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

by Norton, Andre

  A short, wiry man suddenly rose from his chair in the front row, his face clearly showing his displeasure. “All right, get on with it, Walters!” he snapped, deliberately omitting the courtesy of addressing the commander by his title. “Don’t waste our time with that ‘official’ hogwash. It might work on your cadets and your tin soldiers, but not on us!”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled group of men. Present were some of the wealthiest and most powerful shipping magnates in the entire Solar Alliance—men who controlled vast fleets of commercial spaceships and whose actions and decisions carried a great deal of weight. Each hoped to win the Solar Guard contract to transport Titan crystal from the mines on the tiny satellite back to Earth. Combining steellike strength and durability with its great natural beauty, the crystal was replacing metal in all construction work and the demand was enormous. The shipping company that got the job would have a guaranteed income for years to come, and each of the men present was fighting with every weapon at his command to win the contract.

  Heartened by the reaction of the men around him, the speaker pressed his advantage. “We’ve all hauled cargo for the Solar Guard before, and the sealed-bid system was perfectly satisfactory then!” he shouted. “Why isn’t it satisfactory now? What’s all this nonsense about a space race?”

  Again, the murmur filled the room and the men glared accusingly at Walters. But the commander refused to knuckle down to any show of arrogance. He fixed a cold, stony eye on the short man. “Mr. Brett,” he snapped in a biting voice, “you have been invited to this meeting as a guest, not by any right you think you have as the owner of a shipping company. A guest, I said, and I ask that you conduct yourself with that social obligation in mind!”

  Before Brett could reply, Walters turned away from him and addressed the others calmly. “Despite Mr. Brett’s outburst, his question is a good one. And the answer is quite simple. The bids submitted by your companies were not satisfactory in this case because we believe that they were made in bad faith!”

  For once, there was silence in the room as the men stared at Walters in shocked disbelief. “There are fourteen shipping companies represented in this room, some of them the most respected in the Solar Alliance,” he continued, his voice edged with knifelike sarcasm. “I cannot find it in my conscience to accuse all of you of complicity in this affair, but nevertheless we are faced with one of the most startling coincidences I have ever seen.”

  Walters paused and looked around the room, measuring the effect of his words. Satisfied, he went on grimly, “There isn’t enough difference between the bids of each of you, not five credits’ worth of difference, to award the contract to any single company!”

  The men in the room gasped in amazement.

  “The bids were exactly alike. The only differences we found were in operational procedure. But the cost to the Solar Guard amounted to, in the end, exactly the same thing from each of you! The inference is clear, I believe,” he added mockingly. “Someone stole the minimum specifications and circulated them among you.”

  In the shocked quiet that followed Walters’ statement, no one noticed Tom, Roger, and Astro slip into the room. They finally caught the eye of Captain Strong, who acknowledged their presence with a slight nod, as they found seats in the rear of the room.

  “Commander,” a voice spoke up from the middle of the group, “may I make a statement?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Barnard,” agreed Walters, and stepped back from his desk as a tall, slender man in his late thirties rose to address the men around him. The three Space Cadets stared at him with interest. They had heard of Kit Barnard. A former Solar Guard officer, he had resigned from the great military organization to go into private space-freight business. Though a newcomer, with only a small outfit, he was well liked and respected by every man in the room. And everyone present knew that when he spoke, he would have something important to say, or at least advance a point that should be brought to light.

  “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 o
f 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 t
he 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.”

  “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.