The jet cab raced along the highway to Venusport
The jet cab slammed to a stop at a busy intersection of the city. This was Spaceman's Row, and it dated back to Venusport's first rough and tough pioneering days.
For two blocks on either side of the street, in building after building, cafes, pawnshops, cheap restaurants above and below the street level, supplied the needs of countless shadowy figures who came and went as silently as ghosts. Spaceman's Row was where suspended spacemen and space rats, prospectors of the asteroids for uranium and pitchblende, gathered and found short-lived and rowdy fun. Here, skippers of rocket ships, bound for destinations in deep space, could find hands willing to sign on their dirty freighters despite low pay and poor working conditions. No questions were asked here. Along Spaceman's Row, hard men played a grim game of survival.
Loring and Mason paid the driver, got out, and walked down the busy street. Here and there, nuaniam signs began to flick on, their garish blues, reds, and whites bathing the street in a glow of synthetic light. It was early evening, but already Spaceman's Row was getting ready for the coming night.
Presently, Mason left Loring, climbing up a long narrow flight of stairs leading to a dingy back hall bedroom to pack their few remaining bits of gear.
Loring walked on amid the noise and laughter that echoed from cheap restaurants and saloons. Stopping before Cafe Cosmos, he surveyed the street quickly before entering the wide doors. Many years before, the Cosmos had been a sedate dining spot, a place where respectable family parties came to enjoy good food and the gentle breezes of a near-by lake. Now, with the lake polluted by industry and with the gradual influx of shiftless spacemen, the Cosmos had been given over to the most basic, simple need of its new patrons—rocket juice!
The large room that Loring entered still retained some of the features of its more genteel beginnings, but the huge blaring teleceiver screen was filled with the pouting face of a popular singer. He advanced to the bar that occupied one entire wall.
"Rocket juice!" he said, slamming down his fist on the wooden bar. "Double!" He was served a glass of the harsh bluish liquid, paid his credits, and downed the drink. Then he turned slowly and glanced around the half-filled room. Almost immediately he spotted a small wizened man limping toward him.
"Been waiting for you," said the man.
"Well," demanded Loring, "did'ja get anything set up, Shinny?"
"Mr. Shinny!" growled the little man, with surprising vigor. "I'm old enough to be your father!"
"Awright—awright—Mr. Shinny!" sneered Loring. "Did'ja get it?"
The little man shook his head. "Nothing on the market, Billy boy." He paused and aimed a stream of tobacco juice at a near-by cuspidor.
Loring looked relieved. "Just as well. I've got something else lined up, anyway."
Shinny's eyes sharpened. "You must have a pretty big strike, Billy boy, if you're so hot to buy a spaceship!"
"Only want to take a little ride upstairs, Mr. Shinny," said Loring.
"Don't hand me that space gas!" snapped Shinny. "A man who's lost his space papers ain't going to take a chance at getting caught by the Solar Guard, busting the void with a rocket ship and no papers." He stopped, and his small gray eyes twinkled. "Unless," he added, "you've got quite a strike lined up!"
"Hey, Loring!" yelled Mason, entering the cafe. He carried two spaceman's traveling bags, small black plastic containers with glass zippers.
"So you've got Al Mason in with you," mused Shinny. "Pretty good man, Al. Let's see now, I saw you two just before you blasted off for Tara!" He paused. "Couldn't be that you've got anything lined up in deep space, now could it?"
"You're an old fool!" snarled Loring.
"Heh—heh—heh," chuckled Shinny. A toothless smile spread across his wrinkled face. "Coming close, am I?"
Al Mason looked at Shinny and back at Loring. "Say! What is this?" he demanded.
"O.K., O.K.," said Loring between clenched teeth. "So we've got a strike out in the deep, but one word outta line from you and I'll blast you with my heater!"
"Not a word," said Shinny, "not a word. I'll only charge you a little to keep your secret."
Mason looked at Loring. "How much?" he demanded.
"A twentieth of the take," said Shinny. "And that's dirt cheap."
"It's robbery," said Loring, "but O.K. We've got no choice!"
"Loring, wait a minute!" objected Mason. "One twentieth! Why, that could add up to a million credits!"
Shinny's eyes opened wide. "Twenty million! Hey, there hasn't been a uranium strike that big since the old seventeenth moon of Jupiter back in 2294!"
Loring motioned to them to sit down at a table. He ordered a bottle of rocket juice and filled three glasses.
"This ain't uranium, Mr. Shinny!" he said.
Shinny's eyes opened wider still. "What then?"
"What's the most precious metal in the system today?" Loring asked.
"Why—gold, I guess."
"Next to gold?"
Shinny thought for a moment. "Couldn't be silver any more, since they're making the artificial stuff cheaper'n it costs to mine it." The little man's jaw dropped and he stared at Loring. "You mean—?"
"That's right," said Loring, "copper!"
Shinny's mind raced. In this year of 2353, all major copper deposits had long since been exhausted and only small new deposits were being found, not nearly enough for the needs of the expanding system. In an age of electronics, lack of copper had become a serious bottleneck in the production of electrical and scientific equipment. Search parties were out constantly, all over the solar system, trying to find more of the precious stuff. So a deposit of the kind Loring and Mason were talking about was a prize indeed.
Shinny's greedy fingers twitched with anticipation.
"So that's why you want to buy a spaceship, eh?"
"Wanted," replied Loring. "I don't want to buy one now. The way things look, we'll get what we want for nothing!"
Mason, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly jumped up. "So that's your angle! Well, I don't want any part of it," he shouted.
Loring and Shinny looked up in surprise.
"What're you talking about?" demanded Loring.
"All of a sudden it's come to me. Now I know why you've been hanging around the spaceport for the last two weeks. And what you meant when you saw the spaceman get out of that freighter today!"
"Sit down!" barked Loring. "If you weren't so dumb, you'd have caught on long ago." He eyed the shorter man from between half-closed lids. "It's the only way we can get out of here!"
"Not me. I ain't pulling anything like that!" whined Mason.
"What's going on here?" demanded Shinny. "What're you two space bums talking about?"
"I'll tell you what! He's going to try—"
Loring suddenly stood up and slapped the shorter spaceman across the mouth. Mason sat down, a dazed look on his face.
"You space-crawling rat!" hissed Loring. "You'll do what I tell you to do, see?"
"Yeah—yeah, sure," bleated Mason. "O.K. Anything you say. Anything."
"What is this?" demanded Shinny.
"You shut up!" growled Loring.
"I won't!" said Shinny, as he also rose from the table. "You may be tough, Billy Loring, but not as tough as me!"
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Finally Loring smiled and patted Mason's shoulder. "Sorry, Al. I guess I got a little hot for a moment."
"Quit talking riddles," pleaded Shinny. "What's this all about?"
"Sit down," said Loring.
They sank back into their chairs.
"It's simple," said Mason fearfully. "Loring wants to steal a spaceship."
"A pirate job!" said Shinny. He drew in his breath sharply. "You must be outta your mind!"
"You've called yourself in on this," Loring reminded him. "And you're staying in."
"Oh, no!" Shinny's voice dropped to a husky, frightened whisper. "Deal's off. I ain't gonna spend the res
t of my life on a prison asteroid!"
"Shinny, you know too much!" Loring's hand darted toward the blaster he wore at his belt.
"Your secret's safe with me. I give you my spaceman's word on it," said Shinny, pushing back his chair. Abruptly getting to his feet, he scrambled rapidly out the door of the Cafe Cosmos.
"Loring," said Mason, "get him. You can't let him…"
"Forget it," shot back the other. "He won't break his spaceman's oath. Not Shinny." He got up. "Come on, Mason. We haven't got much time before the Annie Jones blasts off."
"What are we gonna do?" the shorter man wanted to know.
"Stow away on the cargo deck. Then, when we get out into space, we dump the pilots and head for Tara, for our first load of copper."
"But a job like this'll take money!"
"We'll make enough to go ahead on the first load."
Mason began to get up, hesitated, and then sat down again.
"Come on," snapped Loring. His hand dropped toward his belt. "I'm going to make you rich, Mason," he said quietly. "I'm going to make you one of the richest men in the universe—even if I have to kill you first."
CHAPTER 7
"Space freighter Antares from Venus space station. Your approach course is one-nine-seven—corrected. Reduce speed to minimum thrust and approach spaceport nine—landing-deck three. End transmission!"
Tom stood on the dais of the traffic-control room and switched the Antares beam to one of his assistants at the monitors in the control room. In less than two weeks he had mastered the difficult traffic-control procedure to the point where Captain Stefens had allowed him to handle the midnight shift. He checked the monitors and turned to see Roger walk through the door.
"Working hard, Junior?" asked Roger in his casual drawl.
"Roger!" exclaimed Tom. "What are you fooling around down here for?"
"Ah, there's nothing to do on the radar deck. Besides, I've got the emergency alarm on." He wiped his forehead. "Brother! Of all the crummy places to be stuck!"
"Could be worse," said Tom, his eyes sweeping the monitors.
"Nothing could be worse," groaned Roger. "But nothing. Think of that lovely space doll Helen Ashton alone on earth—and me stuck here on a space station."
"Well, we're doing an important job, Roger," replied Tom. "And doing it well, or Major Connel wouldn't leave us alone so much. How're you making out with the new equipment?"
"That toy?" sneered Roger. "I gave it a look, checked the circuits once, and knew it inside out. It's so simple a child could have built one!"
"Oh, sure," scoffed Tom. "That's why the top scientists worked for years on something small, compact, powerful enough to reach through deep space—and still be easy to repair."
"Quit heckling me, Junior," retorted Roger, "I'm thinking. Trying to figure out some way of getting to the teleceiver set on board the Polaris."
"Why can't you get on the Polaris?" asked Tom.
"They're jazzing up the power deck with a new hyperdrive unit for the big hop to Tara. So many guys buzzing around you can't get near it."
"What do you need a teleceiver for?" asked Tom.
"To give me company," replied Roger sourly. "Say!" He snapped his fingers suddenly. "Maybe if I just changed the frequency—"
"What frequency? What are you talking about?"
"Spaceboy, I'm getting a real hot-rocket idea! See ya later!" And the blond cadet ran for the door.
Tom watched his unit-mate disappear and shook his head in amused despair. Roger, he told himself, might be difficult, but he was certainly never dull.
Then his attention was brought back to the monitors by the warning of another approaching spaceship.
"… jet liner San Francisco to Venus space-station traffic control…" the metallic voice crackled over the speaker.
"Jet liner San Francisco, this is Venus space-station traffic control," replied Tom. "You are cleared for landing at port eleven—repeat—eleven. Make standard check for approach orbit to station landing. End transmission!"
From one side of the circular dais, Tom saw Major Connel enter the room. He snapped to attention and saluted smartly.
"Morning, Corbett," said Connel, returning Tom's salute. "Getting into the swing of the operation?"
"Yes, sir," said Tom. "I've handled about twenty approaches since Captain Stefens left me alone, and about fifty departures." Tom brought his fist up, with the thumb extended and wiped it across his chest in the traditional spaceman's signal that all was clear. "I didn't scratch one of 'em, sir," he said, smiling.
"Good enough," said Connel. "Keep it that way." He watched the monitor screen as the liner San Francisco settled into landing-port eleven.
When she was cradled and secure, he grunted his satisfaction and turned to leave. At the door he suddenly paused. "By the way, isn't Manning on radar watch?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"Well, it's one forty-eight. How about his standard check-in with traffic control?"
Tom stammered, "He—uh—he may be plotting some space junk, sir."
"He still must report, regardless of what he's doing!"
"I—uh—ah—yes, sir!" gulped Tom. Blast Roger anyway, he thought, forgetting the all-important quarter-hour check-in.
"I'd better go up and find out if anything's wrong," said Connel.
"Gosh, sir," suggested Tom, desperately seeking an excuse for his shipmate. "I'm sure Roger would have notified us if anything had happened."
"Knowing Manning as I do, I'm not so sure!" And the irascible officer thundered through the door like a jet-propelled tank!
* * * * *
"Come on, Mason. Hurry and put on that space suit," barked Loring.
"Take it easy," grumbled Mason. "I'm working as fast as I can!"
"Of all the rotten luck," growled Loring. "Who'd ever figure the Annie Jones would blast off from Venus—and then stop at the space station!"
"Shows you ain't so smart," retorted Mason. "Lots of ships do that. They carry just enough fuel to get 'em off the surface, so they'll be light while they're blasting out of Venus' gravity. Then they stop at the space station to refuel for the long haul."
"All right," barked Loring, "lay off the lecture! Just get that space suit on in a hurry!"
"Listen, wise guy," challenged Mason, "just tell me one thing. If we bail out of this tub in space suits, who's going to pick us up?"
"We're not bailing out!" said Loring.
"We're not? Then what are we suiting up for?"
"Just in case," said Loring. "Now listen to me. In a few minutes the Annie Jones'll make contact with traffic control. Only instead of talking to the pilot—they'll be talking to us. Because we'll have taken over."
"But unless we land they'll be suspicious. And if we land…"
Loring interrupted. "Nobody's going to suspect a thing. I'll tell traffic control we've got an extra-heavy load. Then they won't let us land. We follow their orders and blast off into space—find an emergency fuel station—head for Tara—and nobody suspects anything."
Mason twisted his face into a scowl. "Sounds awful risky to me," he muttered.
"Sure it's risky," sneered Loring, "but you don't hit the jackpot without ever taking a chance!"
The two men, huddled against a jumble of packing cases in the cargo hold of the Annie Jones, made careful preparations. Checking their weapons, they opened their way toward the freighter's control deck. Just outside the hatch they stopped, paralo-ray guns ready, and listened.
Inside, Pilot James Jardine and Leland Bangs, his first officer, were preparing for the landing at the space station.
"Ought to be picking up the approach radar signal pretty soon," said Bangs. "Better take her off automatic control, Jardine. Use the manual for close maneuvering."
"Right," answered his spacemate. "Send out a radar blip for them to pick up. I'll check the cargo and make sure it's lashed down for landing. Captain Stefens is tough when it comes to being shipshape."
The freig
hter blasted evenly, smoothly onward through the darkness of space in a straight line for the man-made satellite. Jardine got up from the freighter's dual-control board, picked up a portable light, and headed for the hatch leading to the cargo deck.
"He's coming," hissed Loring. "We'll take him soon's he reaches us." There was a sharp clank as the hatch opened, and Jardine's head came into view.
"Now!" yelled Loring. He swung the heavy paralo-ray gun at Jardine's head.
"What the—" exclaimed the startled spaceman. "Bangs, look out!"
He tried to avoid the blow, but Loring's gun landed on the side of his head. Jardine crumpled to the deck.
Bangs was out of his seat in a moment, at his pilot's call. The burly redheaded spaceman saw at a glance what was wrong and lunged for the hatch.
Loring stepped toward him, holding his paralo-ray.
"All right, spaceboy!" he grated. "Hold it or I'll freeze you stiff!"
Bangs stopped and stared at the gun and at Jardine who was slumped on the deck. Mason rushed past him to the controls.
"What is this?" demanded Bangs.
"An old game," explained Loring with a sneer. "It's called 'You've got it and I take it.' And if you don't like it, you get it." He gestured with his gun. "You get it—with this."
Bangs nodded. "O.K.," he said. "O.K. But how about letting me take care of my buddy. He's hurt."
"Just a bump on the head," said Loring. "He'll come out of it soon enough."
"Hey," shouted Mason, "I can't figure out these controls!"
Loring growled angrily. "Here, lemme at them!" He forced Bangs to lie down on the deck, and then, keeping the gun trained on the redheaded spaceman, stepped quickly to the control board. He handed Mason the gun.
"Keep an eye on them while I figure this baby out."
"Least you coulda done is steal a decent ship," grumbled Mason. "This tub is so old it creaks!"
"Just shut your mouth and keep your eye on those guys," said the other. He began to mutter to himself as he tried to figure out the complicated controls.
Jardine was now conscious but had the presence of mind not to move. His head ached from the blow. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw his two attackers bending over the board. He saw that Bangs was lying on the deck facing him. Jardine winked at Bangs, who returned the signal. Then he began, carefully, methodically to send a Morse-code message to his companion via his winking eyes.
Tom Corbett Space Cadet Page 23
