced Commander Walters who stood beside him, eyeing him quizzically.

  "Things are shaping up pretty well, Commander," he replied, finally, with an air of unconcern.

  "The Earthworm units buckling down to business?" Commander Walters' voice matched Strong's in nonchalance.

  "Yes, I'd say so, sir. Speaking generally, of course." Strong felt the back of his neck begin to flush as Walters kept eyeing him.

  "And—
speaking specifically, Steve?"

  "Why—ah—what do you mean, sir?"

  "Let's stop fencing with each other, Steve." Walters spoke kindly but firmly. "What about Manning and Unit 42-D? Are those boys learning to work together or not? And I want facts, not hopes!"

  Strong hesitated, trying to word his reply. In these weeks that had followed Tom's fight with Roger in the gym, there had been no further incidents of open warfare. Roger's attitude, once openly defiant, had now subsided into a stream of never-ending sarcasm. The sting had been taken out of his attack and he seemed satisfied merely to annoy. Astro had withdrawn into a shell, refusing to allow Roger to bother him and only an occasional rumble of anger indicated his true feelings toward his troublesome unit-mate. Tom maintained his role of peacemaker and daily, in many ways, showed his capacity for leadership by steering his unit-mates away from any storm-provoking activities.

  Strong finally broke the silence. "It's difficult to answer that question with facts, Commander Walters."

  "Why?" insisted Walters.

  "Well, nothing's really happened," answered Steve.

  "You mean, nothing since the fight in the gym?"

  "Oh—" Strong flushed. "You know about that?"

  Commander Walters smiled. "Black eyes and faces that looked like raw beef don't go unnoticed, Steve."

  "Uhh—no, sir," was Strong's lame reply.

  "What I want to know is," pursued Walters, "did the fight prove anything? Did the boys get it out of their systems and are they concentrating on becoming a unit?"

  "Right now, Commander, they're concentrating on passing their manuals. They realize that they have to work together to get through this series of tests. Why, Dr. Dale told me the other day that she's sure Tom's been giving Roger a few pointers on control-deck operation. And one night I found Manning giving Astro a lecture in compression ratios. Of course, Manning's way of talking is a way that would confuse the Venusian more than it would help him, but at least they weren't snarling at each other."

  "Hmm," Walters nodded. "Sounds hopeful, but still not conclusive. After all, they have to help each other in the manuals. If one member of the unit fails, it will reflect on the marks of the other two and they might be washed out too. Even the deadliest enemies will unite to save their lives."

  "Perhaps, sir," replied Strong. "But we're not dealing with deadly enemies now. These are three boys, with three distinct personalities who've been lumped together in strange surroundings. It takes time and patience to make a team that will last for years."

  "You may have the patience, Steve, but the Academy hasn't the time." Commander Walters was suddenly curt. "When does Unit 42-D take its manuals?"

  "This afternoon, sir," replied Strong. "I'm on my way over to the examination hall right now."

  "Very well. I won't take any action yet. I'll wait for the results of the tests. Perhaps they will solve both our problems. See you later, Steve." Turning abruptly, Commander Walters stepped off the slidewalk onto the steps of the Administration Building and rapidly disappeared from view.

  Left alone, Strong pondered the commander's parting statement. The implication was clear. If the unit failed to make a grade high enough to warrant the trouble it took keeping it together, it would be broken up. Or even worse, one or more of the boys would be dismissed from the Academy.

  A few minutes later Strong arrived in the examination hall, a large, barren room with a small door in each of the three walls other than the one containing the entrance. Tom Corbett was waiting in the center of the hall and saluted smartly as Strong approached.

  "Cadet Corbett reporting for manual examination, sir!"

  "Stand easy, Corbett," replied Strong, returning the salute. "This is going to be a rough one. Are you fully prepared?"

  "I believe so, sir." Tom's voice wasn't too steady.

  A fleeting smile passed over Strong's lips, then he continued. "You'll take the control-deck examination first. Manning will be next on the radar bridge and Astro last on the power deck."

  "They'll be here according to schedule, sir."

  "Very well. Follow me."

  Strong walked quickly to the small door in the left wall, Tom staying a respectful step behind. When they reached the door, the officer pressed a button in the wall beside it and the door slid open.

  "All right, Corbett. Inside." Strong nodded toward the interior of the room.

  The boy stepped in quickly, then stopped in amazement. All around him was a maze of instruments and controls. And in the center, twin pilot's chairs.

  "Captain Strong!" Tom was so surprised that he could hardly get the words out. "It's—it's a real control deck!"

  Strong smiled. "As real as we can make it, Corbett, without allowing the building to blast off." He gestured toward the pilot's chairs. "Take your place and strap in."

  "Yes, sir." His eyes still wide with wonder, Tom stepped over to the indicated chair and Strong followed him, leaning casually against the other.

  He watched the young cadet nervously adjust his seat strap and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Nervous, Corbett?"

  "Yes, sir—just a little," replied Tom.

  "Don't worry," said Strong. "You should have seen the way I came into this room fifteen years ago. My cadet officer had to help me into the control pilot's seat."

  Tom managed a fleeting smile.

  "Now, Corbett"—Strong's voice became businesslike—"as you know, these manual tests are the last tests before actually blasting off. In the past weeks, you cadets have been subjected to every possible examination, to discover any flaw in your work that might later crop up in space. This manual operations test of the control board, like Manning's on the radar bridge and Astro's on the power deck, is designed to test you under simulated space conditions. If you pass this test, your next step is real space."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I warn you, it isn't easy. And if you fail, you personally will wash out, and if other members of the unit do not get a high enough mark to average out to a passing grade for all of you, you fail as a unit."

  "I understand, sir," said Tom.

  "All right, then we'll begin. Your crew is aboard, the air lock is closed. What is the first thing you do?"

  "Adjust the air circulating system to ensure standard Earth conditions."

  "How do you do that?"

  "By pressing this button which will activate the servo units. They automatically keep the circulating pumps in operation, based on thermostatic readings from the main gauge." Tom pointed to a black clock face, with a luminous white hand and numbers.

  "All right, carry on," said Strong.

  Tom reached over the huge control board that extended around him for some two feet on three sides. He placed a nervous finger on a small button, waited for the gauge below to register with a swing of the hand, and then released it. "All pressures steady, sir."

  "What next?"

  "Check the crew, sir—all departments—" replied Tom.

  "Carry on," said Strong.

  Tom reached out and pulled a microphone toward him.

  "All hands! Station check!" said Tom, and then was startled to hear a metallic voice answer him.

  "Power deck, ready for blast-off!" And then another voice: "Radar deck, ready for blast-off!"

  Tom leaned back in the pilot's seat and turned to the captain. "All stations ready, sir."

  "Good! What next?" asked Strong.

  "Ask spaceport tower for blast-off clearance—"

  Strong nodded. Tom turned back to the microphone, and without looking, punched a button in front of him.

  "Rocket cruiser—" He paused and turned back to Strong. "What name do I give, sir?"

  Strong smiled. "Noah's Ark—"

  "Rocket cruiser Noah's Ark to spaceport control! Request blast-off clearance and orbit."

  Once again a thin metallic voice answered him and gave the necessary instructions.

  On and on, through every possible command, condition or decision that would be pla
ced in front of him, Tom guided his imaginary ship on its imaginary flight through space. For two hours he pushed buttons, snapped switches and jockeyed controls. He gave orders and received them from the thin metallic voices. They answered him with such accuracy, and sometimes with seeming hesitation, that Tom found it difficult to believe that they were only electronically controlled recording devices. Once, when supposedly blasting through space at three-quarters space speed, he received a warning from the radar bridge of an approaching asteroid. He asked for a course change, but in reply received only static. Believing the recording to have broken down, he turned inquiringly to Captain Strong, but received only a blank stare in return. Tom hesitated for a split second, then turned back to the controls. He quickly flipped the teleceiver button on and began plotting the course of the approaching asteroid, ignoring for the moment his other duties on the control deck. When he had finished, he gave the course shift to the power deck and ordered a blast on the starboard jet. He waited for the course change, saw it register on the gauges in front of him, then continued his work.

  Strong suddenly leaned over and clapped him on the back enthusiastically.

  "Good work, Corbett. That broken recording was put there intentionally to trap you. Not one cadet in twenty would have had the presence of mind you showed in plotting the course of that asteroid yourself."

  "Thank you, sir," stammered Tom.

  "That's all—the test is over. Return to your quarters." He came over and laid a hand on Tom's shoulder. "And don't worry, Corbett. While it isn't customary to tell a cadet, I think you deserve it. You've passed with a perfect score!"

  "I have, sir? You mean—I really passed?"

  "Next step is Manning," said Strong. "You've done as much as one cadet can do."

  "Thank you, sir"—Tom could only repeat it over and over—"thank you, sir—thank you."

  Dazed, he saluted his superior and turned to the door. Two hours in the pilot's chair had made him dizzy. But he was happy.

  Five minutes later he slammed back the sliding door and entered the quarters of 42-D with a lusty shout.