Tom Corbett Space Cadet

by Carey Rockwell

  "I have no doubt," said Barnard in a slow, positive manner, "that the decision to substitute a space race between us as a means of awarding the contract was well considered by the Solar Council." He turned and shot Brett a flinty look. "And under the circumstances, I, for one, accept their decision." He sat down abruptly.

  There were cries of: "Hear! Hear!" "Righto!" "Very good!"

  "No!" shouted Brett, leaping to his feet. "By the craters of Luna, it isn't right! I demand to know exactly who submitted the lowest bid!"

  Walters sighed and shuffled through several papers on his desk. "You are within your rights, Mr. Brett," he said, eying the man speculatively. "It was you."

  "Then why in blue blazes didn't I get the contract?" screamed Brett.

  "For several reasons," replied Walters. "Your contract offered us the lowest bid in terms of money, but specified very slow schedules. On the other hand, Universal Spaceways Limited planned faster schedules, but at a higher cost. Kit Barnard outbid both of you in money and schedules, but he has only two ships, and we were doubtful of his ability to complete the contract should one of his ships crack up. The other companies offered, more or less, the same conditions. So you can understand our decision now, Mr. Brett." Walters paused and glared at the man. "The Solar Council sat in a continuous forty-eight-hour session and considered everyone. The space race was finally decided on, and voted for by every member. Schedules were the most vital point under consideration. But other points could not be ignored, and these could only be determined by actual performance. Now, does that answer all your questions, Mr. Brett?"

  "No, it doesn't!" yelled Brett.

  "Oh, sit down, Brett!" shouted a voice from the back of the room.

  "Yes! Sit down and shut up!" called another. "We're in this too, you know!"

  Brett turned on them angrily, but finally sat down, scowling.

  In the rear of the room Tom nudged Roger. "Boy! The commander sure knows how to lay it on the line when he wants to, doesn't he?"

  "I'll say!" replied Roger. "That guy Brett better watch out. Both the commander and Captain Strong look as if they're ready to pitch him out on his ear."

  Six feet tall, and looking crisp, sure, and confident in his black-and-gold uniform, Captain Steve Strong stood near Walters and scowled at Brett. Unit instructor for the Polaris crew and Commander Walters' executive officer, Strong was not as adept as Walters in masking his feelings, and his face clearly showed his annoyance at Brett's outbursts. He had sat the full forty-eight hours with the Council while they argued, not over costs, but in an effort to make sure that none of the companies would be slighted in their final decision. It made his blood boil to see someone like Brett selfishly disregard these efforts at fairness.

  "That is all the information I can give you, gentlemen," said Walters finally. "Thank you for your kind attention"—he shot an ironic glance at Brett—"and for your understanding of a difficult situation. Now you must excuse me. Captain Strong, whom you all know, will fill in the details of the race."

  As Walters left the room, Strong stepped to the desk, faced the assembly, and spoke quickly. "Gentlemen, perhaps some of you are acquainted with the present jet car race that takes place each year? The forerunner of that race was the Indianapolis Five-Hundred-Mile Race of some few hundred years ago. We have adopted their rules for our own speed tests. Time trials will be held with all interested companies contributing as many ships that they think can qualify, and the three ships that make the fastest time will be entered in the actual race. This way we can eliminate the weaker contenders and reduce the chance of accidents taking place millions of miles out in space. Also, it will result in a faster time for the winner. Now, the details of the race will be given to your chief pilots, crew chiefs, and power-deck officers at a special meeting in my office here in the Tower building tomorrow. You will receive all information and regulations governing the minimum and maximum size of the ships entered, types of reactor units, and amount of ballast to be carried."

  "How many in the crew?" asked a man in the front.

  "Two," replied Steve, "or if the ship is mostly automatic, one. Either can be used. The Solar Guard will monitor the race, sending along one of the heavy cruisers." Strong glanced at his notes. "That is all, gentlemen. Are there any questions?"

  There were no questions and the men began to file out of the room. Strong was relieved to see Brett was among the first to leave. He didn't trust himself to keep his temper with the man. As the room emptied, Strong stood at the door and grabbed Kit Barnard by the sleeve. "Hello, spaceman!" he cried. "Long time, no see!"

  "Hello, Steve," replied Kit, with a slow, warm smile.

  "Say! Is that the way to greet an old friend after four, or is it five years?"

  "Five," replied Kit.

  "You look worried, fellow," said Strong.

  "I am. This race business leaves me holding the bag."

  "How's that?"

  "Well, I made a bid on the strength of a new reactor unit I'm trying to develop," explained Kit. "If I had gotten the contract, I could have made a loan from the Universal Bank and completed my work easily. But now—" Kit stopped and shook his head slowly.

  "What is this reactor?" Strong asked. "Something new?"

  "Yes. One quarter the size of present standard reactors and less than half the weight." Kit's eyes began to glow with enthusiasm as he spoke. "It would give me extra space in my ships and be economical enough on fuel for me to be able to compete with the larger outfits and their bigger ships. Now, all I've got is a reactor that hasn't been tested properly, that I'm not even sure will work on a long haul and a hot race."

  "Is there any way you can soup up one of your present reactors to make this run?" asked Strong.

  "I suppose so," added Kit. "I'll give the other fellows a run for their money all right. But it'll take every credit I have. And if I don't win the race, I'm finished. Washed up."

  "Excuse me, Captain Strong," said Tom Corbett, coming to attention. "Major Connel ordered us to report here for special assignment."

  "Oh, yes," said Strong, turning to Tom, Roger, and Astro with a smile. "Meet Kit Barnard. Kit—Tom Corbett, Roger Manning, and Astro, the Polaris unit. My unit," he added proudly.

  The boys saluted respectfully, and Barnard smiled and shook hands with each of them.

  "You've heard about the race now," said Strong to Tom.

  "Yes, sir," replied the young cadet. "It sounds exciting."

  "It will be, with spacemen like Kit Barnard, Charley Brett, and the other men of the big outfits competing. You're going to work with me on the time trials, and later the Polaris will be the ship that monitors the race. But first, you three will be inspectors."

  "Of what, sir?" asked Roger.

  "You'll see that all regulations are observed—that no one gets the jump on anyone else. These men will be souping up their reactors until those ships will be nothing but 'go,' and it's your job to see that they use only standard equipment."

  "We're going to be real popular when we tell a spaceman he can't use a unit he's rigged up specially," commented Astro with a grin.

  Tom laughed. "We'll be known as the cadets you love to hate!"

  "Especially when you run up against Charley Brett," said Kit.

  The cadets looked at the veteran spaceman inquiringly, but he was not smiling, and they suddenly felt a strange chill of apprehension.

  CHAPTER 3

  "It's about time you got here!"

  Charley Brett glared angrily at his chief pilot, Quent Miles, as he sauntered into the office and flopped into a chair.

  "I had a heavy date last night. I overslept," the spaceman replied, yawning loudly.

  "We're late for Strong's meeting over at the Academy," Brett snapped. "Get up! We've got to leave right away."

  Quent Miles looked at the other man, his black eyes gleaming coldly. "I'll get up when I'm ready," he said slowly.

  The two men glared at each other for a moment, and finally Brett lowered
his eyes. Miles grinned and yawned again.

  "Come on," said Brett in a less demanding tone. "Let's go. No use getting Strong down on us before we even get started."

  "Steve Strong doesn't scare me," replied Miles.

  "All right! He doesn't scare you. He doesn't scare me, either," said Brett irritably. "Now that we both know that neither of us is scared, let's get going."

  Quent smiled again and rose slowly. "You know something, Charley?" he said in a deceptively mild voice. "One of these days you're going to get officious with the wrong spaceman, one that isn't as tolerant as I am, and you're going to be pounded into space dust."

  Quent Miles stood in front of Brett's desk and stretched like a languid cat. Brett noted the powerful hands and arms and the depth of the shoulders and chest, all emphasized by the tight-fitting clothes the spaceman affected. The man was dark and swarthy, and dressed all in black. Brett had often imagined that if the devil ever took human form it would look like Quent Miles. He shivered uncontrollably and waited. Finally Miles turned to him, a mocking smile on his face.

  "Well, Charley? What are we waiting for?"

  A few moments later they were speeding through the broad streets of Atom City in a jet cab on the way to the Atom City spaceport.

  "What's this all about?" demanded Quent, settling back in his seat. "Why the rush call?"

  "I didn't get the contract to haul the crystal," replied Brett grimly. "All the bids were so close the Solar Council decided to have a space race out to Titan to pick the outfit that would get the job."

  Quent turned toward him, surprised. "But I thought you had all that sewed up tight!" he exclaimed. "I thought after you got your hands on the—"

  "Shut up!" interrupted Brett. "The details on the specifications leaked out. Now the only way I can get the contract is to win the race."

  "And I'm the guy to do it?" asked Quent with a smile.

  "That's what you're here for. If we don't win this race, we're finished. Washed up!"

  "Who else is in the race?"

  "Every other major space-freight outfit in the system," replied Brett grimly. "And Kit Barnard."

  "Has Barnard got that new reactor of his working yet?"

  "I don't think so. But I have no way of telling."

  "If he has, you're not going to win this race," said Quent, shaking his head. "Nor is anyone else."

  "You are here for one reason," said Brett pointedly.

  "I know." Quent grinned. "To win a race."

  "Right."

  Quent laughed. "With those heaps you've fooled people into thinking are spaceships? Don't make me laugh."

  "There are going to be time trials before the race," said Brett. "The three fastest ships are going to make the final run. I'm not worried about the race itself. I've got a plan that will assure us of winning. It's the time trials that's got me bothered."

  "Leave that to me," said Quent.

  The jet cab pulled up to the main gate of the spaceport and the two men got out. Far across the field, a slender, needle-nosed ship stood poised on her stabilizer fins ready for flight. She was black except for a red band painted on the hull across the forward section and around the few viewports. It gave her the appearance of a huge laughing insect. Quent eyed the vessel with a practiced eye.

  "I'll have to soup her up," he commented. "She wouldn't win a foot race now."

  "Don't depend too heavily on your speed," said Brett. "I would just as soon win by default. After all," he continued, looking at Miles with calculating eyes, "serious accidents could delay the other ships."

  "Sure. I know what you mean," replied the spaceman.

  "Good!" Brett turned away abruptly and headed for the ship. Quent following him. In a little while the white-hot exhaust flare from the rocket tubes of the sleek ship splattered the concrete launching apron and it lifted free of the ground. Like an evil, predatory bug, the ship blasted toward the Academy spaceport.

  * * * * *

  "Well, blast my jets!" Astro gasped, stopping in his tracks and pointing. Tom and Roger looked out over the quadrangle toward the Academy spaceport where ship after ship, braking jets blasting, sought the safety of the ground.

  "Great galaxy," exclaimed Tom, his eyes bulging, "there must be a hundred ships!"

  "At least," commented Roger.

  "But they can't all be here for the trials," said Astro.

  "Why not?" asked Roger. "This is a very important race. Who knows what ship might win? It pays the company to enter every ship they have."

  "Great galaxy! There must be a hundred ships!"

  "Roger's right, Astro," said Tom. "These fellows are playing for big stakes. Though I don't think there'll be more than thirty or forty ships in the actual speed trials. See those big-bellied jobs? They're repair ships."

  "I hadn't thought about that," acknowledged the big Venusian cadet. "They'll probably be jazzing up those sleek babies and that takes a lot of repair and work."

  "Come on," said Tom. "We've got to get over to the meeting. Captain Strong said he wanted us to be there."

  The three cadets turned back toward the nearest slidewalk and hopped on. None of them noticed the black ship with the red band around its bow which suddenly appeared over the field, rockets blasting loudly as it began to drop expertly to the ground.

  From early morning the skies over the Academy had been vibrating to the thunderous exhausts of the incoming fleet of ships. Painted with company colors and insignia, the ships landed in allotted space on the field, and almost immediately, mechanics, crew chiefs, and specialists of all kinds swarmed over the space vessels preparing them for the severest tests they would ever undergo. The ships that actually were to make the trial runs were stripped of every spare pound of weight, while their reactors were taken apart and specially designed compression heads were put on the atomic motors.

  The entire corps of Space Cadets had been given a special three-day holiday to see the trials, and the Academy buildings were decorated with multicolored flags and pennants. A festive atmosphere surrounded the vast Solar Guard installation.

  But in his office in the Tower of Galileo, Captain Strong paced the floor, a worried frown on his face. He stepped around his desk and picked up a paper to re-read it for the tenth time. He shook his head and flipped open the key of his desk intercom, connecting him with the enlisted spaceman in the next office.

  "Find Kit Barnard, spaceman!" Strong called. "And give him an oral message. Personal. Tell him I said he can't use his reactor unit unless he changes it to more standard operational design." Strong paused and glanced at the paper again. "As it stands now, his reactor will not be approved for the trials," he continued. "Tell him he has until midnight tonight to submit new specifications."

  As Strong closed the intercom key abruptly, the three members of the Polaris unit stepped into his office and saluted smartly. Strong looked up. "Hello, boys. Sit down." He waved them to nearby chairs and turned back to his desk. The drawn expression of their unit commander did not go unnoticed.

  "Is there something wrong, sir?" asked Tom tentatively.

  "Nothing much," replied Strong wearily. He indicated the sheaf of papers in front of him. "These are reactor-unit specifications submitted by the pilots and crew chiefs of the ships to be flown in the time trials. I've just had to reject Kit Barnard's specifications."

  "What was the matter?" asked Astro.

  "Not enough safety allowance. He's running too close to the danger point in feeding reactant to the chambers, using D-18 rate of feed and D-9 is standard."

  "What about the other ships, sir?" asked Tom. "Do they all have safety factors?"

  Strong shrugged his shoulders. "They all specify standard reaction rates without actually using figures," he said. "But I'm certain that their feeders are being tuned up for maximum output. That's where your job is going to come in. You've got to inspect the ships to make sure they're safe."

  "Then Kit Barnard put down his specifications, knowing that there was a chance they
wouldn't pass," Tom remarked.

  Strong nodded. "He's an honest man."

  The door opened and several men stepped inside. They were dressed in the mode of merchant space officers, wearing high-peaked hats, trim jackets, and trousers of a different color. Strong stood up to greet them.

  "Welcome, gentlemen. Please be seated. We will begin the meeting as soon as all the pilots are here."

  Roger nudged Astro and whispered, "What's the big deal about a D-18 rate and a D-9 rate? Why is that so important?"

  "It has to do with the pumps," replied the power-deck cadet. "They cool the reactant fuel to keep it from getting too hot and wildcatting. At a D-9 rate the reactant is hot enough to create power for normal flight. Feeding at a D-18 rate is fine too, but you need pumps to cool the motors, and pumps that could do the job would be too big."

  "Kit's problem," commented Tom, "is not so much building the reactor, but a cooling system to keep it under control."

  "Will that make a big difference in who wins the race?" asked Roger.

  "With that ship of Kit's," said Astro, shaking his head, "I doubt if he'll be able to come even close to the top speeds in the trials unless he can use the new reactor."

  The room had filled up now and Strong rapped on the desk for attention. He stared at the faces of the men before him, men who had spent their lives in space. They were the finest pilots and crew chiefs in the solar system. They sat quietly and attentively as Strong gave them the details of the greatest race of spaceships in over a hundred years.

  After Strong had outlined the plans for the time trials, he concluded, "Each of you competing in the time trials will be given a blast-off time and an orbital course. Only standard, Solar-Guard-approval equipment will be allowed in the tests. I will monitor the trials, and Space Cadets Corbett, Manning, and Astro will be in complete charge of all inspections of your ships." Strong paused and looked around. "Are there any questions?"