The Tom Corbett Space Cadet Megapack: 10 Classic Young Adult Sci-Fi Novels

by Norton, Andre

  A moment later Scott, Tom, and Roger, in a vacuum elevator, were being hurtled to the station’s upper decks. They got out on the observation deck, and Scott walked directly to a small door at the end of a corridor. A light over the door flashed red and Scott stopped.

  “Here’s the weather and meteor observation room,” he said. “Also radar communications. When the red light’s on, it means photographs are being taken. We’ll have to wait for them to finish.”

  As they waited, Tom and Roger talked to Scott. He had graduated from Space Academy seven years before, they learned. He’d been assigned to the Solar Alliance Chamber as liaison between the Chamber and the Solar Guard. After four years, he had requested a transfer to active space operations.

  Then, he told them, there’d been an accident. His ship exploded. He’d been badly injured—in fact, both his legs were now artificial.

  The cadets, who had thought him a bit stuffy at first, were changing their minds fast. Why hadn’t he quit, they wanted to know?

  “Leave space?” said Scott. “I’d rather die. I can’t blast off any more. But here at the station I’m still a spaceman.”

  The red light went out, and they opened the door.

  In sharp contrast to the bustle and noise on the power deck, the meteor, weather, and radar observation room was filled with only a subdued whisper. All around them huge screens displayed various views of the surface of Venus as it slowly revolved beneath the station. Along one side of the room was a solid bank of four-foot-square teleceiver screens with an enlisted spaceman or junior officer seated in front of each one. These men, at their microphones, were relaying meteor and weather information to all parts of the solar system. Now it was Roger’s turn to get excited at seeing the wonderful radar scanners that swept space for hundreds of thousands of miles. They were powerful enough to pick up a spaceship’s identifying outline while still two hundred thousand miles away! Farther to one side, a single teleceiver screen, ten feet square, dominated the room. Roger gasped.

  Scott smiled. “That’s the largest teleceiver screen in the universe,” he said. “The most powerful. And it’s showing you a picture of the Andromeda Galaxy, thousands of light years away. Most of the lights you see there are no more than that, just light, their stars, or suns, having long ago exploded or burned. But the light continues to travel, taking thousands of years to reach our solar system.”

  “But—but—” gasped Tom. “How can you be so accurate with this screen? It looks as though we were smack in the center of the galaxy itself!”

  “There’s a fifty-inch telescope attached to the screen,” Scott replied, “which is equal to the big one-thousand-inch ‘eye’ back at the Academy.”

  “Why is that, sir?” asked Roger.

  “You don’t get any distortion from atmosphere up here,” replied the young officer.

  As Tom and Roger walked silently among the men at the teleceiver screens, Scott continued to explain. “This is where you’ll be, Manning,” he said, indicating a large radarscope scanner a little to one side and partially hidden from the glow of the huge teleceiver screen. “We need a man on watch here twenty-four hours a day, though there isn’t much doing between midnight and eight A.M. on radar watch. A little traffic, but nothing compared to what we get during the regular working day.”

  “Any particular reason for that, sir?” asked Tom.

  “Oh, there just aren’t many arrivals and departures during that period. We have night crews to handle light traffic, but by midnight the station is pretty much like any sleepy Middle Western town. Rolls up the sidewalks and goes to bed.”

  He motioned to Roger to follow him to the radar section and left Tom watching the interesting spectacle on the giant teleceiver. A huge star cluster flashed brilliantly, filling the screen with light, then faded into the endless blackness of space. Tom caught his breath as he remembered what Scott had told him about the light being thousands of years old before reaching the solar system.

  “Manning’s all set, Corbett,” said Scott at Tom’s elbow. “Come on. I’ll show you the traffic-control deck.”

  Tom followed the young officer out of the room. As all true spacemen do at one time or another in their lives, he thought about the pitifully small part mankind had played so far in the conquest of the stars. Man had come a long way, Tom was ready to admit, but there was still a lot of work ahead for young, courageous spacemen.

  As Scott and Tom climbed the narrow stairs to the traffic-control deck, the Solar Guard officer continued to speak of the man-made satellite. “When the station was first built,” he said, “it was expected to be just a way station for refueling and celestial observations. But now we’re finding other uses for it, just as though it were a small community on Earth, Mars, or Venus. In fact, they’re now planning to build still larger stations.” Scott opened the door to the traffic-control room. He motioned to Tom to follow him.

  This room, Tom was ready to admit, was the busiest place he had ever seen in his life. All around the circular room enlisted Solar Guardsmen sat at small desks, each with a monitoring board in front of him holding three teleceiver screens. As he talked into a mike near by, each man, by shifting from one screen to the next, was able to follow the progress of a spaceship into or out of the landing ports. One thing puzzled Tom. He turned to Scott.

  “Sir, how come some of those screens show the station from the outside?” he asked. Tom pointed to a screen in front of him that had a picture of a huge jet liner just entering a landing port.

  “Two-way teleceivers, Corbett,” said Scott with a smile. “When you arrived on the Polaris, didn’t you have a view of the station on your teleceiver?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Tom, “of course.”

  “Well, these monitors picked up your image on the Polaris teleceiver. So the traffic-control chief here could see exactly what you were seeing.”

  In the center of the circular room Tom noticed a round desk that was raised about eight feet from the floor. This desk dominated all activity in the busy room. Inside it stood a Solar Guard officer, watching the monitoring teleceivers. He wore a throat microphone for sending out messages, and for receiving calls had a thin silver wire running to the vibrating bone in his ear. He moved constantly, turning in a circle, watching the various landing ports on the many screens. Three-thousand-ton rocket liners, Solar Guard cruisers, scout ships, and destroyers all moved about the satellite lazily, waiting for permission to enter or depart. This man was the master traffic-control officer who had first contacted Tom on his approach to the station. He did that for all approaching ships—contacted them, got the recognition signal, found out the ship’s destination, its weight, and its cargo or passenger load.

  Then the connection was relayed to one of the secondary control officers at the monitoring boards.

  “That’s Captain Stefens,” said Scott in a whisper. “Toughest officer on the station. He has to be. From five hundred to a thousand ships arrive and depart daily. It’s his job to see that every arriving ship is properly taken into the landing ports. Besides that, everything you’ve seen, except the meteor and weather observation rooms, are under his command. If he thinks a ship is overloaded, he won’t allow it to enter and disrupt the balance of the station. Instead, he’ll order its skipper to dump part of his cargo out in space to be picked up later. He makes hundreds of decisions a day—some of them really hair-raising. Once, when a rocket scout crew was threatened with exploding reactant mass, he calmly told them to blast off into a desolate spot in space and blow up. The crew could have abandoned ship, but they chose to remain with it and were blown to atoms. It could have happened to the station. That night he got a three-day pass from the station and went to Venusport.”

  Scott shook his head. “I’ve heard Venusport will never be the same after that three-day pass of Captain Stefens.”

  The young officer looked at Corbett quizzically. “That’s the man you’re going to work for.”

  Scott walked over to the ci
rcular desk and spoke rapidly to the officer inside. As Tom approached, Stefens gave him a quick, sharp glance. It sent a shiver down the cadet’s spine. Scott waved to him to come over.

  “Captain Stefens, this is Cadet Tom Corbett.”

  Tom came to attention.

  “All right, Corbett,” said Stefens, speaking like a man who had a lot to do, knew how to do it, liked to do it, and was losing time. “Stand up here with me and keep your mouth shut. Remember any questions you want to ask, and when I have a spare moment, ask them. And by the rings of Saturn, be sure I’m free to answer. Take my attention at the wrong moment and we could have a bad accident.”

  Stefens gave Scott a fleeting smile and turned back to his constant keen-eyed inspection of the monitors.

  The radar watch was reporting the approach of a ship. Stefens began his cold, precise orders.

  “Monitor seven, take freighter out of station on port sixty-six; monitor twelve, stand by for identification signal of jet liner coming in from Mars. Watch her closely. The Venusport Space Line is overloading again.…” On and on he went, with Tom standing to one side watching with wide-eyed wonder as the many ships were maneuvered into and out of the station.

  Suddenly Stefens turned to Tom. “Well, Corbett,” he rasped, “what’s the first question?”

  Tom gulped. He had been so fascinated by the room’s sheer magic and by Stefens’ sure control of the traffic that he hadn’t had a chance to think.

  “I—I—don’t have one—yet, sir,” he managed finally.

  “I want five questions within five minutes!” snapped Stefens, “and they better be rocket-blasting good questions!” He turned back to the monitors.

  Tom Corbett, while he had gained the respect of many elder spacemen, was discovering that a cadet’s life got no easier as time went on. He wondered fleetingly how Roger and Astro were making out, and then he began to think of some questions.

  Beside him, oblivious of his presence, Stefens continued to spout directions. “Monitor three, take rocket scout out of landing-port eight. One crew member is remaining aboard the station for medical treatment. He weighs one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. Make balance adjustments accordingly.…”

  Tom’s head was spinning. It was all too much for one young cadet to absorb on such short notice.

  CHAPTER 6

  “There goes the jet liner to Mars,” said Al Mason wistfully. “Sure wish we wuz on her.” His eyes followed the beautiful slim passenger ship just blasting off from Venus.

  “Why?” demanded Loring.

  “Anything to get away from Venusport. What a stinking hole!” snorted the shorter of the two spacemen.

  “For what we want to do,” said Loring, “there ain’t another city in the system that’s got the advantages this place has!”

  “Don’t talk to me about advantages,” whined Mason. “Be darned if I can see any. All we been doing is hang around the spaceport, talk to the spacemen, and watch the ships blast off. Maybe you’re up to something but I’m blasted if I see what it can be.”

  “I’ve been looking for the right break to come along.”

  “What kind of break?” growled Mason.

  “That kind,” said Loring. He pointed to a distant figure emerging from a space freighter. “There’s our answer!” said Loring, a note of triumph in his voice. “Come on. Let’s get outta here. I don’t want to be recognized.”

  “But—but—what’s up? What’s that guy and the space freighter Annie Jones got to do with us?”

  Loring didn’t answer but stepped quickly to the nearest jet cab and hopped into the back seat. Mason tumbled in after him.

  “Spaceman’s Row,” Loring directed, “and make it quick!”

  The driver stepped on the accelerator and the red teardrop-shaped vehicle shot away from the curb into the crowd of cars racing along Premier Highway Number One. In the back seat of the jet cab, Loring turned to his spacemate and slapped him on the back.

  “Soon’s we get into the Row, you go and pack our gear, see! Then meet me at the Café Cosmos in half an hour.”

  “Pack our gear?” asked Mason with alarm. “Are we going some place?”

  Loring shot a glance at the driver. “Just do as I tell you!” he growled. “In a few hours we’ll be on our way to Tara, and then—” He dropped his voice to a whisper. Mason listened and smiled.

  The jet cab slid along the arrow-straight highway toward the heart of the city of Venusport. Soon it reached the outskirts. On both sides of the highway rose low, flat-roofed dwellings, built on a revolving wheel to follow the precious sun, and constructed of pure Titan crystal. Farther ahead and looming magnificent in the late afternoon sun was the first and largest of Venusian cities, Venusport. Like a fantastically large diamond, the startling towers of the young city shot upward into the misty atmosphere, catching the light and reflecting it in every color of the spectrum.

  Loring and Mason did not appreciate the beauty of the city as they rode swiftly through the busy streets. Loring, in particular, thought as he had never thought before. He was busily putting a plot together in his mind—a plot as dangerous as it was criminal.

  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, cafés, 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 Café 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 li
ned 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 café. 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.