CHAPTER 5
"We regret to announce that the spaceship La Belle France, piloted by Gigi Duarte, has crashed!"
Captain Strong's voice was choked with emotion as he made the announcement over the spaceport public-address system. There was an audible groan of sympathy from the thousands of spectators in the grandstands. In spite of every precaution for safety, death had visited the spaceways.
Strong continued, "We have just received official confirmation from Luna City that the Paris-Venusport Transfer Company entry exploded in space soon after leaving Luna City. Captain Duarte had flown the first leg of the race from Earth to the Moon in record time."
The Solar Guard officer snapped off the microphone and turned to Tom, Roger, and Astro. "It's hard to believe that the French Chicken won't be shuttling from Paris to Venusport any more," he murmured.
"Are there any details, sir?" asked Tom.
"You know there are never any details, Corbett," said Strong with a little edge in his voice. Then he immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, Tom. Gigi was an old friend."
The door behind them opened and an enlisted spaceman stepped inside, saluting smartly. "Ready for the next blast-off, Captain Strong," he announced.
"Who is it?" asked Strong, turning to the intercom connecting him with the control tower that co-ordinated all the landings and departures at the spaceport.
The spaceman referred to a clipboard. "It's the Space Lance, sir. Piloted by Captain Sticoon. He's representing an independent company from Marsopolis."
"Right, thanks." Strong turned to the intercom mike, calling, "Captain Strong to control tower, check in."
"Say, I'd like to see this fellow blast," said Tom. "He's supposed to be one of the hottest pilots ever to hit space."
"Yeah," agreed Roger. "He's so good I don't see how anyone else could have a chance."
"With that hot rocket in this race," said Astro, "the others will have to fight for second and third place."
"Control tower to Strong," a voice crackled over the intercom loud-speaker. "Ready here, sir."
"Right. Stand by for the next flight, Mac," replied Strong. "It's Sticoon."
Strong flipped a switch on the intercom to direct contact with the waiting ship and gave Sticoon the oft-repeated final briefing, concluding, "Do not go beyond the necessary limitations of fuel consumption that are provided for in the Solar Guard space code. If you return here with less than a quarter supply of reactant fuel, you will be disqualified. Stand by to blast off!"
"Uh-huh!" was all the acknowledgment Strong received from the Martian. Famed for his daring, Sticoon was also known for his taciturn personality.
"Clear ramp! Clear ramp!" Strong boomed over the public-address system. When he received the all-clear from the enlisted spaceman on the ramp, Strong flipped both the public-address system and the intercom on. "Stand by to raise ship!"
He glanced at the astral chronometer. "Blast off, minus five, four, three, two, one—zero!"
Tom, Roger, and Astro crowded to the viewport in Strong's command shack to watch the bulky Martian's ship take to space. With Sticoon at the controls, there was no hesitation. He gave the ship full throttle from the moment of blast-off and in three seconds was out of sight. There wasn't much to see at such speed.
The three members of the Polaris unit left the shack to return to their task of inspection. They passed the maintenance hangar where Kit Barnard was readying his ship for blast-off in the next half hour.
"Any last-minute hitches, Kit?" asked Astro, vitally interested in the new reactor unit and its cooling system.
Kit smiled wearily and shook his head. "All set!"
"Good." Tom smiled. "We'll try to be back before you blast. We've got to check Quent Miles' ship now."
As the three cadets approached the sleek black vessel with its distinctive markings, the air lock opened and Quent Miles stepped out on the ladder.
"It's about time you three jerks showed up," he sneered. "I have to blast off in twenty minutes! What's the idea of messing around with that Barnard creep? He hasn't got a chance, anyway."
"Is that so?" snapped Roger. "Listen—!"
"Roger!" barked Tom warningly.
Quent grinned. "That's right. Lay off, buster. Get to your inspecting and let a spaceman blast off."
"Kit Barnard will blast off after you, and still beat you back," growled Roger, stepping into the ship. He stopped suddenly and gasped in amazement. "Well, blast my jets!"
Tom and Astro crowded into the air lock and looked around, openmouthed. Before them was what appeared to be a hollow shell of a ship. There were no decks or bulkheads, nothing but an intricate network of ladders connecting the various operating positions of the spaceship. Everything that could be removed had been taken out of the ship.
"Is this legal?" asked Roger incredulously.
"I'm afraid it is, Roger," said Tom. "But we're going to make sure that everything that's supposed to be in a spaceship is in this one."
"When I blast off, I don't intend carrying any passengers," growled Miles behind them. "If you're going to inspect, then inspect and stop gabbing."
"Let's go," said Tom grimly.
The three boys split up and began crawling around in the network of exposed supporting beams and struts that took the place of decks and bulkheads. It did not take them long to determine that Quent Miles' ship was in perfect condition for blast-off. With but a few minutes to spare, they returned to face Miles at the air lock.
"O.K., you're cleared," Tom announced.
"But it'll take more than a light ship to win this race," said Roger, and unable to restrain himself, he added, "You're bucking the best space busters in the universe!"
"One of them"—Quent held up his finger—"is dead."
"Yeah," growled Astro, "but there are plenty more just as good as Gigi Duarte."
The intercom buzzer sounded in the ship and Quent snapped, "Beat it! I've got a race to win." He pushed the three cadets out of the air lock and slammed the pluglike door closed. From two feet away it was impossible to spot the seams in the metal covering on the port and the hull.
"Clear ramp! Clear ramp!" Strong's voice echoed over the spaceport. Tom, Roger, and Astro scurried down the ladder and broke away from the ramp in a run. They knew Quent Miles would not hesitate to blast off whether anyone was within range of his exhaust or not.
"Blast off, minus five, four, three, two, one—zero!"
Again the spaceport reverberated to the sound of a ship blasting off. All eyes watched the weirdly painted black ship shudder under the surge of power, and then shoot spaceward as if out of a cannon.
"Well, ring me around Saturn," breathed Tom, looking up into the sky where the black ship had disappeared from view. "Whatever Quent Miles is, he can sure take acceleration."
"Spaceman," said Astro, taking a deep breath, "you can say that again. Wow!"
"I hope it broke his blasted neck," said Roger.
* * * * *
"And you saw him messing around here, Sid?" asked Kit Barnard of his young helper.
"That's right," replied the crew chief. "I was on the control deck checking out the panel and I happened to look down. I couldn't see too well, but it was a big guy."
"Messing around the reactor, huh?" mused Kit, almost asking the question of himself.
"That's right. I checked it right away, but I couldn't find anything wrong."
"Well, it's too late now, anyway. I blast in three minutes." Grimly Kit Barnard looked up at the sky where the black ship had just vanished.
"Spaceman's luck, Kit," said Sid, offering his hand. Kit grasped it quickly and jumped into his ship, closing the air lock behind him.
As Sid climbed down from the ramp, the three cadets rushed up breathlessly, disappointed at being unable to give Kit their personal good wishes.
"Well, anyway, I gave the new reactor my blessing last night," said Astro as they walked away from the ramp.
"You were aboard the ship last night?" Sid
exclaimed.
"Uh-huh," replied Astro. "Hope you don't mind."
"No, not a bit!" Sid broke into a smile. "Whew! I thought for a while it was Quent."
"What about Quent?" asked Tom.
"I saw someone messing around on the power deck last night and thought it might be Quent. But now that you say it was you, Astro, there isn't anything to worry about."
Reaching a safe distance from the ramp, they stopped just as Strong finished counting off the seconds to blast off.
"Zero!"
The three cadets and Sid waited for the initial shattering roar of the jets, but it did not come. Instead, there was a loud bang, followed by another, and then another. And only then did the ship begin to leave the ground, gradually picking up speed and shooting spaceward.
"What was wrong?" asked Tom, looking at Sid.
"The feeders," replied the young engineer miserably. "They're not functioning properly. They're probably jamming."
Astro looked puzzled. "But I checked those feeders myself, just before you closed the casing," he said. "They were all right then."
"Are you sure?" asked Sid.
"Of course I'm sure," said Astro. "Checking the feeders is one of my main jobs."
"Then it must be the reactant," said Tom. "Did Kit use standard reactant?"
Sid nodded. "Got it right here at the spaceport. Same stuff everyone else is using."
Gloomily the four young spacemen turned away from the ramp and headed for the control tower to hear the latest reports from the ships already underway. There were only a few more ships scheduled to blast off, and the cadets had already inspected them.
"Wait a minute," said Tom, stopping suddenly. "The fuel tanks are on the portside of the ship, and the feeders are on the starboard. Where did you see this fellow messing around, Sid?"
Sid thought a moment and then his face clouded. "Come to think of it, I saw him on the portside."
"I wasn't even close to the tanks!" exclaimed Astro.
"There was someone messing around them, then," said Roger.
"Yes," said Tom grimly. "But we don't know who—or what he did."
"From the sound of those rockets," said Astro, "Kit's feeders are clogged, or there's something in his reactant that the strainers are not filtering out."
"Well," sighed Roger, "there isn't anything Kit can do but keep going and hope that everything turns out for the best."
"If he can keep going!" said Tom. "You know, there are some things about this whole race that really puzzle me."
"What?" asked Roger.
"Impure reactant in Kit's ship, after fellows like Kit, Astro, and Sid checked it a hundred times. Gigi Duarte crashing after making record speed to the Moon. The minimum specifications being stolen from Commander Walters…" Tom stopped and looked at his friends. "That enough?"
Roger, Astro, and Sid considered the young cadet's words. The picture Tom presented had many curious sides and no one had the slightest idea of how to go beyond speculation and find proof!
CHAPTER 6
"The winners are—" Captain Strong's voice rang loud and clear over the loud-speakers—"first place, Captain Sticoon, piloting the Marsopolis Limited entry, Space Lance! Second place, Captain Miles, piloting the Charles Brett Company entry, Space Knight! Third place, Captain Barnard, piloting his own ship, Good Company!"
There was a tremendous roar from the crowd. In front of the official stand, Tom, Roger, and Astro pounded Sid Goldberg on the back until he begged for mercy. On the stand, Strong and Kit shook hands and grinned at each other. And Commander Walters stepped up to congratulate the three winners. Walters handed each of them a personal message of good wishes from the Solar Council, and then, over the public-address system, made a short speech to the pilots of the losing ships thanking them for their co-operation and good sportsmanship. He paused, and in a voice hushed with emotion, offered a short prayer in memory of Gigi Duarte. The entire spaceport was quiet for two minutes without prompting, voluntarily paying homage to the brave spaceman.
After Walters left and the ceremonies were over, the three winners stood looking at each other, sizing up one another. Each of them knew that the winner of this race probably would go down in the history of deep space. There was fame and fortune to be won now. Quent Miles ignored Sticoon and swaggered over to Kit Barnard.
"You were lucky, Barnard," he sneered. "Too bad it won't last for the race."
"We'll see, Quent," said Kit coolly.
Sticoon said nothing, just watched them quietly. Quent Miles laughed and walked off the stand. Kit Barnard looked at Sticoon. "What's the matter with him?" he asked.
The Martian shrugged. "Got a hot rocket in his craw," he said quietly. "But watch your step with him, Kit. Personally, I wouldn't trust that spaceman as far as I could throw an asteroid."
Kit grinned. "Thanks—and good luck."
"I'll need it if you get that reactor of yours working," said the Martian.
He turned and left the stand without a word to Tom, Roger, or Astro. The three cadets looked at each other, feeling the tension in the air suddenly relax. Strong was busy talking to someone on the portable intercom and had missed the byplay between the three finalists.
"That Quent sure has a talent for making himself disliked," Tom commented to his unit mates.
"And all he's going to get for it is trouble," quipped Sid, who would not let any argument take away the pleasure he felt over winning the trials. "I'm going back to our ship and find out what happened to those feeders."
"I'll come with you," volunteered Astro.
"Just a minute, Astro," interrupted Strong. "I've been talking with Commander Walters. He's on his way back to the Tower of Galileo and called me from the portable communicator on the main slidewalk. He wants me to report to his office on the double. You three will have to take care of the final details here."
"Come down when you can," said Sid to Astro, and turned to leave with Kit.
"Something wrong, sir?" asked Tom.
"I don't know, Tom," replied Strong, a worried frown on his face. "Commander Walters seemed excited."
"Does it have anything to do with the race?" asked Roger.
"In a way it does," replied Strong. "I'm leaving on special assignment. I'm not sure, but I think you three will have to monitor the race by yourselves."
* * * * *
Major Connel sat to one side of Commander Walters' desk, a scowl on his heavy, fleshy face. The commander paced back and forth in front of the desk, and Captain Strong stood at the office window staring blankly down on the dark quadrangle below. The door opened and the three officers turned quickly to see Dr. Joan Dale enter, carrying several papers in her hand.
"Well, Joan?" asked Walters.
"I'm afraid that the reports are true, sir," Dr. Dale said. "There are positive signs of decreasing pressure in the artificial atmosphere around the settlements on Titan. The pressure is dropping and yet there is no indication that the force screen, holding back the real methane ammonia atmosphere of Titan, is not functioning properly."
"How about leaks?" Connel growled.
"Not possible, Major," replied the pretty physicist. "The force field, as you know, is made up of electronic impulses of pure energy. By shooting these impulses into the air around a certain area, like the settlement at Olympia, we can refract the methane ammonia, push it back if you will, like a solid wall. What the impulses do, actually, is create a force greater and thicker in content than the atmosphere of Titan, creating a vacuum. We then introduce oxygen into the vacuum, making it possible for humans to live without the cumbersome use of space helmets." Dr. Dale leaned against Commander Walters' desk and considered the three Solar Guard officers. "If we don't find out what's happening out there," she resumed grimly, "and do something about it soon, we'll have to abandon Titan."
"Abandon Titan!" roared Connel. "Can't be done."
"Impossible!" snapped Walters.
"It's going to happen," asserted the girl stoutly.
/> Connel sprang out of his chair and began pacing the floor. "We can't abandon Titan!" he roared. "Disrupt the flow of crystal and you'll set off major repercussions in the system's economy."
"We know that, Major," said Walters. "That's the prime reason for this meeting."
"May I make a suggestion, sir?" asked Strong.
"Go ahead, Steve," said Walters.
"While these graphs of Joan's show us what's happening, I think it will take on-the-spot investigations to find out why it's happening."
Connel flopped back in his chair, relaxed again. He looked at Walters. "Send Steve out there and we'll find out what's going on," he said confidently.
Walters looked at Strong. "When are the ships supposed to blast off for the race?"
"Tomorrow at 1800, sir."
"You planned to use the Polaris to monitor the race?"
"Yes, sir."
"Think we should send the Polaris unit out alone?"
"I have a better suggestion, sir," said Strong.
"Well?"
"Since there are only three finalists, how about putting one cadet on each ship? Then I can take the Polaris and go on out to Titan now. When the boys arrive, they could help me with my investigation."
Walters looked at Connel. "What do you think, Major?"
"Sounds all right to me," replied the veteran spaceman. "If you think the companies won't object to having cadets monitor their race for them."
"They won't have anything to say about it," replied Walters. "I'd trust those cadets under any circumstances. And the race won't mean a thing unless we can find the source of trouble on Titan. There won't be any crystal to haul."
"Fine," grunted Connel. He rose, nodded, and left the room. He was not being curt, he was being Connel. The problem had been temporarily solved and there was nothing else he could do. There were other things that demanded his attention.
"What about me going along too, Commander?" asked Joan.
"Better not, Joan," said Walters. "You're more valuable to us here in the Academy laboratory."
"Very well, sir," she said. "I have some work to finish, so I'll leave you now. Good luck, Steve." She shook hands with the young captain and left.
Tom Corbett Space Cadet Page 87
