sabotage in space the tom corbett space cadet stories by carey rockwell stand by for mars! danger in deep space on the trail of the space pirates the space pioneers the revolt on venus treachery in outer space sabotage in space the robot rocket [illustration: frontispiece] a tom corbett space cadet adventure sabotage in space by carey rockwell willy ley _technical adviser_ grosset & dunlap _publishers_ new york copyright, , by rockhill radio copyright rockhill radio all rights reserved illustrations by louis glanzman printed in the united states of america +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note | | | | extensive search has failed to uncover any evidence of | | renewal of copyright of this work. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ illustrations _frontispiece_ tom shot a hard right to his opponent's stomach tom swerved the jet car in front of the runaway truck the men inside were tough-looking and steely-eyed tom saw that the space marines were watching the passengers very closely "he's hanging on to the cleat over the main tube!" "the projectiles blew devers' ship into rocket dust!" sabotage in space chapter "_bong-g-g! bong-g-g! bong-g-g!--_" with a hollow booming sound reminiscent of old eighteenth-and nineteenth-century clock towers, the electronic time tone rang out from the tower of galileo, chiming the hour of nine. as the notes reverberated over the vast expanse of space academy, u.s.a., the lights in the windows of the cadet dormitories began to wink out and the slidewalks that crisscrossed the campus, connecting the various buildings, rumbled to a halt. when the last mournful note had rolled away to die in the distant hills, the school was dark and still. the only movement to be seen was the slow pacing of the cadet watch officers, patrolling their beats; the only sound, the measured clicking of their boots on the metal strips of the slidewalks. on the north side of the quadrangle near the tower, a young watch officer paused in front of one of the dormitories and scanned the darkened windows of the durasteel and crystal building. satisfied that all was in order, he continued on his lonely way. a moment later a shadowy figure rose out of the bushes opposite the dormitory entrance and stepped forward quickly and cautiously. pausing on the slidewalk to stare after the disappearing watch officer, the figure was illuminated by the dim light from the entrance hall. he was a young man wearing the royal-blue uniform of a space cadet. tall and wiry, with square features topped by a shock of close-cropped blond hair, he stood poised on the balls of his feet, ready to move quickly should another watch officer appear. after a quick glance at his wrist chronometer, the young cadet darted across the slidewalk toward the transparent crystal portal of the dormitory. hesitating only long enough to make certain that the inner hallway was clear, he slid the portal open, ducked inside, and sprinted down the hall toward a large black panel on the wall near the foot of the slidestairs. on the panel, in five long columns, were the name plates of every cadet quartered in the dormitory and beside each plate were two words, in and out, with a small tab that fitted over one of the words. out of the one hundred and fifty cadets in the dormitory, one hundred and forty-nine were marked in. the slender, blond-haired cadet quickly made it unanimous, reaching up to the tab next to the name of roger manning and sliding it over to cover the word out. with a last final look around, he raced up the slidestairs, smiling in secret triumph. in room on the fifth floor of the dormitory, tom corbett and astro, the two other cadets who, with roger manning, made up the famed _polaris_ unit of the space cadet corps, were deep in their studies. though the lights-out order had been given over the dormitory loud-speaker system, the desk lamp burned brightly and there was a blanket thrown over the window. the boys of the _polaris_ unit weren't alone in their disobedience. all over the dormitory, lights were on and cadets were studying secretly. but they all felt fairly safe, for the cadet watch officers on each floor were anxious to study themselves and turned a blind eye. even the solar guard officer of the day, in charge of the entire dormitory, was sympathetic to their efforts and made a great deal of unnecessary noise while on his evening rounds. his brown curly hair falling over his forehead, tom corbett frowned in concentration as he kept the earphones of his study machine clamped tightly to his ears and listened to a recorded lecture on astrophysics as it unreeled from the spinning study spool. as command cadet of the _polaris_ unit, tom was required to know more than merely his particular duty as pilot of a rocket ship. he had to be familiar with every phase of space travel, with a working knowledge of the duties of all his unit mates. astro, the power-deck officer of the unit, paced back and forth between the bunks like a huge, hulking bear, muttering to himself as he tried to memorize the table of reaction times for rocket motors. though the huge venusian cadet was a genius at all mechanical tasks, and able to work with tools the way a surgeon worked with instruments, he had great difficulty in learning the theories and scientific reasons for all the things he did instinctively. suddenly astro stopped, looked at his chronometer, then turned to tom. "hey, tom!" he called. "where's that jerk, manning?" "huh?" replied tom, lifting one of the earphones from his ears. "what did you say, astro?" "where's manning?" reiterated astro. "it's ten minutes after lights out." "he was going to get those study spools for us, wasn't he?" mused tom. "he should've been back by now," grunted the venusian. "the library closed an hour ago. besides, he couldn't have gotten those spools. every other cadet in the academy is after them." "well, he's a pretty resourceful joker," sighed tom, turning back to the study machine. "when he goes after something, he gets it by hook or crook." "it's the crook part that bothers me," grumbled astro. "besides, if the o.d. catches him out of quarters, he'll be doing his studying while he's polishing up the mess hall." suddenly the door to the room burst open and slammed closed. tom and astro whirled to see their missing unit mate lounging against the doorframe, grinning broadly. "roger!" "where've you been, blast you?" tom and astro both jumped forward and spoke at the same time. the blond-haired cadet merely looked at them lazily and then sauntered forward, pulling six small study spools from his pockets. "you wanted these study spools, didn't you?" he drawled, giving his unit mates three apiece. "be my guest and study like mad." tom and astro quickly read the titles of the spools and then looked at roger in amazement. they were the ones the unit needed for their end-term exams, the ones all the cadets needed. "roger," tom demanded, "how did you get these spools? the library was out of them this afternoon. did you take them from another unit's quarters?" "i did not!" said roger stoutly. "and i don't like your insinuations that i would." he grinned. "relax! we have them and we can breeze through them in the morning and have them back where they belong by noon tomorrow." "where they belong!" tom exclaimed. "then you have no right to them." "listen, hot-shot!" growled astro. "i want to know where you got these spools and how." "well, if that isn't gratitude for you!" muttered roger. "i go out and risk my neck for my dear beloved unit mates and they stand around arguing instead of buckling down to study." "this is no joke, roger," said tom seriously. "now for the last time, will you tell us how you got them?" roger thought a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. "all right," he said finally. "when i went down to the library to see if it was our turn for them yet, i found that we were still twenty-seventh in line." "twenty-seventh?" gasped astro. "that's right, spaceboy!" snorted roger. "so i tried to con that little space doll of a librarian into moving our names up on the list, but just then an earthworm cadet came in with an order from tony richards of the _capella_ unit, an order for the very spools we needed." "you mean, you took them from an earthworm?" queried tom. "well, i didn't take them exactly," replied roger. "i waited for him out on the quadrangle and i told him he was wanted in the cadet dispatcher's office right away and that i would take the spools on up to tony." "and you brought them here!" howled astro. "yup." roger grinned. "do you think that squirt will know who i am? not in a million years. and by the time tony and the others do find out who has them, we'll be finished. get it?" "i get it, all right, you crummy little chiseler," growled astro. "tom, we gotta give these back to tony." tom nodded. "you're right," he said. "now wait a minute!" said roger angrily. "i went to a lot of trouble to get these things for you--" "look, roger," tom interrupted, "i would rather have one night with those spools than a two-week leave in atom city right now. but the _capella_ unit is having a tough time making the spring passing lists. they need those spools more than we do." "yeah," said astro. "we could probably take the tests now and pass, but they really have to study. i'm for getting them back to the _capella_ unit right now. how about you, tom?" the young cadet nodded and turned to roger who stood there, frowning. "roger," said tom, "both astro and i really appreciate it. but you wouldn't want the _capella_ unit to flunk out of the academy, would you?" roger gnawed at his thumbnail and then looked at his two unit mates sheepishly. "you're right, fellas," he said. "it was kind of a dirty trick. give me the spools. i'll take them back to tony right now." "wait a minute!" exclaimed astro. "it's after hours. we're not supposed to be out of the dorm." for a second the three boys looked at each other hesitantly. then, as though they had telepathically conveyed their individual decisions to each other, they turned toward the door. tom opened it and stepped out into the hall cautiously, then turned back and nodded. roger and astro followed him quickly. as roger closed the door behind him, he murmured, "there's no reason for all of us to go. i was the one who took the spools, so i should bring them back. why should you two guys risk getting caught?" astro punched him in the shoulder fondly. "we always work together, don't we?" he declared. "if one's gonna get into trouble, we all should." "let's go," urged tom in a sharp whisper, and they all raced silently toward the slidestairs. seconds later, the three cadets of the _polaris_ unit were down in the main hallway of the dormitory building, tiptoeing toward the front portal. pausing only to look into the o.d.'s office to make sure the officer wouldn't spot them, they reached the portal and ducked out. pausing again to scan the immediate area for any watch officers, they darted across the slidewalk and into the shadows of the shrubbery. quickly and soundlessly, they raced across the green lawn of the quadrangle toward the dormitory where the _capella_ unit was quartered. once they sprawled headlong on the turf and lay still as a watch officer suddenly appeared out of the darkness at the base of the tower of galileo. but he walked past without seeing them and they continued on across the quadrangle. reaching another clump of shrubbery right opposite the _capella_ unit's dormitory, the boys stopped and discussed their final move. "this is getting ridiculous," whispered roger. "i shouldn't have let you two come with me. but i'm going the rest of the way myself." "we came this far, roger," asserted tom. "we'll go the rest of the way and help you explain." "and you've got a space-blasting lot to explain." the three cadets whirled as a familiar voice snarled out of the darkness behind them. they saw three figures, all in cadet uniforms, wearing the insigne of the _capella_ unit. in the forefront was tony richards scowling angrily. "tony!" gasped tom. "what are you doing out here?" "we were on our way over to your dorm, corbett," growled tony richards. "we saw you three sneaking across the quadrangle." "coming to pay us a visit, fellas?" asked roger blandly. "you know blasted well why we were coming," snapped mcavoy, the second member of the _capella_ crew. davison, the third member of the unit, stepped forward. "give us back our study spools," he demanded. "take it easy," said tom in a calm voice. "we were bringing them back to you." "i'll bet," snapped mcavoy. "relax," growled astro. "tom said we were returning them. we admit it was a dirty trick, but you haven't lost much time. half an hour maybe." "don't try to cover for manning, astro," said tony heatedly. "it's a shame you two guys are stuck with a bad rocket like manning in your unit." "bad rocket!" exclaimed roger. "now, wait a minute, tony," tom said, advancing toward the broad-shouldered cadet. "we are returning the spools, and we apologize for yanking them from the earthworm. but that doesn't mean we'll listen to that kind of talk about roger." "he stole them, didn't he?" retorted davison. roger stepped forward. "davy, my boy," he said in a low controlled tone, "i don't like that remark. i've got a notion to make you eat that word." "i don't think you can, manning," replied the angry cadet. tom stepped between them quickly. "listen, fellows, we don't want any trouble. here are the spools." he held them out. "that's what i mean, corbett," said mcavoy sarcastically. "manning gets you in trouble and then you and the big boy have to bail him out." "we've apologized," retorted astro angrily. "you're getting the spools back. so no more cracks about roger." "i can take care of myself, astro," said roger. "here, take the spools and get back to your dorm," growled tom. he handed the pile of spools over, but as tony extended his hands, one of the spools dropped to the grass. no one made a move to pick it up. "there are the spools," said tom icily. "now beat it." "let's go," said davison, leaning over to pick up the spool. "the air is beginning to stink around here." red-faced, roger stepped forward and put his foot on the spool just as davison reached for it. "that's enough, davison," he snarled. "why, you dirty space crawler--" davison straightened up and swung wildly. roger ducked the blow easily, then spun the heavy-set cadet around and pushed him back into the bushes. tony richards stepped forward and astro turned to him threateningly, but tom quickly shoved them aside and faced richards. "listen, tony," he said. "we're all out after hours, and if a watch officer spots us, we've had it. we don't want any trouble." he glanced at davison, who was being restrained by mcavoy. "we apologize. now get out of here before we're all logged." richards nodded and started to turn to his unit mates when suddenly davison jerked free and lunged at roger. the blond-haired cadet was not caught unawares. he stepped aside and threw a quick jolting right straight to the _capella_ cadet's jaw. davison staggered back and fell to the ground. he shook his head, jumped to his feet again, and charged back with a roar. both tom and astro and tony richards and mcavoy grabbed at their respective unit mates and tried to restrain them. in the struggle to keep roger and davison apart, astro accidentally pushed richards to one side. "what in blazes--!" yelled richards. he suddenly released davison and gave astro a shove that sent the big cadet sprawling. and then, without warning, mcavoy swung at tom. the curly-haired cadet saw the blow coming a fraction of a second too late and caught it on the side of his head. he fell back into the bushes. roger yelled in anger at the sudden attack, and grabbing davison by the front of his tunic, slammed a hard right into the cadet's stomach. richards grabbed roger, holding him around the head and neck, as mcavoy swung at him viciously. seeing their unit mate pommeled, tom and astro charged back and the battle was on. the two units forgot about the watch officers and the strong possibility of being caught and slugged it out in the darkness of the quadrangle. the fight seemed to be the climax of a long-standing feud. the _polaris_ crew had first come to grips with richards and his unit mates when they were assigned to the old rocket cruiser _arcturus_. when the ship was scrapped, the cadets were transferred to the _capella_, but the rivalry continued stronger than before. time and time again, the two crack units had competed for hours on the athletic fields, in space flight tests, and in the classroom. the _polaris_ unit had constantly come out ahead, often by no more than a fraction of points, but their superiority was clear, and the _capella_ unit could not repress its resentment and jealousy. tony richards and tom had squared off and were boxing with lightninglike thrusts of their fists, each waiting for an opening. in back of them, roger and davison were simply hammering away at each other's mid-sections, and astro and mcavoy were rolling around on the ground like bears, growling and tugging. it was brute strength against brute strength. tom danced away from richards' rapierlike left, weaved low, and shot a hard right to his opponent's stomach that left him gasping. richards doubled over and stepped in to bring up a solid right, then hesitated. richards was through. the blow to the mid-section had taken all the fight out of him. tom refused to pursue his advantage while the other could not fight back. his anger cooling rapidly, tom realized that the whole fight was nothing more than a misunderstanding. as richards sank to the grass helpless and gasping for breath, tom turned to break up the other two fights. but roger was just finishing his battle with davison. feinting to the mid-section and pulling davison's guard down, roger hooked his left cleanly to the jaw, following immediately with a haymaker right. davison dropped to the turf, out cold. meanwhile, astro had rolled on top of the last cadet of the _capella_ unit, and with his great strength, clamped mcavoy's arms to his side. face to face, the two cadets glared at each other. the muscles tightened in astro's arms, and beads of sweat popped out on his face. "give up!" demanded the venusian, tightening his grip. [illustration: _tom shot a hard right to his opponent's stomach_] slowly mcavoy sagged under the pressure astro was applying and his face began to redden. "he'll break his back," whispered roger to tom. tom nodded and stepped forward. "let him go, astro. he's finished." astro did not let go. his face was white with anger. mcavoy bent further back. "give up," demanded astro. "grab him," said tom to roger. "get him off mac before he breaks his back." tom and roger jumped to astro's side and each grabbed one of the powerful arms encircling mcavoy. it took all their strength to break the viselike hold the giant venusian had on the other cadet, but slowly they pulled the muscular arms back and mcavoy slumped to the grass. the three victorious cadets paused and looked down at the beaten _capella_ crew, then looked at each other. "well," sighed roger, "i suppose that the least we can do now is get them back to their dorm." tom and astro nodded. as the three boys started forward they were stopped by a voice behind them--a voice that roared like an atomic blast. "_stand to!_" whirling around in surprise for the second time within a space of ten minutes, tom, astro, and roger saw a menacing sight standing behind them, his balled fists jammed on his hips, his booted legs widespread, and his massive head thrust forward. it was major lou connel, more familiarly known as "blast-off" connel, a senior line officer of the solar guard and the sternest disciplinarian in the whole academy. behind him stood a short, thin man, whom none of the boys recognized. connel stepped forward slowly and menacingly, glaring at the three boys. "out a little late, aren't you, boys?" he asked with a mildness that sent a chill down their spines. "y-yes sir," replied tom, a slight tremor in his voice. "on official business, i presume?" the major's voice was still as smooth as silk. tom gulped and then shook his head. "n-no, sir," he quavered. connel's eyes widened in mock horror. "why, corbett," he exclaimed, "didn't anyone ever tell you the rules of space academy? or perhaps you didn't know what time it was?" tom bit his lip. he knew that he and his unit mates were caught in a hopeless trap and that connel was simply baiting them. "i knew what time it was, sir," he said. "we're out after hours." suddenly there was a movement in the brush behind tom as mcavoy stumbled to his feet. richards also sat up groggily. "major!" it was the man behind connel who spoke. "who are they?" as though in answer, davison stood up too and the three members of the _capella_ unit were suddenly and horribly aware of the presence of connel. they immediately braced themselves, their faces white with sudden fear. "so!" now the major's voice began to roar again. "fighting, eh? well, now we really have something here." "sir," began richards tremulously, "if you'll let us explain--" "i'll let you explain all right," thundered connel. "out after hours, fighting, you'll have a great time explaining to an inquiry." "an inquiry!" tom exclaimed involuntarily. "did you expect anything less?" roared connel. "you are all under arrest and confined to quarters." the six cadets all trembled but said nothing, standing at rigid attention, eyes straight ahead. "return to your quarters immediately." as one, the cadets wheeled and marched off. tom, astro, and roger walked across the quadrangle back to their dorm, and the _capella_ unit took the slidewalk that led to their quarters. connel watched them go, a ferocious scowl on his craggy features. "little rough on them, weren't you, major?" asked the man who stood beside the solar guard officer. "rules are meant to be obeyed, professor hemmingwell," retorted connel stiffly. "perhaps you're right," mused the stranger. "but what's this about an inquiry?" "a trial, professor. a trial conducted by the cadets themselves to see whether or not the accused should be kicked out of the academy." "kicked out?" exclaimed the professor. "you certainly do believe in discipline." "these boys are to be solar guardsmen," replied connel shortly. "if they can't obey orders now, they never will." "well, it's all very unimportant really, major," hemmingwell said with a shrug. "we have many more vital things to think about now than mere cadets. shall we go? commander walters is waiting for us." as the little man in civilian clothes walked away, connel stifled a blistering retort. true, his mission here at the academy was of great importance. but cadets were important too. and he was afraid. the _polaris_ unit was in grave trouble, grave enough to cause expulsion from the academy. [illustration] chapter space academy, u.s.a.! this was the dream and goal of every boy in the thrilling year , when mankind had reached out beyond the bounds of earth and had conquered space, colonizing planets and blazing trails to distant worlds deep in the black void of the outer universe. to support the ever-growing need for trained spacemen to man the rocket ships that linked the planets and distant satellite outposts, the solar alliance, the government of the solar system, had erected space academy. it was there that the most promising boys were trained to become members of the solar guard to patrol the space lanes and keep peace in the universe. organized into tight, hard-hitting units of three, the academy cadets were trained to work together under the most severe conditions. their waking hours were spent in one of two places; in powerful rocket cruisers, blasting through space on endless training missions, or at the academy in classrooms and lecture halls, where they studied everything from the theory of space flight to the application of space laws. a very important course of study was the theory of government. for, above all else, the solar alliance was a government of the people. and to assure the survival and continuance of that democratic system, the officers of the solar guard functioned as the watchdogs of the space democracy, entrusted with the vital mission of making sure the government reflected the will of the people. as a practical approach to this course, the academy officials had established a cadet council for the settlement of disputes and infractions of rules by the cadets. it was to this cadet governing body that the fight between the _polaris_ and the _capella_ units was referred by major connel. the academy had buzzed with talk since the fight, and sides were drawn hard and fast. both units were extremely popular and the arguments raged through the dormitories as to which unit was at fault. meanwhile, the cadet council decided to have a full trial to give each unit a fair chance to defend itself against the charges. a judge and jury were selected and lawyers appointed for each side. finally a date was set for the trial. during this time, tom, roger, and astro were confined to their quarters. they did not talk much, each conscious of the fact that should the cadet council decide against them, they might be expelled from the academy. the same was true about the _capella_ unit, of course, but the council might decide the _polaris_ had instigated the whole affair. roger was particularly silent, since his actions in obtaining the study spools had started the whole chain of disastrous events. the boys did not know which cadet would be appointed to defend them until late the following afternoon when there was a knock on the door, and a small, thin cadet, wearing a thick pair of eyeglasses that gave him a decided owllike look, entered the room. "alfie higgins!" cried tom. "the brain!" yelled astro. "glad to see you, pal!" shouted roger. the three cadets surrounded little alfie and pommeled him playfully in their joy at seeing another cadet. alfie merely looked at them gravely. "hello, tom, roger, astro," he said somberly. "what are you doing here?" asked tom. "we're not allowed visitors." "i'm not a visitor, tom," replied the little cadet. "i'm your defense lawyer." he glanced at roger and astro. "i hope that will be satisfactory to you." "satisfactory!" exclaimed tom. "alfie, we couldn't ask for anyone better." "that's right, brain," said roger. "you're the boy for us." astro grunted his approval. "yeah." "well, in that case," said alfie, opening his brief case, "i would suggest that we get right down to the facts. the trial is tomorrow." "all right, alfie, we're ready," said tom. "i suppose you want to hear the whole thing." "if you don't mind," said alfie, adjusting his eyeglasses. "you start, roger." sitting around the room, relaxed, yet concerned, the four cadets discussed the details of the case. alfie took copious notes, occasionally interrupting tom or roger or astro to ask a pointed question. [illustration] they talked for nearly four hours before alfie was finally satisfied that he knew all the facts. he left them with the same somber attitude he had when he first arrived, and when the boys were alone, they each felt a chill of fear. the full meaning of a defense lawyer hit them. they were in serious trouble. after a few moments of silence, tom rose and went into the bathroom to take a shower. astro flopped on his back in his bunk and went to sleep. roger began throwing darts idly at his "solar system" over his bunk. it was a map of his own design depicting the planets revolving around the sun, only each planet was represented by a picture of a girl, and his own grinning countenance was the sun. he was known to have made dates by throwing a dart at the map blindly and taking out the girl whose picture he had hit. when tom returned a few minutes later, he looked at his unit mates and shook his head. never, in all the adventures they had shared or all the tough situations they had been in, had either roger or astro given up as they seemed to be doing now. "and," thought tom miserably, "with good reason too! i feel like tossing in the sponge myself." * * * * * the huge space academy gymnasium had been converted into a temporary courtroom, and at ten a.m. the following day the cavernous chamber was packed with all the cadets who could get off duty, in addition to a liberal sprinkling of solar guard officers and instructors who were keenly interested in their pupils' handling of orderly democratic procedure. as the cadet judge opened the proceedings, commander walters, major connel, captain strong, and lieutenant wolchek, unit commander of the _capella_ crew, watched intently from their seats in the back of the gym. up forward, at two small tables immediately in front of the council's platform, the _polaris_ and _capella_ units sat rigidly, while their defense lawyers arranged papers and data on the table for quick reference. little alfie higgins didn't say a word to tom, roger, or astro, merely studied his opponent, cadet benjy edwards, who was acting as attorney for the _capella_ unit. edwards, a beefy boy with a florid face, looked across the chamber and sneered at tom. the young cadet repressed a quick shudder of anger. there was bad blood between the two. once, tom had found edwards bullying a helpless group of earthworm cadets, forcing them to march and exercise under a broiling martian sun for no reason at all, and tom had put a stop to it. edwards had taken every opportunity to get back at tom, and now he had his best chance. from the beginning, the trial was argued bitterly. though the issues were clear-cut--illegal possession of the study spools, out on the quadrangle after hours, and fighting--edwards tried to accuse the _polaris_ unit of irrelevant infractions. but alfie higgins was his equal. from the beginning, he admitted that the _polaris_ unit was guilty of the first charge, but made a strong claim that they had more than made up for the infraction by risking censure to return the spools to their rightful owners. in addition, he forced tony richards to admit that he had accepted roger's apology. the council agreed to drop that charge and to hold the second charge in abeyance, since both units seemed to have had good reason for being out after hours. benjy edwards scowled but could find no reason to object to the council's decision. alfie, on the other hand, broke into a smile for the first time that morning. he turned to the council and announced that the only point of issue was the fight and who struck the first blow. in the back of the room, connel turned to strong. "i, personally, am going to sign the pass for a week's leave for alfie when this is over," he said. "i never saw such a ding-blasted brain in operation in all my life." "he really slipped one over on benjy edwards all right," muttered strong, his voice tinged with pride. in front of the council platform, alfie turned to the judge. "i would like to call to the stand, if the court please," he said in a clear voice, "cadet tom corbett." tom walked to the chair, was sworn in, and sat down, facing alfie. "cadet corbett," higgins paused, and then asked almost casually, "did you strike the first blow?" "no," replied tom. "dismissed," said higgins suddenly. "call roger manning to the stand, please." roger rose, and passing tom on the way back, took his place on the stand and repeated the oath. alfie looked at roger calmly and in a clear voice asked, "cadet manning, did you strike the first blow?" "no." "dismissed," said alfie. "please call cadet astro to the stand." the cadet audience began to murmur and sit forward tensely. "what the devil is he doing?" growled connel. strong grinned. "blast me if i know, lou," he said. "but wait and see. i'll bet you ten credits it's a lulu." astro was sworn in and alfie waited for the room to become quiet. "cadet astro," he said finally, "you have heard the other members of the _polaris_ unit state, under solemn oath, that they did not strike the first blow. now, i ask you to consider carefully your answer. did you, cadet astro"--alfie paused dramatically, and nearly shouted the final part of the question--"strike the first blow?" "no!" bellowed astro. "dismissed," said alfie quickly, turning to the council. "gentlemen," he said, "he did not strike the first blow, nor did cadet corbett, nor cadet manning. and i will not insist that the three members of the _capella_ unit be asked the same question, since i concede that they are three impeccable gentlemen who could _not_ strike the first blow in a common fight." as the audience in the courtroom burst into a roar, benjy edwards jumped to his feet. "your honor," he appealed, "i insist that the _capella_ unit be allowed to take the stand and deny the charge--" "your honor," interrupted alfie, "the _polaris_ unit makes no charge. they freely admit that the _capella_ unit could not, i repeat, sir, could not have struck the first blow. and the _polaris_ unit--" "your honor--!" cried edwards. "i insist." the cadet judge rapped his gavel. "_polaris_ counsel will speak." "thank you, your honor. i just wanted to say that the members of the _polaris_ unit defer to the _capella_ unit. i submit, your honor, that it was nothing more than a misunderstanding and that both sides should be punished or freed." "is that all?" asked the cadet judge. "yes, sir," said alfie. "counsel for the _capella_ unit may speak now. do you insist on having your defendants brought to the stand to swear they did not start the fight?" "your honor--" began benjy. but alfie had already planted the seed. there were shouts of "give it to both of them" from the gym. red-faced, edwards held up his hand and appealed for quiet. "your honor," he began at last, "after consultation with the members of the _capella_ unit, they have directed me to state that they are willing to abide by the suggestion of the _polaris_ counsel." as the cadets in the courtroom roared their approval, the cadet judge consulted quickly with the members of the council. a decision was reached quickly. a verdict of conduct unbecoming cadets was brought against both units, with orders for a strong reprimand to be placed on their individual official records. in addition, each unit was denied leaves and week-end passes from the academy until the end of the term, four weeks away. all spare time was to be spent on guard duty. "you are to report to chief warrant officer timothy rush for further orders on all time not actually accountable for in academy schedules," concluded the cadet judge. "dismissed." the case was closed with a loud roar of approval from the entire cadet audience, who had seen justice done and democracy in action. tom, astro, and roger looked at each other and smiled. they were still space cadets. chapter "where is captain strong?" startled, commander walters glanced up to see major connel enter his office, accompanied by professor hemmingwell. the thin little man scowled with irritation as he walked right up to the commander's desk. "i wanted captain strong here for this meeting," the professor continued. "of course," replied walters. "captain strong _should_ be here." he turned to connel. "have you seen him, connel?" as connel lowered his bulk into a soft chair, he sighed. "steve is with his unit, chewing them out over that fight with the _capella_ unit." walters grinned. "you heard about our trial, professor?" "yes," replied hemmingwell stiffly. "frankly, i cannot see how captain strong can ignore this meeting to hold hands with those infantile cadets." connel's face turned red and he glanced quickly at walters, whose face was approaching the same color. neither expected such a comment from a scientist. "professor," said connel heavily, leaning forward in his chair, "i assure you steve strong is _not_ holding their hands. in fact, i would hate to be in those cadets' shoes right now." hemmingwell grunted and drew back from connel's burning glare. "be that as it may," he said. "i cannot see that the staff of this institution has done anything constructive for the last three days. so far as i'm concerned, this childish talk about a common fight has been a complete waste of time." "professor hemmingwell," said commander walters, rising from his chair, "if there had to be a choice between your project, as valuable as it may be, and the valuable lesson learned today by my cadets, i'll tell you right now that the lesson would come first. this was a very important issue. the cadets had their real taste of democracy in action today, down on a level where they could understand it. and, i dare say, there are quite a few boys who heard that childish talk, as you put it, and will remember it some time in the future when they are called on to act as officers of the solar alliance." connel cleared his throat noisily. "i think we'd better get on with the meeting," he said. "do you have the plans and specifications, hemmingwell?" but the wiry professor refused to be dissuaded. he faced commander walters and wagged his finger under the spaceman's nose. "you have a perfect right to your own ideas concerning the education of your cadets!" he shouted. "but i have a right to my ideas regarding my space projectile operations. i've devoted a good part of my life to this plan, and i will not allow anything, or anyone, to stand in my way." before walters could reply, connel jumped up and growled. "all right! now that we've got the speeches out of the way, let's get down to work." walters and the professor suddenly stopped short and grinned at the brusque line officer, who, for all his bullying tactics, knew how to take the edge off a touchy situation. walters sat down again and hemmingwell spread out several large maps on walters' desk. he pointed to a location on the chart of the area surrounding space academy. "this is the area here," he said, placing his finger on the map. "i think it is best suited for our purpose. dave barret and carter devers concur--" "someone mention my name?" the sliding door to the commander's office opened and a tall, distinguished man with iron-gray hair entered, followed by a handsome, younger man. "devers!" exclaimed hemmingwell in obvious delight. "i didn't expect you until this evening." "got away earlier than i figured," replied the elder man, who then turned to the two solar guard officers. "hello, commander walters, major connel. meet dave barret, my assistant." he gestured toward the young man beside him and they shook hands in turn. "well," said devers, "have we missed anything?" "just starting," replied walters. "fine," said devers. "oh, by the way, i want it understood, commander, that while i am lending dave to you to work on the operation with the professor, i'm not even going to let you pay him. he remains on my payroll, so you can't take him away from me. the jilolo spaceways would be lost without him." walters smiled. "all right with me," he said. "i don't care _who_ pays him, as long as he's with me on this, commander," said hemmingwell, wiping his glasses carefully. "that young man has a mind equipped with a built-in calculator." dave barret grinned in obvious embarrassment. "if mr. devers can devote his time to you for one credit a year as salary, i have no objections to working on this project," he said. "in fact, i told mr. devers that if he didn't let me come down here, i'd quit and come, anyway." hemmingwell beamed. "well, now, if captain strong were only here, we could get along with the business at hand." devers frowned. "why is he so important?" he asked. "steve has been placed in charge of procurement for the construction of the hangar and getting the spur line in from the monorail station," replied connel. "and that reminds me, professor," he continued. "where is your hangar going to be? and where is that spur coming in from? are we going to have a lot of building to do to get that blasted thing snaked over those hills?" connel pointed to the protective ring of high rugged peaks that surrounded the academy. "that's why dave barret here is so important," replied hemmingwell. "he figured out a way of tunneling through this section here"--he pointed to a particularly rugged section of the hills--"at half the cost of bringing it straight in on that plain there." connel and walters studied the map closely. "very good," said walters. "you think you can do it, dave?" asked connel. "i'm sure i can, sir," replied the young man. "and save time?" growled connel. "i'll have that line through, and in operation, bringing in the first haul of hangar material in three weeks." impressed by the young man's confidence, connel turned to commander walters and nodded. "well, if you can do that, barret," said walters, "professor hemmingwell will have to begin his operations now, won't you, professor?" "that's right," said the wiry old man. "right now, this very minute." devers suddenly spoke up. "i would like to have one thing explained, commander, unless, of course, it's a breach of security, but--" he hesitated. "what is it?" asked connel. "i've been going along with you for some time now," explained devers. "but i still don't know the exact nature of the projectile you propose to build. what's the purpose of it?" "you certainly deserve an answer to that question," said commander walters warmly. "you've contributed your services to this operation absolutely blindly. now you should know everything." he paused and looked at hemmingwell and connel, who nodded in return. "carter," he resumed, "we are going to create a spaceship that can launch a large projectile filled with cargo and send it to any small area." carter devers' face lighted up. "you mean, you are going to fire payloads from space freighters instead of landing with them?" "exactly," said walters. "these freighters will deliver mail and supplies to out-of-the-way settlements that do not have a spaceport large enough to handle the giant freighters and have to depend on surface transport from the larger cities." carter devers shook his head slowly. "this is the most amazing thing i've ever heard of in my life." "i thought you'd be surprised, carter," said walters, his face glowing with pleasure. "the big item, of course, is to lick the problem of standardizing the receivers for the projectiles. they must be lightweight, easily assembled, and precision made, since it's going to have an electronic gismo inside for the projectile to 'home' on." professor hemmingwell grunted. "that electronic gismo, as you call it, is the real idea behind the whole operation." "how is that, professor?" asked devers. "well, it works on this principle," began hemmingwell. "the receiver will send out a distinctive radar beam. in the spaceship, the projectile designated for that receiver will be tuned in to the frequency of that beam and fired from the ship. a homing device, built into the projectile will take over, guiding it right down the beam to its destination." "and how does that radar beam work?" asked devers. "that," said connel stiffly, "is a military secret." "of course," nodded devers, smiling. "i was just curious." "well, now that we're agreed on a site for the operation," said professor hemmingwell, "is there anything else you want to discuss, commander?" "not for the moment, professor," replied the commandant of space academy. "you have any more questions, major connel?" when connel shook his head, devers spoke up again. "there is something else i would like to know, if it isn't a breach of military secrecy," he said with a smile at connel. "i don't remember seeing anything about this project in the bills sent before the solar council. when was it authorized?" "it wasn't," snapped hemmingwell. "it was blocked before it came to a vote. so i ran around the whole solar alliance, begging and borrowing the money to finance the project myself." "and the solar guard is just lending technical assistance and facilities," supplied walters. "of course, should the project succeed, we will go before the solar council with an emergency request to incorporate the idea into the defense of all solar guard outposts." "private capital, eh?" said devers, turning to look at the professor admiringly. "you are a very brave man, professor hemmingwell, to risk so much. and, i might add, you must be an excellent salesman to sell solar alliance bankers your ideas." "common sense," snorted the professor. "plain horse sense." "still," insisted devers, "most of the bankers with whom i've ever tried to talk common sense _were_ horses." as everyone laughed, he turned to walters. "now, just what do you want me to do, commander?" "carter, you've done so much for this project already that i'm going to give you a rest," said walters. "i don't understand." "from now on," major connel broke in, "the project will be in the hands of the professor. if he needs anything, he'll tell steve strong. if strong can't fulfill the request, he'll pass it on to commander walters, and if the commander feels it necessary to have your help, he will contact you." "you understand, of course," said walters, trying to soften the major's flat statement. "of course," replied devers easily. "still, if you need my help on this thing at all, don't fail to call me." "thank you, carter," said walters. "you've been a great help already." shaking hands all around and wishing them well, devers left the office. dave barret, commander walters, and professor hemmingwell turned to their study of the map, but major connel remained where he was, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. he shook his head as if to brush an impossible idea out of his mind and then turned to the map. * * * * * tom corbett, roger manning, and astro stood at rigid attention in their dormitory room, backs ramrod straight, eyes front, hands stiffly at their sides. captain steve strong, his face red and voice hoarse, strode up and down in front of them. "and another thing!" he roared. "this court reprimand goes on your official records, and you're going to spend your time on guard duty like any common earthworm that doesn't know its rocket from its pocket!" for nearly half an hour the cadets had listened to their unit instructor bawl them out. "when i think," he continued, "when i _think_ of how close you three space brats came to getting kicked out of the academy--" words seemed to fail the young captain momentarily and he slumped on one of the bunks and looked at the row of cadets, shaking his head. "why, in the name of saturn, i ever accepted the responsibility of making you three bird brains into cadets is beyond me. and to think that when you first came here, i thought you had that special something to make you an outstanding unit. i even went out on a limb for you. and now you pull a stunt like this." behind them, the door opened and a short man, no more than five feet tall, but with the bulging muscles of a tiny giant stretching his bright-red enlisted man's uniform, stepped inside. he saluted strong smartly. "chief petty officer rush here to assign the _polaris_ unit to guard duty, sir," he announced. "all right, firehouse," said strong, using the man's nickname. "give it to them. show them no mercy. by the rings of saturn, they've got to be made to realize their responsibilities!" "yes, sir," said the thick little man. strong walked out of the room without another word, nor even a backward glance at the cadets. as soon as the door closed, timothy "firehouse" rush faced the three cadets, his beaten and battered face glowing with anticipation. "get this!" he growled. "when you're assigned to guard duty with the e.m.'s of the solar guard, you leave your immunity as cadets here in the academy. from now on, you belong to me. and i'll tell you right now, there isn't anything in space that i hate more, or think less of, than space cadets. you get special privileges you don't deserve because you wear that uniform. you get a chance to learn to be a spaceman and most of you muff it. i've got e.m.'s in my outfit that could blast circles around either of you--guys that deserve the chance you've got, and fouled out because they can't spell or don't know how to hold a cup of tea with their fingers the right way. when you come to me, it means you've done something bad. you're on your way out. and i'm going to try my best to see that you make it--_out_." he took a step forward and glared at them. "report to me at hours and"--his voice dropped to a gravelly roar--"you better not be late--and you better not be early." he spun on his heels in a perfect about-face and left the room. "there is only one consolation," sighed tom. "the _capella_ unit is getting the same thing we're getting." "here we go!" breathed roger slowly. "i've been thinking about quitting the academy, anyway," growled astro. chapter "halt!" roger growled the order into the darkness and unslung the paralo-ray rifle from his shoulder, bringing it around to firing position. "advance and be recognized," he said flatly. nothing moved. even the air seemed still. "advance and be recognized," roger ordered again. still nothing moved. the cadet glanced around quickly in the direction of the guardhouse where he knew there was a communicator to the sergeant of the guard. should he call for help? he decided against it and moved forward toward the noise he had heard, his finger poised on the trigger of the paralo-ray gun. "advance and be recognized," he called again. as he walked slowly between the huge packing cases piled outside the newly constructed hangar, he saw a shadowy movement to his left. he raised the deadly ray gun, and his finger tightened on the trigger. "advance and be recognized," he said over the sights of the gun. "_mee-ooo-wwww!_" a tiny white kitten flashed out of a gap between two boxes and ran to his feet, purring, rubbing up against his space boots. [illustration] "well, blast my rockets!" roger laughed. he slung the gun over his shoulder and reached down to pick the kitten up in his arms. he began stroking its fur and making little soothing noises. he started back to the other end of his patrol post. "you're a cute little fella," murmured roger, nuzzling the kitten against his chin. "but you almost got blasted." "guard! stand to!" startled, roger whirled around to see firehouse tim behind him, his battered and beaten face clouded with rage. "drop that animal at once," the petty officer roared. roger stooped over to let the kitten run free and it dashed away into a crack between the boxes and disappeared. "manning," began the enlisted spaceman, "the next time i catch you not attending to your duty, i will bring you up on charges of neglect! carry on!" rush spun on his heel and vanished into the darkness. "blasted muscle-bound squirt!" sneered roger under his breath, shouldering his rifle and resuming his slow patrol outside the hangar. for three weeks, tom, roger, and astro, along with the three members of the _capella_ unit, had been spending close to eight hours a day on guard duty, eight to ten hours a day in classroom work, and the rest of the time studying. they only averaged some two to three hours of sleep per day. they were dead tired but they stuck to their task doggedly, without complaint. around them, the work on professor hemmingwell's project had proceeded with amazing speed. the tunnel promised by dave barret had been finished in less than five days, with the rail for the monorail spur installed overhead as each yard of the shaft was completed. in the second week, scores of cars loaded with building materials began rolling into the deserted plain several miles away from space academy. then, one morning, nearly a thousand construction workers arrived and built a hangar in thirty-six hours. no sooner had the huge building been completed than a tight guard had been placed around it. specially designed identification tags were issued to the guards and workers on the project. gradually the huge store of cases and boxes outside the hangar had been moved inside, with all but a few of the smaller ones remaining outside. the secret work inside the hangar was advancing rapidly, but this did not enter into the thoughts of the three cadets of the _polaris_ unit, nor of the _capella_ unit. the harsh discipline instituted by tim rush and the extra study necessary for the end-of-year exams had forced the cadets into a round-the-clock struggle not only to keep awake but to make the class promotion lists. roger paced off the required distance, wheeled smartly, and in so doing came face to face with astro, who was patrolling another side of the hangar. "i just saw firehouse," said astro quietly. "did he catch you goofing?" "yeah," growled roger. "i found a kitten and he walked up just as i was holding it." astro grinned. "i wouldn't be surprised if that pocket-sized giant didn't send that cat down there to tempt you." "how's tom?" asked roger. astro, in his patrol, came in contact with both unit mates. "sleepy. he's having a tough time with that chapter on space law. he didn't sleep at all last night." "he better keep awake," said roger. "that little fireman's got his rockets hot tonight. he'll blast tom sure if--" "wait a minute," said astro suddenly, looking off into the darkness. "what was that?" roger spun around, his rifle in his hands, ready to fire. "what is it?" he asked. "i don't know," replied astro in a whisper. "i thought i saw something move inside the hangar." he pointed to a large window. "sort of a shadow against the frosted glass." "are you sure?" "of course i'm sure." "i'll investigate. you get tom and call firehouse." "right," replied astro, and raced down the path, alongside the hangar. grasping his rifle firmly, roger inched toward a nearby door. he opened it a crack, then flattened himself against the wall and watched astro run toward the other end of the hangar. he saw the big venusian say a few quick words to tom and then rush off toward the guardhouse and the communicator. tom waved to roger, indicating that he would enter the opposite door of the hangar. roger dropped to his hands and knees and poked his head through the open door, peering around from one end of the huge dark chamber to the other. then, taking a deep breath, he rose and stepped quickly inside. he closed the door behind him and stood still, listening for some sound. suddenly there was a flash of light from the opposite wall. roger brought the paralo-ray gun up to his shoulder quickly and was about to fire when he realized that the light he saw was tom opening the door on the opposite side. he breathed easier and waited until he could distinguish tom's moving figure clearly, and then walked stealthily forward on a parallel line. it was the first time roger had been inside the hangar since it had been constructed and he was not sure of his way around, but gradually, the moonlight filtering in through the frosted plates of titan crystal illuminated the huge forms of the machines around him. he stopped and gasped. without even realizing it, he emitted a long whistle of astonishment. before him, reaching up into the shadows of the cavernous hangar, was the gleaming hull of a huge rocket ship. two hundred feet long, the space vessel stood on its stabilizer fins, ladders and cables running into the open ports on both sides. roger waved to tom, who had also stopped to stare at the giant spaceship, and the two of them met beneath the gleaming hull. "what's the matter?" asked tom. "astro said you saw someone." "_i_ didn't see a blasted thing," said roger in an exasperated whisper. "that big goof said _he_ did." "wow!" said tom, looking up at the ship. "this is some baby. i never saw one with lines like that before. look at the funny bulges on the lower side of the hull." "sh!" hissed roger. "i just heard something." the two cadets stood silently, ears cocked for the slightest sound in the huge hangar. they heard a distinct tapping sound from somewhere above them. "it's coming from inside the ship!" said tom. "you climb in the other port," said roger. "i'll take this one." "right," said tom. "and remember, if there's any trouble, shoot first and ask questions later." "check." tom slipped away from roger and moved to the opposite side of the ship. slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he climbed up the ladder silently toward the open port. making his way noiselessly through the air lock, he entered the huge main deck of the ship and was able to see his way around by the faint glow of the emergency reflectors in the bulkheads. tiny, sparkling gemlike pieces of specially coated titan crystal, they glowed with steady intensity for many hours after having been exposed to any form of light. the deck was a mass of cables, boxes, tools, and equipment. tom noticed curious-looking machines behind, what he judged to be, the odd bulges on the outside of the hull. ahead of him, a hatch was partially open and he could see light streaking through the opening. he gripped his rifle tightly, finger on the trigger, and moved forward. at the hatch he paused and looked into the next compartment. from the opposite side, he saw another hatch partially open and the outline of roger's head and shoulders. between them, a man was bending over a makeshift desk, copying information from a calculator and a set of blueprints. tom nodded across to roger and they both stepped into the compartment at the same time. "put up your hands, mister, or i'll freeze you so hard it'll take a summer on the venus equator to warm you up," roger drawled. the man jerked upright, stumbled back from the desk, and moved toward tom, keeping his eyes on roger. he backed into the barrel of tom's ray gun and stopped, terrified. he threw up his hands. "what--wh--" he stammered and then caught himself. "how dare you do this to me?" he demanded. "shut up!" snapped tom. "what are you doing here?" "none of your business," the man replied. "i'm making it my business," snapped tom, pressing the gun into the man's back. "who are you and how did you get in here?" the man turned and looked tom in the eye. "i have a right to be here," he stated coldly. "i'll show you my identification--" he brought his hands down and reached into his jacket, but roger stepped over quickly and brought the barrel of his gun down sharply on the man's head. he slumped to the floor with a groan and was still. "what did you do that for?" growled tom. roger didn't reply. he reached down into the unconscious man's jacket and pulled out a small paralo-ray gun stuck in the top of his waistband. "some identification," roger drawled. "thanks, pal," said tom sheepishly. "let's search him. maybe we can find out who he is." as roger bent over the fallen man, there was a commotion in the hangar outside the ship, followed by the sound of footsteps clattering up the ladders to the ports. seconds later, astro, followed by tim rush and a squad of enlisted spacemen, surged into the compartment. rush stopped short when he saw the man on the floor. "great jumping jupiter," gasped the petty officer, then whirled on tom and roger. "you space-blasted idiots!" he shouted. "you good-for-nothing harebrained, moronic dumbbells! do you know what you've done?" tom and roger stared at each other in amazement. astro, standing to one side, looked confused. "sure we know what we've done," declared tom. "we found this guy in here copying secrets from some blueprints there on the desk and--" "copying secrets!" screamed rush. "why, you ding-blasted idiots, that's dave barret, the supervisor of this whole project!" the man on the floor stirred and firehouse ordered the squad of enlisted men to help him up. just then, there was a bellow of rage from the hatch. major connel stepped into the compartment, his face a mask of disgust and anger. "by the rings of saturn!" he roared. "i've been sitting in the laboratory for the last hour and a half waiting for dave barret to come back with vital information, so we could get on with our experiments, and i find that you--you--" connel was so furious, he could hardly talk. he faced the three cadets. "there isn't anything in the books that says you should be disciplined for this--this--outrage, but believe me, cadets"--his voice sounded like thunder in the small compartment--"this is the very last time i'll stand for this kind of stupidity." tom gulped but stepped forward bravely. "sir," he said clearly, "i would like respectfully to submit the facts for the major's honest consideration. neither of us has ever seen this man before and we found him copying information from these blueprints. when i challenged him, he said he was going to show us his identification. he put his hands in his jacket to get it, but roger saw a gun in his belt, and thinking he was going to use it, roger hit him on the head." tom stopped, clamped his mouth shut, and stared the major in the eye. "that's all, sir." connel returned the stare, his eyes meeting those of the cadet for a full half minute. "all right," he said finally. "i guess it's just a case of misjudgment. but," he added scathingly, "in the face of the _polaris_ unit's record, you can understand my initial opinion." as dave barret was assisted from the ship by the guards, connel turned to rush. "firehouse!" he barked. "yes, sir?" "see that these cadets don't cause any more mischief." "yes, _sir_." "dismissed," snapped connel. "all right, you space brats," bellowed rush, "back to your patrol!" tom, roger, and astro left the ship and returned to their posts outside the hangar. just before they separated to resume their endless march around the hangar, tom winked at his unit mates. "at least we didn't get demerits," he said. "only because connel couldn't find any reason to give them to us," sneered roger. "what a busted rocket he's getting to be!" "yeah," agreed astro quietly. the three cadets began their round again, their eyes heavy with lack of sleep, their arms and legs leaden, and their desire to become successful space cadets more determined than ever. but they didn't know they had started a chain reaction that would affect their very lives. [illustration] chapter "we passed!" tom turned away from the lists posted on the dormitory bulletin board and with his arms around astro and roger pushed through the knot of cadets. "yeow!" bellowed astro. "we made it," murmured roger with a note of disbelief in his voice. "we made it!" and then, with the realization that he was still a space cadet for at least another term, he turned and began pounding astro on the back. "you big venusian ape, we made it." arm in arm, the three cadets strolled across the quadrangle and shouted to friends they passed. occasionally they fell silent when they saw a boy carrying his gear to the supply building. these had failed to pass the rigid examinations. near the tower of galileo, the cadets came face to face with tony richards, mcavoy, and davison. the two units looked at each other silently, remembering what had happened only four short weeks before. then they all smiled and pounded each other on the back, congratulating each other on passing. neither of the units had made top honors as a result of their fight and the trial, and having to spend so much time on guard duty, but they had passed and that was the most important thing. the boys all adjourned to the credit exchange and gorged themselves on martian fruit pies covered with ice cream. finally the party broke up when tom remembered that he and his unit mates had to go on guard duty in half an hour. "well," said tony richards, rising, "we relieve you guys at midnight, so we might as well hit the sack right now. i've been waiting for this night for a long time." "no study," sighed davison. "what heaven! i feel as if i've been pardoned from prison." the three boys of the _capella_ crew said good-by to tom, roger, and astro, and walked off. tom settled back in his chair and sighed. "sure wish i was in their boots," he said. "i don't see how i'm going to get through tonight." "don't think about it," said roger. "only seven more days to go, and then we go on summer cruise with the _polaris_." "i can't wait to get back on that power deck," said astro. "it'll be like going home." later, riding the new slidewalk to the area where the huge hangar had been built, they saw captain strong returning from the restricted area on the other slidewalk. they hopped off their walk and waited for the young officer. "i'm happy that you passed the exams, boys," he said. "and i want you to know commander walters and major connel think a lot more of you, though they wouldn't admit it, for the way you worked to make it." "thank you, sir," said astro respectfully. "you'll have to excuse us, sir," said tom. "we've got to get out to the hangar and go on guard." "yes, and you'd better hurry," said strong. "after that mix-up with dave barret, firehouse tim has his eye on you. barret put up quite a fuss about it." "i still don't see how mr. barret got in there," said tom. "the fourth side of the hangar faces the hills, and we three covered the other three sides." "however he got in," interrupted strong, "he had a right to be there. and he also had a right to carry sidearms." "captain strong," said roger, "we've talked about it a lot, the three of us. and we decided that regardless of what major connel or firehouse or barret have said, we'd do the same thing, in the same way again." "i think you're perfectly right, manning. but don't quote me," said strong, his voice serious. "this is one of the most important projects i've ever been connected with and--" he stopped suddenly. "well, i can't tell you any more. that's how tight the security is on it." "but everyone knows that it's a projectile that will home on a target, sir," said tom. "yes, that was given to the stereos for general news release, but there are other factors involved, factors so important that they could revolutionize the whole concept of space flight." "wow!" said tom. "no wonder they have this place so well guarded." "humph," snorted roger. "i'd give up the opportunity of guarding this revolutionary secret for one night's good sleep." "you'll get that tomorrow when we go off duty," said tom. "and please, roger, no blunders tonight, eh? let's not take any chances of losing the summer cruise in the _polaris_." "listen! you want to talk to the venusian hick about that, not me," declared roger. "he's the one that spotted barret." "but you hit him on the head," growled astro. "you and your catlike reflexes." the big cadet referred to a recent letter he had seen in which one of the blond-haired cadet's many space dolls referred to his sensitivity as being that of a poet, and his dancing as smooth as the reflexes of a cat. roger spun on the big cadet. "you blasted throwback to a venusian ape!" he roared. "if i ever catch you reading my mail again--" "you'll what?" growled astro. "you'll do just exactly what?" he grabbed roger by the arm and held him straight out, so that he looked as if he were hanging from a tree. strong laughed and shook his head. "i give you three to the loving, tender care of firehouse tim," he said, hopping over on the moving slidewalk, back to the academy. "put me down, you overgrown idiot," roger howled. "not until you promise not to threaten me with violence again," said astro with a wink at tom. the young curly-haired cadet doubled up with laughter. finally roger was lowered to the ground, and, though he rubbed his shoulder and grumbled, he was really pleased that astro felt like roughhousing with him. the events of the last few weeks had so tired all of them that there had been no energy left for play. lightheartedly they stepped over to the slidewalk and were back on their way to the secret project. * * * * * two huge wire fences had been built around the hangar area now, fences carrying a surge of paralyzing power ready to greet anyone that dared touch it. more than twenty feet high, the outer fence was buried six feet into the ground and was some hundred yards away from the hangar building itself, and fifty yards away from the second fence. the entire area was also guarded by radar. should any unauthorized person or object be found in that area, an automatic alarm sounded and in fifteen seconds a hundred fully armed guards were ready for action. the men who had been cleared by security to work in and around the restricted area wore specially designed belts of sensitized metal that offset the effects of the radar. but the fence was still the untouchable for everyone. tom, roger, and astro had now been moved inside the hangar itself, to stand guard over the only three doors in the cavernous structure. they were armed with powerful heat blasters. these rifles were different from the paralo-ray guns they had used previously. a beam of light from the ray guns would only paralyze a human being, while the blaster destroyed anything it touched, burning it to a crisp. as soon as the three cadets saw the change in armament, they knew they were guarding something so secret that human life, if it interfered with the project, would be disintegrated. only once before, on a hunting trip to venus, had they ever used the blasters, but they knew the deadly power of the weapons. nothing was said to them. firehouse tim had not posted any special orders or given them any special instructions. each man who worked inside the hangar had to pass a simple but telling test of identification. on a table at each entrance to the hangar was a small box with a hole in the top. each worker, guard, and person that entered the hangar had to insert a key into the hole and it made contact with a highly sensitive electronic device inside. the keys were issued only by major connel or captain strong, and should anyone attempt to enter the hangar without it, or should the key not make the proper contact, lighting up a small bulb on the top of the box, tom, roger, and astro had simple instructions: shoot to kill. this form of identification had been employed for some time now, even before the wire fence had been installed, but the really spectacular change was in the heat blasters each guard carried. this, more than anything else, impressed on everyone connected with the project, that to move the wrong way, to say the wrong thing, or to act in any suspicious manner might result in instant death. it was a mark of trust that tom, roger, and astro had been placed in such a highly sensitive position. they could kill a man and simply explain, "the light didn't go on!" and that would be the end of it. neither of them knew that connel had specifically requested that they be assigned to the day shift, when the hangar would be crowded with workers, who, intent on their assigned jobs, might be careless and leave themselves open to instant action on the part of the guards. connel reasoned that tom, roger, and astro, aside from their occasional antics in the academy, would be more responsible than rough enlisted spacemen. the orders were specific: shoot to kill, but there was almost always one poor human being who would forget. in spite of the necessity for tight security, connel felt he had to allow for that one percent of human failure. secretly he was very happy that he had a crack unit like the _polaris_ to place in such a job. and the _capella_ unit had been entrusted with the same responsibility. it was under such tight conditions that astro, watching the least busy of the three entrances and exits, saw dave barret walk to a nearby public teleceiver booth, and, with the door ajar, place a transspace call to venusport. the booth was used often by the workers and astro did not think much of it, until he accidentally overheard barret's conversation. "... yeah, i know, but things are so tight, i can't even begin to get at it." barret had his mouth close to the transmitter and his voice was low, but astro could still hear him. "yeah, i know how important it is to you, but i can be burned to a cinder if i make one false move. you'll just have to wait until i find an opening somewhere. good-by!" barret switched off the teleceiver set and stepped out of the booth to face the muzzle of astro's blaster. "stand where you are!" growled the big cadet. "what, why you--" barret clamped his mouth shut. there was a difference between being frozen and being blasted into a crisp. astro reached over and touched the button that would alert a squad of guards, major connel, and tim rush. in a flash the alarm sounded throughout the hangar and troopers stormed in brandishing their guns. firehouse tim and connel arrived seconds later. they skidded to a stop when they saw barret with his hands in the air and astro's finger on the trigger of the blaster. "by the blessed rings of saturn!" roared connel. "not again." "put down that gun," demanded rush, stepping forward quickly. astro lowered the gun and barret dropped his hands. "what's the meaning of this?" demanded connel, his face reddening with rage. astro turned and looked the major right in the eye. "major," he said calmly, "this man just made a teleceiver call--a transspace call to venusport." "well, what about it?" cried barret. "sir," said astro, unruffled by barret's screaming protest, "this man spoke of getting at something, and that he was unable to do so, because he might be burned to a cinder. and the other party would have to wait until he found an opening." "what!" exclaimed connel, turning to look at barret. "what is the meaning of this, barret?" "why, that knuckle-headed baboon!" yelled barret. "sure, i made a transspace call to venusport--to the venusian atomic by-products corporation." "what was the call about?" demanded connel. the guards had not moved and the workers in the hangar were now gathering around the small knot of men by the teleceiver booth. "why--i--" "come on, man!" shouted connel. "out with it." "i called about getting a new timer for the projectile fuel-injection system," snapped barret. "the timer is too slow for our needs. i wanted to adjust it myself, but the projectile is so compact, i can't get at it without taking a chance of getting doused by the fuel." "what about that remark about finding an opening?" growled connel. "what's going on here?" called professor hemmingwell as he bustled up to the group. "why aren't these men working? dave, why aren't you up there--?" "just a minute, professor!" connel barked, and turned back to barret. "go ahead, barret." "they can't make a new timer until i find a way of installing it without taking apart the whole projectile," said barret, adding sarcastically, "in other words, major--finding an opening." "all right," barked connel. "that's enough." he turned to the assembled workers. "get back to work, all of you." the men moved away and firehouse tim led the guards back to their quarters. professor hemmingwell, barret, and astro remained where they were. connel turned to astro. "good work, you dumb venusian," he snorted. "but so help me, if you had burned this man, i, personally, would've buried you on a prison rock." the major then turned to barret. "as for you--" he snarled. "yes?" asked barret coolly. "you make one more call like that over a public teleceiver," connel roared, "especially a transspace call that's monitored by the idiots in the teleceiver company, and i'll send _you_ to a prison asteroid!" "now, major," said hemmingwell testily, "i don't think you should speak to dave that way. after all, he's a very valuable man in this project." "how valuable would he be if this cadet had gone ahead and blasted him?" snarled connel. "it's just another example of how these stupid boys have obstructed my work here," replied hemmingwell angrily. "i can't see why they have to interfere this way. and they always pick on poor dave." "yes," snarled barret. "i'm getting pretty tired of being a clay pigeon for a bunch of brats." he turned to astro. "you'll have a head full of socket wrench if you mess with me again." "you'll get a receipt, barret," growled astro. "paid in full." "all right, break it up," growled connel. "back to your post, astro. and you get back to work, barret, and remember what i said about using that public teleceiver." barret and hemmingwell walked off, with the little professor talking rapidly to the younger scientist, trying to calm his anger. astro, tom, and roger were extraordinarily strict about the exit of the workers that night and there was angry muttering in the ranks of the men who wanted to get home. but the three cadets refused to be hurried and made each man perform the ritual of getting out to the letter. still later, after they had been relieved by the _capella_ unit and had told them of the incident between astro and barret, they headed back to the academy dormitory more tired than they had ever been before in their lives. thirty seconds after reaching their room, they were asleep in their bunks, without undressing or washing. like whipped dogs, they sprawled on their bunks, dead to the world. [illustration] chapter sabotage! major connel, commander walters, captain strong, professor hemmingwell, and dave barret stared unbelievingly at the tangle of wires and smashed tubes on the main deck of the sleek spaceship. "get every man that has been in this hangar during the last twenty-four hours and have him brought under guard to the laboratory for psychographs." commander walters' face was grim as he snapped out the order. professor hemmingwell and barret got down on their hands and knees and examined the wrecked firing device carefully. after a long period of silence, while strong, walters, and connel watched them pawing through the tangle of wires and broken connections, hemmingwell stood up. "it can be replaced in twelve hours," he announced. "i believe that whoever did this either didn't know what he was doing, or it was an accident." "explain that, will you, professor?" asked strong. "i don't understand." "this is an important unit," hemmingwell replied, indicating the wreckage, "but not the most important part of the whole unit. anyone who really knew what he was doing and wanted to delay the project could have done so much more easily by simply destroying this." hemmingwell held out a small metallic-looking cylinder. "what is that, professor?" asked barret. "don't you know?" asked connel. "no, he doesn't," snapped professor hemmingwell. "this is something i developed that only the commander and myself know about." [illustration] "so, if you and commander walters are the only ones that know about it," said steve strong slowly, "then a saboteur would have thought it unimportant and concentrated on the rest of the mechanism." "looks that way," mused connel. "but there is still the possibility that it was an accident, as the professor said." strong looked at connel questioningly and then back to the wreckage. the unit had been hurled from the upper deck of the spaceship, down to the main deck, and it looked as if someone had trampled on its delicate works. [illustration] "i'll have a crew put right to work on this," said hemmingwell. "commander," connel suddenly announced, "i'm going ahead with my trip to mars to inspect the testing receivers. i don't think this incident is serious enough for me to delay leaving, and if professor hemmingwell and his men can get this unit back in operation in twelve hours, then there's very little time lost and we can go ahead with the tests on schedule." "all right, lou," said walters. "do whatever you think best. i'll have a ship made ready for you at the academy spaceport any time you want to leave." connel nodded his thanks. "i think i'll take the _polaris_, with cadet corbett along as second pilot," he said. "i'm getting too old to make a solo hop in a scout all the way to mars. i need my rest." he grinned slyly at walters. "rest," walters snorted. "if i know you, lou connel, you'll be up all night working out standard operational procedures for the space projectiles." he turned to strong. "he's so sure this will work that he's already writing a preliminary handbook for the enlisted personnel." strong turned and looked at the major, amazed. every day he learned more and more about the space-hardened veteran. connel turned to strong. "will you give corbett the order to be ready at hours tomorrow morning, steve?" he asked. "certainly, lou," replied strong. as the major turned away, walters called after him, "take it easy." leaving hemmingwell and barret to take care of clearing away the wreckage, strong and walters climbed out of the ship, left the hangar, and headed for the academy. "do you think it was sabotage, sir?" asked strong, as they rode on the slidewalk. "i don't know, steve," said the commander. "if that special unit of hemmingwell's had been damaged, i would say it might have been an accident. but the things that were damaged would have put the whole works out of commission if we didn't have that unit." "yes, sir," said strong grimly. "so the man who did it thought he was doing a complete job." "right," said walters. "assuming that it was sabotage." "anyone you suspect?" "not a living soul," replied walters. "every man in that hangar has been carefully screened by our security section. background, history, everything. no, i think it really was an accident." "yes, sir," replied strong, but not with the conviction he would like to have felt. * * * * * pat troy had been professor hemmingwell's foreman for nearly two years. it was his job to read the complicated blueprints and keep the construction and installation work proceeding on schedule. troy lacked a formal education, but nevertheless he could read and interpret the complicated plans which the professor and his assistants drew up, and transform their ideas into actual mechanical devices. professor hemmingwell considered himself fortunate to have a man of troy's ability not only as a co-worker, but as a close friend. but dave barret did not like troy, and he made this dislike obvious by giving troy as much work as possible, mainly tasks that were beneath his ability, claiming he only trusted the trained scientists. barret put the professor in the position of having to defend one to the other. he needed both men, both being excellent in their respective fields, and found it more and more difficult to maintain any kind of peaceful relationship between them. barret, as hemmingwell's chief assistant and supervisor of the project, was naturally superior in rank to troy, and made the most of it. a placid, easy-going man, troy took barret's gibes and caustic comments in silence, doing his work and getting it finished on time. but occasionally he had difficulty in controlling his resentment. the day after the accident, or sabotage attempt on the firing unit, the hangar was quiet, most of the workers still being psychographed. troy, one of the first to be graphed, had been detained by the technicians longer than usual, but was now back at his bench, working on the unit. this incident gave barret the opportunity he was looking for, and as he and professor hemmingwell strode through the hangar, he commented casually, "i hate to say this, sir, but i don't like the way troy has been acting lately." "what do you mean, dave?" asked hemmingwell. "i depend a great deal on instinct," replied barret. "and as good as troy's work has been, i feel the man is hiding something." "come now, dave," snorted the professor. "i've known him a long time. i think you're being a little harsh." as barret shrugged and didn't reply, a troubled expression crossed hemmingwell's face. "but at the same time," he said slowly, "if you have any reservations, i don't suppose it would hurt to keep an eye on him." "yes!" agreed barret eagerly. "that's just what i was thinking." they reached the workbench where troy, a small man with powerful arms and shoulders, was working on a complicated array of wires and vacuum tubes. he looked up, nodded casually at the two men, and indicated the instrument. "here it is, professor," he said. "all ready to go. but i had a little trouble fitting that coil where the blueprints called for it." "why?" barret demanded. "i designed that coil myself. isn't it a little odd that a coil i designed, and the professor o.k.'d, should not fit?" "i don't care who designed it," said troy easily. "it didn't fit where the blueprint indicated. i had to redesign it." "now, now," said professor hemmingwell, sensing trouble. "take it easy, boys." "professor," barret exploded, "i insist that you fire this man!" "fire me!" exclaimed troy angrily. "why, you space crawler, you're the one who should be fired. i saw you come back to the hangar the other night alone and...." "of course i did!" snapped barret. "i was sent down here to get information about--" he stopped suddenly and eyed troy. "wait a minute. how could you see me down here? what were you doing here?" "why--i--" troy hesitated. "i came down to check over some equipment." "why were you detained at the psychograph tests this morning?" demanded barret. "none of your business!" shouted troy. "i was doing my job. that's all." "i'll bet," snapped barret. "professor, here is your sabotage agent. who are you working for, troy?" "none of your business," stammered troy, seemingly confused. "i mean, i'm not working for anyone." "there! you see, professor!" shouted barret. "i think you'd better explain yourself, pat," said the professor, looking troubled and suspicious. "why were you detained so long this morning?" "they were asking me questions." "what kind of questions?" demanded barret. "i'm not allowed to tell you." "what were you doing here the other night?" pursued barret. "the night you saw me here." "i came down to check our supplies. i knew that we were running short on certain equipment." "what kind of things?" demanded the professor. "well, the timers on the oscillators," troy replied. "i knew we would need them for the new units you and commander walters were planning." "guard!" shouted barret suddenly. "guard!" he turned and called to roger and astro, who were standing guard at the doors. they both came running up, their blasters held at ready. "what is it?" demanded astro. "what's going on here?" "arrest that man!" shouted barret. astro and roger looked questioningly at troy. they did not know him personally but had seen him around the hangar and knew that he worked closely with the professor and barret. still vaguely distrustful of barret's behavior, astro turned to hemmingwell. "how about it, professor?" he asked. "do we haul this guy in?" hemmingwell looked at troy steadily. "pat, you knew about that new unit i was building?" "yes, sir," replied troy forthrightly. "i accidentally overheard you and commander walters discussing it. from what you said about it, i knew you would need new timers for the oscillators--" roger and astro had heard about the vital unit that had not been destroyed, and realized that troy was admitting to knowledge he shouldn't have had. roger raised the blaster menacingly. "all right, buster!" he growled. "move this way and move slowly." "professor," exclaimed troy, "you're not going to let them--!" "i'm sorry, pat," said the professor, a dejected look in his eyes. "i have nothing to do with it now. you should have told me that you knew about the new unit. and the fact that you were here the night it was destroyed, well--" he shrugged meaningfully and turned away. "all right, buster," growled astro, "do you move or do i move you? it makes no difference to me." troy took a look at the blasters leveled at him and silently walked between them to the hangar door. barret and professor hemmingwell remained at the workbench, following the trio with their eyes. later, after troy had been safely locked in the academy brig, firehouse tim rush sat at his desk in the small security shack taking down the two cadets' reports. "... and upon the orders of dave barret and professor hummingbird--" roger was saying. "hemmingwell," snapped firehouse. "_hemmingwell_." "--hemmingwell"--nodded roger with a wink at astro--"we brought the suspect to the officer of the guard, firehouse tim rush." "can that firehouse, ya squirt!" growled rush. "only my friends can call me that. and you two are not in that classification." "o.k., fireman," said roger. "i can call you fireman, can't i? after all, you are a pretty hot rocket, and--" "get back to your posts!" roared firehouse tim in his loudest voice. roger and astro grinned and hurried out of the small building. before resuming their posts in the hangar, the two cadets stopped at an automatic soda dispenser. as they drank slowly, they looked around the hangar. the project was back in full operation now. the workers that had been cleared had heard about the arrest of their foreman, and there seemed to be more talk than work. dave barret walked over to roger and astro. nodding in a surprisingly friendly fashion, he said, "i want to commend you two boys on your good work a while ago. i think that traitor would have tried anything if you hadn't been there. he might even have tried to kill me or the professor." roger and astro mumbled curt thanks for the compliment. barret looked at them quizzically. "no need for us to be angry with each other," he said smoothly. "i realize that when we had our two little run-ins you were carrying out your duties, and i apologize for behaving the way i did. how about it? can we shake and forget it?" he held out his hand. astro and roger looked at each other and shrugged, each in turn, taking the young man's hand. "you know," said barret, "i've heard a lot about you three cadets of the _polaris_ unit. especially you, manning. i understand that you know almost as much about electronics as your instructor at the academy." roger grinned shyly. "i like my work." "well, blast my jets!" roared astro. "that's the first time i have ever heard manning accept a compliment gracefully." the big venusian turned to barret. "he is not only the finest astrogator in the whole high, wide, and deep," he said sincerely, "but he could have had a wonderful career in electronics if he didn't want to be a rocket jockey with me and corbett." "is that so?" murmured barret politely. "well, manning, you must have some ideas about the work that's going on here." "i sure have," said roger. "and i see a lot of things here that could be done a lot easier." "hum," mused barret. "you know something. i think i might be able to relieve you two of guard duty. after all, if corbett can get out of it, i don't see why i can't put your talents to work for us here. how about it?" both boys almost jumped straight up in the air. "that would be terrific, mr. barret!" exclaimed astro. "call me dave, astro. we're friends now, remember?" "sure, dave," stuttered astro. "but listen, we'd do anything to be taken off this detail and get firehouse off our necks." barret smiled. "all right. i'll see what i can do." he turned and walked off, giving them a friendly wave in parting. astro and roger could hardly believe their luck. they returned to their posts and took up guard duty again with light hearts. in his small private office, barret watched them through the open door to the hangar and then turned to his desk, to pick up the recently installed private audioceiver. he asked for a private number in a small city on mars, and then admonished the operator, "this is a security call, miss. disconnect your circuit and do not listen in. failure to comply will result in your immediate dismissal and possible criminal prosecution." "yes, sir," replied the operator respectfully. there was a distinct click and barret heard a gruff voice. "hello?" "this is barret," the young designer whispered. "everything's going fine down here. i just had the foreman arrested to throw them off the track, and i have a plan to get rid of two of these nosy cadets." barret listened a minute and then continued. "connel and the other cadet, corbett, have gone to mars to inspect the receivers. don't worry about a thing. this ship will never get off the ground. and if it does, it will never fire a projectile." barret hung up and returned to the open door. he waved at roger and astro on the other side of the hangar and the two cadets waved back. "like lambs to the slaughter," he said to himself. [illustration] chapter "sound off, corbett!" seated in the pilot's chair on the control deck of the rocket cruiser _polaris_, major connel bellowed the order into the intercom as he scanned the many dials on the huge control board. "one minute to touchdown, sir," reported tom over the intercom from the radar bridge of the _polaris_. "one minute to touchdown," repeated connel. "right!" connel reached for the switches and levers that would bring the giant ship to rest on the red planet of mars. even after his many years in the solar guard and thousands of space flights, landing a rocket ship was still a thrill to the veteran spaceman, and knowing that he had a good man on the radar deck made it even more exciting and demanding of his skill. "decelerate!" yelled tom over the intercom. connel shut down the main drive rockets and at the same time opened the nose braking rockets. "braking rockets on!" he yelled. "one thousand feet to touchdown," said tom. connel watched the dials spinning before him. "seven hundred and fifty feet to touchdown," reported tom. "keep counting, corbett!" yelled connel enthusiastically. "five hundred feet!" connel quickly cut back the nose braking rockets and again opened the main drive rockets as the ship plummeted tailfirst toward the surface of mars. "two hundred feet!" came the warning call over the intercom. connel glanced up at the teleceiver screen over his head that showed the spaceport below. the concrete runways and platforms were rushing up to meet the giant ship. he opened the main rockets full. "seventy-five feet! stand by!" yelled tom. connel's hands flashed over the control panel of the ship, snapping switches, flipping levers, and turning dials in an effort to bring the ship to a smooth landing. there was a sudden roar of rockets and then a gentle bump. "touchdown!" roared connel. he flipped off the main switches on the control board, spun around in his chair, and noted the time on the astral chronometer. "touchdown marsport, !" he announced. tom clambered down the ladder from the radar bridge and immediately noted the time of arrival in the logbook. he turned around and saluted the major sharply. "all secure, sir," he said. "congratulations on a smooth trip, corbett," connel said. "and thanks for letting me take her in. i know it's unusual to have the senior officer take over the ship, but once in a while i get the urge to put my hands on those controls and--well--" connel paused, fumbling for words. tom was so startled by the major's stumbling attempt to explain his feelings, he felt himself blush. he had always suspected the major of being a rocket jockey at heart and now he was certain. but he would never tell anyone, not even roger and astro about this incident. it was something he knew that he himself would feel if he ever got to be as old as major connel and had reached his position. there passed between the officer and the cadet a sudden feeling of mutual understanding. "i understand, sir," said tom quietly. "dismissed!" roared connel, recovering his composure again, and very conscious that he had exposed his innermost feelings to the cadet. but he didn't mind too much. tom corbett had proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had the stuff true spacemen are made of, and because of this, connel could feel as close to him as a man near his own age. there was never a breed of men who were drawn so close together in their love of work as the spacemen and there was no need for further explanation. when they had climbed out of the _polaris_ and stepped on the landing ramp at marsport, connel and tom saw that the ground crews were already checking over the afterburners and exhaust tubes of the ship. a young solar guard lieutenant, wearing a decidedly greasy uniform, snapped to attention before connel. "lieutenant slick at your service, sir," he announced. "lieutenant," bawled connel, "your uniform is filthy!" "yes, sir, i know it is, sir," replied the young officer. "but i was overhauling a firing unit this morning, sir, and i guess i got a little dirty." "that is enlisted man's work, sir," stated connel. "you are an officer." "i know, sir, but--" slick stammered. "well, sir, once in a while i like to do it myself." tom turned away, hiding a smile. the young officer was expressing the same feelings connel himself had uttered just a few minutes before. connel cleared his throat, and with a sidelong glance at tom and a wink, dismissed the young officer, ordering him to have a jet car sent for them right away. "take mine, sir," said the young officer, happy to have escaped connel's wrath so easily. it was not too long ago that he had been a cadet at the academy and he remembered all too clearly what connel could do when he was mad. when the jet car was brought up, tom slipped behind the wheel, and with connel seated beside him, he sent the sleek little vehicle roaring across the spaceport to the main administration building. inside the gleaming crystal building, connel and tom were escorted by a space marine guard to the office of the spaceport commander, captain jim arnold. he and connel knew each other well, and after quick greetings and the introduction of the young cadet, connel asked for the latest reports on the projectile receivers. "lou, i've got good news for you," announced arnold. "we've completed the receiver ramps for the test. as soon as your ship is ready to fire her cargo projectiles, we can receive them." connel's face showed the surprise he felt. "why, jim, that's the most amazing news i've ever heard!" he exclaimed. "how did you do it?" "through hard work," replied arnold, "and the efforts of a young officer named slick. he handled the whole thing." "slick!" exclaimed connel. "i just bawled him out for wearing a dirty uniform." "he's responsible for our success," asserted arnold. "and what's more, those receivers can be taken apart and reassembled again in less than ten minutes." "incredible," gasped connel. "i've got to see those things right away. come along, corbett." tom followed the major out of the office and back to the jet car. they were about to drive off to the opposite end of the field when they heard someone shout to them. tom stopped the speedy little car and connel turned around to see who had called them. carter devers rushed up and greeted the solar guard officer enthusiastically. "major, this is a surprise." "hello, carter. what are you doing here?" connel asked bluntly. "had some business here on mars," said devers. "i've finished and i'm on my way back to earth. you wouldn't, by any chance, be going back soon, would you? i saw the solar guard cruiser come in and one of the attendants told me that they were preparing it for immediate blast-off--" "of course, carter," connel said briskly. "get in. we're just going over to inspect the receivers and then we'll be heading back." devers jumped into the jet car and tom headed across the broad expanse of the spaceport. connel turned to devers and said enthusiastically, "can you imagine, devers? some young officer here at marsport has worked out a way to assemble and transport the receivers in a fantastically small amount of time." "that's amazing," said devers. "i'd like very much to see them." he looked at tom and said, "incidentally, who is your young friend?" "oh, sorry," replied connel. "this is cadet corbett of the _polaris_ unit. no doubt you've heard of them. he and his unit mates manage to get into more trouble than all the monkeys in the venusian jungle." carter laughed. "i've known lou connel long enough to know that when he says something like that about you, son, he thinks very highly of you." "thank you, sir," replied tom, not knowing what else to say. while connel and devers talked of the problems surrounding the projectile operation, tom concentrated on his driving. he was following directions given him by jim arnold to reach the testing grounds and this made it necessary for tom to drive right through the center of the spaceport, weaving in and out of the dozens of spaceships parked on the concrete ramps. tom swept past them, driving expertly, heading toward a group of concrete blockhouses enclosed by a fence which he knew would be the testing area. beside the fence, a short, stubby-nosed spaceship was loading cargo, and beneath the vessel, two huge jet trucks were backing into position. tom steered the car up to the gate and stopped at the signal of an armed guard. connel, devers, and tom stepped out of the car and waited for a minute, and then young lieutenant slick appeared, wearing a clean uniform. slick checked their names off against a list he carried and then drew connel to one side. "i'm sorry, sir," he said, just out of tom and dever's hearing, "i can't allow the cadet inside this area." "why not?" asked connel. "i'll vouch for him." "i'm sorry, sir," said slick. "those are my orders. i can let you and mr. devers in, but not cadet corbett." he showed connel a list of names: connel, strong, hemmingwell, walters, devers, and barret. they were the only names on it. connel nodded. "i understand," he said and turned to tom. "you'll have to stay here, corbett," he called. "wait for me in the car." "yes, sir," replied tom and hopped back in the jet. he backed out through the gate, pulling up alongside the fence near the stubby-nosed freighter. when connel and devers, escorted by slick, had disappeared behind a blockhouse inside the restricted area, tom casually walked over to watch the loading operation of the spaceship. a few of the workers stopped when he walked up, and recognizing his cadet uniform, greeted him warmly. "space cadet, eh?" said one of the men. "sure wish i could get my boy in the academy." "me too," said another man. "all i hear from morning until night is space academy--space academy." tom smiled his appreciation of their admiration. while he answered their questions about the training school of the solar guard, they continued working. after a while the conversation turned to the restricted area behind the fence. "some pretty important work going on in there," said one of the men. "but how come they wouldn't let you go in?" "i haven't been cleared by security," replied tom. "it's top secret." "secret," said a man who had just joined the group. tom had noticed him before, climbing out of one of the huge jet trucks parked near the gate. "why, there ain't nothing secret about what's going on in there," he continued. "why do you say that?" asked tom alertly. "why, we all know about it, cadet," said one of the first men tom had spoken to. "they're building receivers for cargo projectiles." tom gulped in surprise. "but how did you know?" he asked. "why, it's the only thing we've been talking about down at the garage and at sloppy sam's, the jet-truckers hangout," replied the trucker. "if this thing works, surface transportation will be finished." "that's right," asserted another worker. "the whole industry will be wiped out overnight. nobody will have anything trucked any more. cargo'll be loaded into a projectile and shot off into space to a passing freighter. then the freighter carries it to its destination and shoots it back down to a receiver." "but how could you know all this?" asked tom. "it is one of the solar guard's most closely guarded secrets." "it's all over mars," declared the truck driver with a derisive laugh. "why, everybody knows it." suddenly one of the men yelled and pointed toward the fence. the jet truck parked near the gate was rolling forward slowly. as tom and the men watched in horror, the giant vehicle crashed through the fence and rolled into the restricted area, picking up speed. in a flash tom was inside the jet car, driving right through the hole in the fence and speeding after the huge machine. around him, guards were running after the truck, shouting frantic warnings. far ahead of him, tom saw major connel and devers standing near several receivers lined up outside a blockhouse. the truck was rolling straight toward them. hearing the shouts of alarm, the two men turned and saw their danger. devers immediately jumped into the safety of the blockhouse, but connel stumbled and fell heavily. tom's blood ran cold. he saw that the major had struck his head against one of the receivers and he lay on the ground, dazed and unable to move. tom jammed the accelerator of the tiny jet car to the floor and shot ahead like a rocket. he was alongside the truck now, but the distance between the huge machine and connel was narrowing rapidly. tom clenched his teeth and urged the little car on faster. he knew that there was not enough time for him to jump into the truck and pull the brake. there was only one thing he could do. regaining his senses, connel tried to crawl to safety, but there was no time. he braced himself for what he knew would be instant death, and then to his amazement he saw tom's jet car swerve sharply in front of the runaway truck. [illustration: _tom swerved the jet car in front of the runaway truck_] there was a wrenching crash of metal, a shrill scream of skidding tires, climaxed by a thunderous roar. after that, deathly silence. for a second connel stood frozen in horror, staring at the overturned truck and the tangle of twisted metal that was the jet car. then he lunged forward with a frantic cry. "corbett! corbett!" [illustration] chapter "tom! tom!" connel knelt beside the limp form of the space cadet, calling frantically, praying that the boy would be miraculously unhurt, yet fearing the worst. a few moments later tom groaned and opened his eyes. "did i--did i stop the truck?" he asked weakly. "you sure did, son!" said connel, breathing a sigh of relief. "and thank the lucky spaceman's stars that you're all right. i don't see how you got out alive." tom sat up. "i jumped from the jet car at the last minute," he said. "i guess i must have bumped my head." he looked down at his torn uniform. "wow," he said. "look at me." "don't worry about it." connel laughed. he turned to lieutenant slick who had just rushed up. "lieutenant, i want a complete check on the men who were standing outside the fence when that truck ran away." "yes, sir." the young lieutenant patted tom on the shoulder. "good work, cadet," he said and started away. tom grinned his thanks at the young officer and struggled to his feet. "sir," he said to connel, "i think i should explain something about that truck." "the truck!" cried connel. he turned and called, "lieutenant, come back here." the young officer turned back. "go ahead, tom," said connel. while tom told his story of the truck having been parked near the gate, and having started to roll by itself, connel and slick listened intently. quietly devers joined them. finally, when tom had finished, connel rubbed his chin thoughtfully and stared at the truck which was being examined by a swarm of guards. a few moments later the sergeant in command reported to connel that they had found a worn clutch plate that could have slipped and caused the truck to roll of its own accord, especially if the motor was turning over. connel nodded and then ordered, "get the driver over here." the man that had spoken to tom about the secret project came forward under guard. he was thoroughly frightened and connel was aware of it. "relax, friend," he said. "i just want to ask you one question." "yes, sir," gulped the truck driver. "was there anything wrong with your truck?" demanded connel. "yes, sir," replied the driver. "i had a slipping clutch." connel turned abruptly to lieutenant slick. "all right, slick, release this man and get that fence back up. i'm satisfied that it was an accident." "yes, sir," replied slick, and left the group with the grateful driver. connel relaxed for the first time and turned to carter devers who had been standing by silently. "well, carter," he said, "see what i meant about the _polaris_ unit getting into trouble! blast it, if they don't start it, they sure can finish it." he turned to tom. "son, you deserve some time off. go back to the spacelanes hotel in marsport and get yourself a room. just forget everything and relax. and get a new uniform, too." "and send the bill to me," devers suddenly spoke up. "it's the least i can do." "thank you, sir," said tom. "i could sure use a little sleep." hitching a ride on a jet sled, tom rode over to the administration building where he managed to clean up enough to make himself presentable at the hotel. later, as he rode along the curving canal in a jet cab into the main section of marsport, he relaxed for the first time and enjoyed the sights. the city of marsport was built in a hurry--at least, the old section of the city was. like many other planets, when first colonized by the early great conquerors of space several hundred years before, the city grew out of immediate need, with no formalized plan. years later, when the solar alliance was formed and there was uniform government all over the solar system, the citizens of mars began to regard their ugly little capital with distaste. a major effort was made to clean up its squalid appearance and huge cargoes of titan crystal were shipped to mars for modern construction. now, as tom corbett rode in comfort along a speedway bordering one of the ancient canals, he approached the city with a vague feeling of awe. gleaming towers, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun, loomed just ahead of him, and the wavy lines of heat rising out of the sandy deserts seemed to make the buildings dance. it was a sunset ballet that never failed to thrill even the oldest martian citizen. at the magnificent spacelanes hotel, tom was greeted with the greatest respect. already his feat of stopping the runaway truck had been announced over the stereo newscasts, and when he asked the location of the nearest supply store to buy a uniform, one was immediately brought to his room by the manager. "but how did you know?" asked tom, astounded. the manager showed tom a photograph of himself in his ragged clothes, taken while he was talking to connel. in the background was the remains of the jet car. "major connel called and said you would be staying here," said the manager. "from the looks of you in this picture, we knew you would need a new uniform." "and you've got my size!" exclaimed tom, holding up the gleaming new blouse. "we called the academy." the manager smiled. "we wanted to be sure. incidentally, there is a message for you." the manager handed tom a typed space-o-gram and left. the cadet ripped it open and smiled as he read: trying to hog all the stereo space you can while you leave the real competition at home, you rat! congratulations! astro and roger laughing to himself, tom left the message on the desk, stripped off his torn, dirty clothes, and stepped into a hot, refreshing shower. half an hour later he was digging into a thick steak with french fried potatoes. after a third helping of dessert, the cadet stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. but sleep would not come. the incidents at the spaceport that afternoon kept flashing through his mind. he tossed restlessly, something he couldn't quite remember was tugging at the back of his mind. he retraced the events of the day, beginning with the landing of the _polaris_ and ending with the crash of the jet truck. suddenly he sat up straight. then quickly he jumped out of bed, hurriedly threw on the new uniform, and rammed his feet into the soft space boots. ten minutes later, having used the service elevator to avoid the lobby, he stood on the corner of lowell lane and builker avenue. he hailed a passing jet cab, and climbing in, asked the driver, "do you know a restaurant or a bar called sloppy sam's?" "sure," said the driver. "that where you want to go?" "as fast as this wagon will get me there," replied tom. "why?" asked the driver strangely. "you look like a nice kid. that joint's for--for--well, it ain't for a space cadet," he concluded lamely. "the first thing they teach us at the academy, buddy," said tom impatiently, "is how to take care of ourselves, and the second thing is to mind our own business." "right," said the driver, tight-lipped. he slammed the car into motion and the force hurled tom back in his seat. tom grinned. he hadn't meant to sound so tough. he leaned over and apologized. "i'm looking for an old friend. someone told me he drives a truck and he might be there." "forget it, kid," said the driver. "i wouldn't want you in my cab if you couldn't take care of yourself. we pay taxes to teach guys like you how to protect us. a lot of good it would do if you were scared of a taxi driver." tom laughed and settled back in his seat to watch the city flash past. a half hour later the curly-haired cadet became aware of the change from the magnificent crystal buildings to the dirty and streaked buildings of the poorer section of the city. and with the change, tom noticed a difference in the people who walked the streets. here were men who wore their coat collars high and their caps pulled low, and who would duck into the shadows at the approach of the cab and then watch it with dark, silent eyes. "here ya are, cadet," the driver announced, stopping in front of a small, dirty building. "sloppy sam's." tom looked out. the door was open and he could see inside. sawdust covered the floor, and the tables and chairs were old and rickety. the men inside were the same as those he had seen on the street, tough-looking, hard, steely-eyed. tom looked at the faded sign over the door. "that says _bad_ sam's," he protested. [illustration: _the men inside were tough-looking and steely-eyed_] "used to be called bad sam's," replied the driver. "as a matter of fact, i think it's still officially bad sam's. you see, sam used to be a real tough fella. then one day a fella came along that was tougher than he was and beat the exhaust out of him. sam went to pot after that. he got fat and lazy, and his place here got dirtier and dirtier. finally everybody started calling him sloppy sam and it stuck." "quite a story." tom laughed. "what happened to the fellow that took sam over the hurdles?" "he's got a joint on the other side of town called bad richard's. but they're friends now. get along fine." tom paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk, watching the silver cab shoot away into the darkness. then he took a deep breath and slowly moved toward the open door of sloppy sam's. inside, tom saw that most of the customers were lined up at the bar, drinking rocket juice, a dark foul-tasting liquid that tom had sipped once and vowed he would never try again. but as he looked around, he didn't think it was the type of place you could order anything milder, so he walked up to the bar and ordered loudly, "a bucket of juice." some of the men at the bar turned away from the stereo screen to look at the newcomer. they eyed the crisp, clean uniform narrowly, and then turned silently back to the play on the screen. the husky bartender placed the small glass of dark liquid in front of tom. "twenty credits," he announced in a hoarse voice. "twenty!" exclaimed tom. "don't give me that rocket wash! it's five credits a shot." "to a space cadet that wants to keep his reputation, corbett," replied the burly man, "it's twenty." tom realized that the man had seen his picture on the stereo news that afternoon and that it would be impossible to get out of paying this blatant form of blackmail. he handed over the money and picked up the glass. he sipped it to keep up appearances but even the few drops he allowed to trickle down his throat almost made him gag. he gasped for breath. whatever information he might be able to get here, it wasn't worth another swallow of that stuff. he stood at the bar for nearly half an hour, watching the stereo and waiting. when the show was over, the men turned back to the serious business of drinking. two of them drifted over close to tom and looked him up and down. after a whispered conversation, they turned to him and pointed to his drink, the same one he had bought and had not touched since. "drink up, mate," said the nearest man, a tall, heavy-shouldered man with a dark beard, "then join us in another one." "no, thanks," said tom. "one's my limit." the two men laughed. "well, i'll say this for you, lad, you're honest about it," said the tall one. "most squirts coming in here try to put on they can take the stuff and then they wind up in the gutter." "that's right, cag!" said the other man, laughing. "what are you doing in here, cadet?" asked the man called cag. "looking for a guy." "what's his name? maybe we know him." "yeah, we might," chimed in the other. "we know just about everybody that comes in here." "maybe he don't want to tell us, monty," said cag. "i don't know his name," said tom. "i just met him today and he mentioned this place. i wanted to talk to him about something." "where did you see him?" tom paused. it was only a chance remark that the driver of the jet truck had made and it was a slim chance that these two men might know him. he decided to risk it. "he's a jet trucker. i saw him out at the spaceport today." the two men looked at each other. "little guy, with a sort of funny twitch in his eye?" asked cag. "yes," replied tom. "that's him. know him?" "he hangs out in a joint across the street," said monty. "come on outside. i'll show you where it is. and his name's pistol, in case you want to know." "pistol," said tom. "that's an odd name." "not when you consider he carries a pistol all the time," snorted cag. tom and the two men walked to the door and out into the street. "what do you want to see him about, anyway?" asked monty, as they walked to the corner. "just wanted to talk to him about the jet-trucking business." "what about it? we're truckers, me and cag, we could probably tell you a lot more than pistol." "maybe," said tom. "but i want to talk to pistol." they stopped at the corner and monty stepped off the curb into the street. "see that light down there," he said, pointing down the block, "the one just above the door?" tom turned to look. "where--?" he suddenly felt a sharp jolting pain in the back of his head and then everything went black. "nice work, cag," commented monty. "what'll we do with him?" asked cag. "throw him in the back of the truck and get outta here," said monty, pulling tom's limp form into the shadows of an alley. "i'll get in touch with the boss and tell him what's happened. and you better send out word to get pistol. he must know something." "right," said cag. "gee, corbett's getting his nice clean uniform messed up." dirty gutter water flowed over tom in the dark martian alley as the boy lay deathly still. chapter "what!" exclaimed major connel. "give me that again." the messenger from the solar guard headquarters on mars repeated the message. "cadet corbett has not been in his hotel since last night, sir," he said. "he was seen leaving the service entrance at about hours. there is no report as to his whereabouts, sir." standing at the foot of the ladder leading to the main air lock of the _polaris_, major connel turned to carter devers angrily. "this is the end!" he shouted. "i've had as much of this foolishness as i'm going to take. when that young space brat comes back, i'm going to throw the book at him." "now, now, major," said devers. "i wouldn't be too hard on the lad. how do you know that he isn't in some kind of trouble?" "that's just it," growled connel. "one of those three is always in trouble." "he saved your life," reminded devers. "i'm well aware of that," replied connel stiffly. "but it's a personal debt. it has nothing to do with his behavior as a cadet. i ordered him to go to that hotel and rest, not go skylarking all over marsport. this is typical of the whole unit's attitude." "but you said that they were the best crew you ever had," insisted devers. "i know, but what's worse is that _they_ know it! blast it, carter, it isn't easy to say the things i've said about corbett! he's a fine lad. but look at it this way. i have to return to atom city immediately. corbett may be in trouble, right?" devers nodded. "well, how do you think i feel, blasting off and leaving him?" devers nodded his understanding as connel continued furiously, "and furthermore, i have more important things to think about than wet-nursing a cadet." at that moment connel noticed a jet car racing across the spaceport toward the _polaris_. as it drew near, he saw the insigne of the solar guard on the hood. his eyes widened hopefully for a second. "humph," he grunted, "this may be him now!" "if it is," cautioned devers, "go easy on the boy." "we'll see, we'll see." the car screamed to a stop in front of them, the plastic blister was thrown back, and another solar guard messenger climbed out, saluting connel smartly. "message from solar guard headquarters, major connel," he said. connel took the paper and ripped it open. "excuse me, carter," he muttered and stepped to one side to read the note hurriedly. hemmingwell's chief foreman arrested as saboteur. advise you return immediately. walters dashing up the metal ladder, connel roared the order to the waiting ground crew. "stand by to blast off." carter devers scrambled up into the giant ship after the solar guard officer, and in less than a minute later, all ports were sealed and the _polaris_ was ready for space. in the pilot's chair, connel called traffic control for blast-off, and at the same time prepared to raise ship. by the time devers had strapped himself into the copilot's chair next to connel, the ship was quivering with leashed power. suddenly connel roared the familiar call for space. "blast off, minus five, four, three, two, one, _zero_!" the great ship literally exploded off the ground, and within seconds, was rocketing through the thin atmosphere above mars on course for earth, far across the deep black velvet void of space, but leaving tom corbett, her true commander, behind. * * * * * captain steve strong and commander walters watched grimly as the _polaris_ landed on the academy spaceport. they had been in contact with connel during his trip back to earth and had already told the bluff major of still another incident that had taken place at the academy while he was gone. roger and astro had stolen a rocket scout and disappeared. "i don't get it, sir," sighed strong. "manning and astro blowing wide open, corbett disappearing--" he shook his head. "it doesn't make sense." "perhaps not," said walters. "but those three are really in trouble now. connel won't stand for this kind of behavior." "do you think that he'll go so far as to ask for a court-martial?" walters hesitated. "i hate to say this, steve," he said finally, "but if major connel doesn't, i will be forced to. no other unit has had more of an opportunity to prove itself than the _polaris_ unit. and every time, something like this happens." "but suppose they have good explanations," insisted strong. "it would have to be better than anything they've had before," replied walters. "frankly, i cannot see how that is possible." walters climbed into his jet car and strong followed, biting his lip. the car shot across the field to the now grounded _polaris_, pulling alongside it just as major connel and carter devers climbed out of the open hatch. without even the courtesy of a greeting, connel roared, "what's this about those two cadets stealing a ship?" "let's talk about that later, lou," said walters. "climb in. we've got something more important to discuss. the saboteur." devers stepped forward. "this is no place for me, i know," he said. "i'll leave you here. and thanks for the lift, major." connel grunted his acknowledgment and climbed into the car as strong turned to devers. "there was a message for you, mr. devers," said the solar guard captain. "you're to get in touch with your atom city office immediately." "thanks, steve," said devers, and with a wave of his hand to the others walked away. as the jet car raced back to the tower of galileo, walters brought connel up to date on the incident at the hangar leading to the arrest of pat troy. when they reached walters' office, high in the tower, troy was ushered in by two guards. "sit down!" barked connel, taking command of the situation. troy walked to the center of the room and sat down in the indicated chair, facing walters, connel, and strong. "we'd like to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, troy," began connel. "so i suggest that you tell us the truth and save us the trouble of pulling it out of you. "i will answer all of your questions to the best of my ability, sir," said troy calmly. "and i will tell the truth at all times." "very well," snorted connel. "now, who are you working for?" "professor hemmingwell," replied troy. "stow that," snarled connel. "who paid you to sabotage the ship?" "i have not committed any sabotage for anyone, sir." "then you deny that you wrecked that firing unit?" "yes." walters suddenly leaned forward. "but you do not deny that you knew about the special unit that professor hemmingwell had created," he said. "a unit that only he and i knew about?" "i knew about the unit--yes, sir," replied troy. "how could you?" demanded walters. "i overheard you both discussing it one day." "where?" "in the hangar," said troy. "you and professor hemmingwell were talking on the main deck while i was inside--what will be the radar deck--working. i heard you talking about the unit, and after you left, i happened to find a blueprint on the table. it coincided with what you had been talking about. i looked at it and then thought nothing of it. a few minutes later the professor came running in and took the blueprint away." "did he ask you if you had read the print?" asked connel. "no, sir," replied troy. "if he had, i would have told him that i had." "now," said connel, "did you have anything to do with the so-called accident to the oscillating timing device?" "no, sir." "do you know who did?" "no, sir." "we can put you under drugs, you know, and get the truth out of you," warned connel. "you'll get the same answer, sir," troy calmly replied. walters, strong, and connel moved to one side of the room and talked in low tones while troy remained seated. "well," said walters, "do we give him drugs or not?" "i may be sticking my neck out, commander," said steve, "but i think that he's telling the truth." "same here," said connel. "i would suggest that we let him loose, and even let him go back to work, but keep an eye on him." "and you wouldn't give him drugs now?" "no. i'd give the benefit of the doubt to a man any time," said the hardened space major. "all right," said walters. he turned back and told troy he was free, but that he was not to leave the restricted area. and he was only permitted to work on less critical projects. "do you have anything to say?" walters asked. troy smiled at them and shook his head. "no, sir. that's fine with me," he said. "and i'll keep my eye open for the real saboteur--" "that won't be necessary!" snapped connel. "we're capable of handling our own detective work." troy grinned again. "very well, sir," he said. connel dismissed the guards and the foreman walked out of the office a free man. connel and walters turned to discussing the installation of the receivers on mars, with connel lauding young lieutenant slick highly. "that boy deserves a promotion in rank," he stated. walters nodded. "i'll put his name on the list at the end of the year," he said. "if he has done everything you say he has, he deserves it." steve strong stood to one side, waiting impatiently for the two older men to finish their conversation before asking about tom corbett. at the same time, he was a little fearful of bringing up the subject of the _polaris_ unit, in the face of what astro and roger had just done. it was not an easy thing to do, but at the first opportunity he broke into the conversation with a direct question to connel. "major, is there any doubt in your mind about corbett's disappearance being an accident or do you--" connel cut him off. "do i think he's awol?" strong nodded silently. "steve," said connel patiently, "i know how you feel about those three boys, but tell me, how long can this go on? they constantly take off on their own, without authorization--" "but they usually have a good reason," strong interrupted quickly. "then why don't they give us the reason first?" connel shot back. "what lou is trying to say," interjected walters quietly, "is that corbett, manning, and astro have time and time again committed us to take action, to get them out of situations that they initiated. it's time they were stopped! they are only one unit in this academy, not the whole works." "then i guess you mean"--strong hesitated, a lump in his throat--"it will be the end of the unit when they get back?" "if they get back," snapped connel, "i intend to see that all three receive solid disciplinary action." "very well, major," said strong. he rose and addressed the commander. "i request permission for emergency leave, sir, commencing now." [illustration] "permission denied!" said walters. "this is exactly what i've been talking about, steve. you want to leave to go to mars and look for tom when we need you here on the project." strong's face suddenly turned white. and then, for the first time in his career, he ignored military courtesy and turned to leave without the courtesy of a salute or permission to do so. connel almost called him back, but commander walters put a restraining hand on the major's arm. "think of it this way, lou," he said. "if you wanted something you believed to be right, and it was denied you, how would you feel?" "i'd very likely do the same thing," snapped the major. "and i'd get my rockets busted for it by my commanding officer!" walters grinned and pulled the major back to the desk where they continued their discussion of the receivers on mars. they had no sooner begun their discussion when the sliding door opened and professor hemmingwell burst into the room, his smock flying behind him, his hair ruffled and eyes wide with fright. "the ship! the ship!" he cried out. "someone has blown up the whole control panel of the ship!" [illustration] chapter "it will take weeks to repair it!" professor hemmingwell stood on the main deck of the giant spaceship staring sadly at the mess of wires and tubes, controls and gauges, switches and filaments, all shattered and useless. "when did it happen?" demanded connel. "less than half an hour ago," replied dave barret. "professor hemmingwell and i were down at the far end of the hangar. the men had just left for the day and we were planning the work for tomorrow." "then what happened?" demanded connel. "wait, don't answer yet!" he stopped himself and turned to a space marine standing nearby. "you! can you work an audio recorder?" "yes, sir," replied the marine. "then get a machine up here on the double and take down everything that's said." "yes, sir," said the marine and left the ship. connel silently began inspecting the wreckage. it was ten times as serious as the first sabotage attempt. barret, commander walters, professor hemmingwell, and captain strong watched the major, their teeth clenched, eyes clouded with anger. where the destruction of the first unit could have been called an accident, here was tangible evidence of a deliberate attempt to stop the whole project. the space marine, accompanied by firehouse tim rush, returned five minutes later with the audio recorder and set it up for operation. connel took the small needlelike microphone in his hand and spoke into it as the reel of sound tape unwound slowly. "this is a preliminary inquiry into the sabotage of the control deck of spaceship xx, operation space projectile," he said. "this is major lou connel, interrogator!" he paused and nodded to barret who stepped forward. "my first witness will be dave barret." holding the microphone close to the young engineer's mouth, connel said, "tell us everything you know of this incident." barret spoke slowly and carefully, describing how he and professor hemmingwell had been at the other end of the hangar when the explosion had occurred. professor hemmingwell had immediately run out of the hangar to inform commander walters, leaving barret alone to check the damage. "then you and commander walters and the space marines showed up, sir," he concluded. "that's all i know." "all right," said connel and turned to the professor. "your statement, professor hemmingwell." "it happened just about the way dave said," hemmingwell began. "except for one thing. i cannot see why there weren't any guards at their posts this afternoon. we were without any men at the entrances for nearly an hour. anyone could have slipped into the hangar and planted the bomb." "why weren't the entrances guarded?" snapped connel, looking directly at firehouse tim rush. "cadets manning and astro left their posts without leave, sir," reported the stocky little spaceman. captain strong took an involuntary step forward, his face drained of all color. connel looked at him, steely-eyed. "did you hear that, strong?" he growled. strong nodded. "i--i did," he stammered. "so those two idiots not only stole a rocket scout, but they left their posts." strong could only shake his head in utter disbelief. commander walters looked at him pityingly. "i knew they had taken the scout," said walters, his voice hard and tight. "but i didn't think they were foolish enough to leave their posts." "well, they did, sir," declared rush. "they left about four hours before they were to be relieved. i was making the rounds when i discovered that they were gone. i put two other men on guard right away, but the doors were unguarded for at least an hour. anyone could have walked in without the slightest trouble." connel turned back to walters. "this is the end! those two cadets are going up before a general court-martial." "commander," protested strong, "you can't--!" "shut up, steve!" barked connel. "there's a limit to how long you can defend your unit. face it, man, those three boys have gone off their rockers. they're too cocky. this is the last straw." he turned away from the young solar guard officer and faced the others. "let's get on with the interrogation. firehouse! what have you got to say about this?" the tough little enlisted guard stepped up and reported clearly and rapidly and without pause. when he was finished, connel turned to the guards that had replaced roger and astro and each one repeated the story told by firehouse tim. over and over, connel heard the same story. no one seemed to have been around the ship when the explosion took place. and it seemed that the only time when a saboteur could have gotten into the hangar and planted the bomb was during the hour the doors were unguarded. finally, the interrogation was over and connel declared, "one thing to remember when you are dealing with sabotage is this: if the saboteur fails, he might return. if our enemy does not know the extent of the damage, then he might return and make another attempt. so, not a word about this to anyone. and that includes your mothers." "major, there is one thing i'd like to add," said barret, stepping forward. "what's that?" asked connel. "it's about the cadets," said barret. "i talked to them just before they blasted off in the scout. they had a lot to say about your taking corbett with you on the trip to mars. they seemed disgruntled and dissatisfied." steve strong whirled on the young engineer. "what did they say?" he demanded. "simply that they didn't feel that they were getting a fair deal with tom being taken off guard duty, since he was actually responsible for them having it in the first place. "they said that!" exclaimed strong. "but how could that--" he suddenly closed his mouth and turned away, frowning. "but how could what, steve?" asked walters. "nothing, sir," said strong. "you have already reprimanded me too often as it is for speaking up in their behalf." walters lifted his eyebrows. "it appears to me that you're getting a little touchy!" he barked. "watch yourself, steve. don't let your feelings for those boys get out of hand." "blast it!" exclaimed professor hemmingwell. "while you continue talking about those stupid cadets, you're just wasting my time. there's plenty of work to do and precious little time to do it in." he turned to barret. "come on, dave, let's get this mess cleared away." "yes, sir," said dave barret. as hemmingwell and barret turned their attention to the wrecked control panel, connel, walters, and strong climbed out of the ship and left the hangar. on the slidewalk, headed back to the academy, commander walters looked at connel inquiringly. "what now, lou?" he asked. "i have an idea, commander," said connel. "i'm going to spend the rest of the night listening to this audiotape over again. then i'm going to do a little digging around." "all right," said walters. "and i suppose you'll want to talk to manning and astro when they get back." connel looked at captain strong grimly. "i want to talk to them so badly, i would crawl on my hands and knees to get to them right now." strong flushed angrily but said nothing, and as soon as the three officers arrived at the academy grounds, he excused himself. he walked slowly and thoughtfully along, looking at the dormitories with unseeing eyes and hearing with deaf ears the noise of the cadets getting ready for bed. he could not believe that roger or astro had abandoned their posts, or that tom would run off to disappear on mars, just for the sake of disappearing. in all his years at the academy, strong had never met three boys who so exemplified the true spirit of space cadets. something was wrong somewhere. but what? strong paused outside the huge recreation hall, watching the cadets. tony richards and the _capella_ unit walked by, and returning their salutes, strong could only see tom, roger, and astro. a figure dressed in the black-and-gold uniform of an officer in the solar guard walked toward him. strong's eyes lighted up with recognition. "joan!" he exclaimed. "what are you doing here?" "looking for you," she said. she had some papers in her hand and held them out to him. "what's this?" he asked, glancing at them in the light reflected from the hall, and then back to the serious face of the brilliant young physicist, dr. joan dale, who, in spite of being a woman, had been placed in charge of the academy laboratories, the largest and most complete in the entire solar alliance. "steve," she began, "i was in charge of the psychograph tests taken of all the workers at the projectile operation after the first mishap--" "how did you know about the second?" strong interrupted quickly, remembering connel's admonition about keeping the incident quiet. "i was ordered to go over the graphs again, to look for any possible clue in a worker's mental make-up that would lead him to a criminal act." she paused and looked up at him squarely. "do you suspect me too?" "i'm sorry, joan," said the young captain. "but this whole business is getting me down. tom, disappearing on mars, roger and astro walking off guard duty and stealing a scout, and now this latest sabotage attempt." he sighed and shook his head. "i'm tired i guess." she smiled. "i understand, steve, and regardless of what major connel and commander walters have said, i'll bet my last credit there's a good reason for what the boys have done." strong looked down at the pretty physicist and smiled. "thanks, joan," he said. "now, what about these papers?" "it's about the report on pat troy," she replied. "when we asked him if he was working with anyone other than the professor, he lied." she produced a sheet of paper from among those she held and handed it to strong. the young captain took it and scanned it quickly. the paper was ordinary graph paper with a series of small, wavy lines on it in red ink. near the bottom of the paper, there was a jagged peak in the wavy line. "what does this mean?" he asked, pointing to the peak. "that was his reaction when he was asked if he worked for anyone else." "does that mean it's a lie?" "yes. all the waves that you see," she continued, pointing to the line, "represent answers to questions about his personal life. does he shave in the morning? does he brush his teeth at night, and so forth. they're comparison questions to show his reaction when he tells the truth. that peak indicates a lie." "then," said strong thoughtfully, "he might be the saboteur." "or know who it is," said joan. "i've got to get this information to connel right away!" said strong. "can i have this paper?" "yes. i made copies. i was just going to take one to the commander when i saw you." "i'll try to locate major connel and you go on and tell the commander what you've found. and joan--" strong hesitated. "yes?" "put in a good word for the cadets, will you?" strong pleaded. "both connel and commander walters are all set to blast them right out of the service." "i'll do what i can--" suddenly dr. dale stopped, her eyes widening with fright. she pointed down the walk behind strong. steve turned around and gasped. connel was striding toward them grimly, followed by four guards carrying a stretcher covered by a blanket. strong quickly recognized the outline of a human form beneath the blanket. "major," exclaimed steve, "what--who--?" "it's getting thicker by the hour, steve!" said connel in a low voice. "this is the first time in the history of the academy that there has been what looks like"--he paused and turned to look at the draped body being carried past them--"an attempt at murder," he finished. "murder!" said strong. "but--" "who is it?" demanded joan. "a little man who can tell us a great deal if and when he regains consciousness! pat troy!" [illustration] chapter "vroom-m-m!" as the shattering blast of noise pounded against his eardrums, tom corbett opened his eyes, blinked, and stared around him. by the dim light from a small window in the wall over his head, he saw that he was in some sort of metal enclosure. suddenly the floor trembled and again the shocking, shattering noises rang through his aching head. he tried to sit up but found that his hands were tied behind his back. the ropes were so tight, his hands were almost completely numb. slowly he clenched his fingers, then opened them again, repeating the process over and over again while needlelike pains shot through his hands. finally there was feeling in his fingers again and he struggled to a sitting position. again the metal enclosure vibrated and there was another thunderous blast. this time tom recognized the sound. "a jet!" exclaimed the cadet aloud. "i'm in the van of a jet truck." when tom tried to stand up, he found that his feet were bound. again he went through the slow, painful process of restoring circulation in his legs and feet, gritting his teeth against the needles of pain. finally he felt strong enough to push his back against the wall and inch his way upright. the noise around him continued. again and again, he could hear the shattering explosions of the exhausts and the screaming whine of the jets. looking around carefully for the first time, he saw that the van was empty except for a pile of heavy quilted rugs in one corner which he knew were used to protect and cushion cargo. hopping to the corner, he flopped down on the blankets and, one by one, he began dragging them out. there was nothing else in the van that would aid him in cutting the thick ropes around his wrists and he hoped to find something under the heap. suddenly he felt something hard and boxlike under the last blanket and he tore it off quickly. he nearly screamed for joy when he recognized a heavy metal toolbox. sitting on the floor of the van, he maneuvered the top open, then spun around and hopefully looked inside. there was nothing in the box but a dirty cloth, and tom slumped back in bitter disappointment. suddenly the cadet became aware of the intense heat inside the van. he was sweating, and he found it difficult to breath. he inched over to the side of the huge truck and touched the metal paneling. it was blisteringly hot. "the new sahara," he thought, a vision of the desolate sun-baked wasteland of the martian desert flashing through his mind. he looked around again desperately. the only thing in the van that might cut through the rope was the edge of the toolbox. he inched his way back to the box and began rubbing the rope across the edge of the box, but it was too smooth. tom knew that he would have to roughen the edge of the box, so that it would cut the thick fibers of the rope, and in sudden inspiration, he inspected the floor of the van. the heavy-gauge metal was scarred and roughened from the many heavy loads dragged across it. he turned the box over, and with great difficulty, rubbed it back and forth across the floor. every few minutes he tested the edge of the box with his finger. it was losing its slick surface, but there was a long way to go. it got hotter inside the van and tom's uniform was soaked with sweat. he found it difficult to breathe and the continuous roar of the jets tortured his ears. he did not know how long he had worked, but eventually, he felt that the edge of the box was sufficiently rough to try to cut the ropes. he righted the box, placed the ropes on the edge again and, with a silent prayer, began scraping them across the metal. after a few minutes there was a tug at the bonds. the cadet pushed harder. there was another tug and the rope seemed to give a little. working frantically, he sawed back and forth. the sweat poured from his forehead, his arms and back ached unbearably, and soon he felt something warm and wet begin to trickle down the palms of his hands. he knew it was blood, but he kept on grimly, and suddenly he was rewarded. with a snap, the ropes parted. his hands were free! tom hastily untied his feet, and giving the toolbox an affectionate pat, rose to his feet to begin the next step in his plan to escape. the young cadet examined the entire surface of the inside paneling of the van with his finger tips. he could find no opening other than the back door, which he knew was locked by an electronic beam. without the proper light-key adjustment, the door could not be opened. and the vent high in the wall was much too small to help him. he sat down, disheartened. he was still no better off than before. and there was no way of telling where he was, whether it was day or night, and how long he had been riding in the jet truck. he rested on the floor of the van, the bumpy ride cushioned by the soft blankets, and tried to recall the events that had led him into this trap. he remembered the two men, cag and monty, and grimly vowed to repay them if he ever met them again. suddenly remembering something more immediate, tom sat bolt upright. he got up and went to the front of the huge van. there he knelt down in one corner and felt the floor with his hands. he found exactly what he had been hoping for. a large grate, and it was cool! he jumped up, grinning, grabbed the heavy toolbox and carried it back to the corner where he let it drop on the grate. it sagged slightly, near the corner. he picked up the box and dropped it again. the grate sagged a little more. tom got down on his knees and felt along the edge of the floor. the grate was giving way. he really began to hammer in earnest then. and each time the heavy box thudded on the grate, he thanked his lucky stars that he had lived near a garage when he was a boy back in new chicago. time and time again, he had slipped inside the huge vans after the produce had been taken out, to find a piece of fruit. he had gotten into the sealed vans, through the refrigerating compartment, a huge unit beneath the van and connected to the cab. opening the outside hatch to the unit, he had squeezed inside and then unscrewed the grate from the bottom. with a final hard smash, the grate gave way, clattering into the recesses of the refrigerating unit. now tom was grateful for the roar of the jets. it covered the sound of his escape. quickly reaching down into the unit, tom began tearing the mechanism apart; ripping out coils of copper tubing and rubber connections. disconnecting a pipe, he used it to pry apart the rest of the unit, and finally, after removing the broken parts, there was room enough for his body. stuffing the heavy pipe in his tunic, tom dropped into the unit and opened the outside hatch. a blast of cool air struck him. the sun was setting and the cadet knew that soon the near-zero temperatures of night would settle over the desert. tom poked his head out and the air stream hit him like a solid wall. he looked back past the spinning wheels and saw a long stretch of deserted road bordering a canal. his view forward was blocked by the overhanging cab of the truck. the small step up to the cab was a foot away. tom eased back into the compartment again and sat back against the wall to consider his next move. he would have a better chance of not being seen if he waited for darkness. on the other hand, they might reach their destination before that and he would be caught. tom made up his mind quickly. moving back to the hatch, he eased himself through the opening. there was a ticklish moment when he had to let go of the side of the compartment and swing over on the step. he took a deep breath and lurched forward. [illustration] behind him, the huge thick wheels spun over the road. a slip now would mean instant, crushing death. his fingers reached for and grasped the door handle. seconds later, he stood balanced on the step, swaying in the wind. he dared a glance into the window of the cab, wondering why he had not been noticed before. he saw cag and monty inside, cag driving and monty asleep. the driver was on the opposite side from tom, and monty was slumped against the door. [illustration] tom realized that if he opened the door, monty would fall out and probably be killed, but he had no choice. he reached up for the handle and tested it gently before swinging down on it to make sure it would open. it gave a little. then bracing himself, he pulled hard. the door swung open and monty fell out, hitting the pavement and rolling off into the sand to lie still. tom paid no attention to him. with a mighty effort, he swung into the cab and confronted a startled, wild-eyed cag. "you!" cried cag. "stop this crate, or so help me, i'll break your head!" tom shouted, brandishing the short length of pipe. in reply, cag suddenly swerved the big truck to one side of the road, hoping to throw tom out of the open door. tom managed to grab hold just in time. he swung back into the cab and struck out with the pipe. cag ducked and swung the heavy truck to the opposite side of the road, trying to throw tom off balance, but the cadet was not to be denied. he swung the heavy pipe again and again, landing hard, telling blows on the arms and shoulders of the burly truck driver. finally a solid blow caught cag on the side of the head and he slumped over unconscious. tom leaned over him, grabbed the wheel, and maneuvered the big truck back onto a straightaway course. a minute later he brought the truck to a stop. tom jumped out and pulled cag after him, taking a bottle of water from the small compartment behind the driver's seat. he splashed some on the man's face, and while cag moaned and came to, tom drank his fill. he hadn't realized that he was so thirsty. "cag," said tom coldly, when he knew the man could understand him, "i'll beat your ears off if you don't tell me who put you up to this!" cag was silent. tom stepped in and slapped the man across the face. "come on! talk!" he snarled. dirty, his clothes ripped, his hands bloody, cadet tom corbett did not look like the carefree young cadet that cag had met a few hours ago. he was frightened and began to whine. "talk or i'll slap you silly!" tom growled. cag saw the wild rage in tom's eyes and began to stutter. "the trucking outfit! just find out who owns this trucking outfit and who would gain if the projectiles failed." tom was back in the cab in a flash. he started the mighty jets and began to engage the clutch. cag leaped up. "you can't leave me here in the desert! i'll die." tom looked at the man, threw out the rest of the food and water from the compartment, and gunned the huge truck down the highway. eight hours later tom rolled into marsport, stopping the big truck at the first solar guard substation he could find. he raced inside without cutting the jets of the truck and reported to a sergeant seated behind the desk, reading. "i'm cadet tom corbett!" he shouted. "i've got to get in touch with commander walters at the academy right away." "stand where you are, corbett!" said the sergeant, jumping up and leveling a paralo-ray gun at him. "you're under arrest!" tom stared, and then, spinning on his heels, dashed out of the station, the guard's ray blasts spitting at his heels. jumping into the truck, he gunned the jets and roared off into the dark martian night. [illustration] chapter "aw, shut your big venusian mouth!" as roger's voice roared over the intercom loud-speaker of the speedy rocket scout, down on the power deck astro's face turned red. "manning," he growled into the intercom microphone, "if i didn't need you to get me back to mother earth, i'd come up there and take you apart!" for four days the two cadets had been aboard the rocket scout, circling in an orbit between mars and earth, conducting equipment tests for dave barret. they had become bored with the routine work and spent most of their time needling each other, but as roger said, at least they were in space. "o.k., let's knock off the space gas!" called roger over the intercom. "it's time to run another test. want to come up topside and take a hand?" "be right there, roger!" said astro. he set the power-deck controls on automatic, and then, with a quick look around to make sure everything was shipshape, he climbed the ladder to the control deck. roger was standing at the chart table, audiophones on his ears, listening for the automatic astral chronometer time-check broadcast on a suprahigh-frequency audio channel from the giant electronic clock in the tower of galileo. all spaceship chronometers were checked against this huge clock regularly, in order to maintain constant uniform time so necessary for the delicate art of astrogation between celestial bodies. astro started to speak to the blond-haired cadet, but roger waved him off, listening for the signal. suddenly he looked up at their own chronometer above the control board and took off the audiophones, smiling his satisfaction. "right on the split second, astro," he said. "o.k.," replied the big venusian. "then let's run that test and get it over with." "right," said roger, turning back to the control panel. "do you want to go outside this time?" "i might as well," replied astro. "give me a change of scenery." the big venusian turned to a locker, pulled out a bulky space suit, and climbed into it quickly. adjusting the space helmet, he nodded at roger and stepped into the air-lock chamber, pulling the hatch closed behind him. while waiting for the oxygen in the small chamber to be pumped back into the ship and the pressure to be equalized with the vacuum of space outside, he checked his helmet intercom to insure a clear line of communication with roger. the red hand closed on the _zero_ of the gauge over the door and astro moved to the outer hatch. he unlocked it, swung the door open, and slowly climbed out into the fantastic beauty of endless space. no sooner was he outside than the synthetic gravity generators lost their pull on his body and he started into space. tightly grasping two metal handles in the hull, the big cadet performed a quick somersault and planted his feet firmly on the hull. his magnetic-soled space boots held him fast and he called roger over his helmet intercom. "i'm outside, roger," he reported. "on my way down to the exhaust." "right," came roger's voice over the intercom. "let me know when you're ready." without replying, astro made his way slowly and carefully down the length of the rocket scout toward the main drive rocket assembly. stopping at the trailing edge of the hull, where it enclosed the four rockets, the big venusian squatted on his heels, making certain the soles of his space boots stayed in contact with the metal of the hull. he peered over the edge and braced himself in a position where he could observe the individual rocket exhausts. "o.k., roger!" he called into his intercom. "open up number one." "number one, aye," replied roger. "and watch yourself, you big baboon. don't burn your nose!" "go ahead, go ahead!" growled astro in reply. a long tongue of flame shot out of the exhaust of the number one tube and, after drawing back momentarily, astro watched the tube keenly. "you know," he commented idly as he kept his eyes fixed on the tube, "i still can't figure out what's so different about these tubes. they're exactly the same as any others i've ever seen." [illustration] "that's how much you know, astro," snorted roger. "dave barret said they were using a new duralumin alloy in the tubes." "still doesn't look any different to me," persisted astro. "and for us to spend four whole days out here testing them"--he paused and shook his head--"seems like an awful waste of time," he concluded. "what do you care? we're out in space, aren't we? or would you rather be back on guard duty?" "no, of course not," replied astro. "but even space gets dull after a while with nothing to do. barret sure gave us an old crate. not even a long-range receiver aboard." "what do you want to listen to?" snorted roger. "flight orders and all the rest of that rocket wash?" "be a relief to listen to somebody else beside you for a change," snapped astro. "anyhow, suppose something important happened. suppose our orders were changed. how would we know about it?" "what difference does it make?" replied roger. "we've got our orders--straight from barret. as long as we follow them, we won't get into trouble." "for a change," murmured astro. "now cut the griping and finish up out there!" "o.k.," sighed astro. "that's enough on number one. give me number two." the ship bucked slightly as one rocket tube was cut out and another flared at full power, but astro clung to the hull tightly, continuing his observations. with troubled eyes he watched all four rocket tubes in operation, unable to understand the difference between these tubes and the standard makes. finally he shrugged his shoulders, and rising to his feet, called roger again. "that's enough, pal," he said. "i'm coming in." "o.k.," replied roger from the control deck. "and don't fall all over your big feet." in five minutes the venusian cadet was inside the air lock again, and as the pressure was boosted to equalize with the interior of the ship, he removed his space suit and helmet. he opened the inner hatch and stepped into the control deck to see roger staring at the teleceiver in openmouthed astonishment. a harsh voice was coming over the loud-speaker. "... order you to cut all power and stand by for a boarding party, or i'll open fire immediately!" with an exclamation of startled surprise, astro rushed to the teleceiver screen and saw a man in the uniform of the solar guard, his face grim and purposeful. just as astro was about to speak, the officer spoke again. "did you hear me? this is captain newton aboard the cruiser _regulus_! i order you to cut all power and stand by or i'll open fire! acknowledge!" "roger," gasped astro, "what's this all about?" "i--i don't know," stammered the blond-haired cadet. he grabbed the teleceiver microphone and called into it rapidly. "rocket scout j to _regulus_. this is space cadet roger manning. there must be some mistake, sir. cadet astro and i are out here on special assignment for the space projectile project." "i know who you are!" shouted newton. "if you don't stand by, i'll open fire! this is your last warning!" astro grabbed the mike from roger's hand. "all right!" he bellowed. "we don't know what it's all about, but for the love of saturn's rings, don't start shooting." captain newton nodded grimly. "very well," he said. "bring your ship to a dead stop in space and open your starboard air lock. i will send a jet boat over to you." "aye, aye, sir," said astro. when the solar guard captain signed off and his image faded from the teleceiver screen, astro and roger numbly complied with newton's abrupt orders, bringing the ship to a dead stop in space and opening the starboard air lock. then the two cadets sat in the main deck of the small scout and waited, their faces showing their concern. neither felt like talking. they were so confused that they didn't know what to say. finally roger got up and in a daze walked to the chart table to note the time of the tests in the log. then he automatically logged the time of newton's order. suddenly he threw the pencil down and turned to astro. "blast it!" he shouted. "what's this all about?" astro merely grunted, shrugged his shoulders, and slumped further down in his chair. the big cadet was worried. anything that threatened his career at the space academy made him literally tremble with fear. in his whole life there was never anything that he wanted more than to be an officer in the solar guard. and the only way that could be accomplished was by being a space cadet. now he was under arrest. he didn't stop to reason why. all he knew was that it was a direct threat to his future as a power-deck officer in the solar guard. the two boys felt the metallic thump of something hitting the hull of their rocket scout. they realized immediately that it was the sound of the jet boat coupling on their ship and they turned to face the air-lock hatch. captain newton was the first to step through the air-lock hatch and he was followed by six space marines, holding their ray guns leveled. "i am captain newton of the solar guard, in command of the rocket cruiser _regulus_," he announced. "i arrest you in the name of the solar alliance." the officer handed over the standard warrant that was used by the solar guard. roger read it slowly. it was a simple warrant for their arrest, on the grounds of desertion, taking a solar guard vessel without permission, and being absent without leave from space academy. stunned, the cadet handed it to astro who had been reading it over his shoulder, his face white with shock. "and i warn you, cadet manning," continued newton, "that anything you say from now on may be used against you." "i understand, sir," said roger, dazed. "then do i have your word," said newton, "on your honor as space cadets, that you will not make any attempt to escape or in any way jeopardize my authority over you?" "yes, sir," nodded roger. "on my honor, sir," said astro, gulping, "as a space cadet." "all right," said newton. "then i'll let you take the scout back to the academy yourselves. i'll escort you in the _regulus_." he turned to the squad of space marines and nodded. they filed into the air lock and newton followed slowly. he paused in the hatch and looked back at the two cadets, a momentary gleam of sympathy in his eyes. "you'd better be prepared for a rough time, boys," he said. "major connel is going to haul you in front of a court-martial as soon as you land." "but what've we done?" astro suddenly exploded. "the charges are listed in the warrant, cadet astro!" "but that's all wrong!" protested astro. "we were ordered to--" "hold it, astro," roger interrupted. "let's stop and figure this out first. we can tell our side at the court-martial!" captain newton looked at the two boys piercingly for a second, then turned and entered the air lock, slamming the hatch closed behind him. slowly and thoughtfully, astro and roger prepared to get their ship under way. they were still stunned by the sudden turn of events. they had no idea what had happened. but they knew dave barret was at the heart of their troubles. they vowed silently that he wouldn't get away with it! * * * * * this time it was not a cadet court that roger and astro faced. it was a five-man board of solar guard officers, consisting of four captains and one major, who conducted the court-martial in closed session. only the defendants and the complaining witnesses were allowed to be present. the evidence the board heard was as damaging to the boys as it was bewildering. major connel testified to their being absent without leave and taking a solar guard space vessel without permission. firehouse tim rush stated that they had deserted their stations. when roger was called to the stand, he entered the only defense he could, stating that he and astro had been operating under dave barret's orders. the board immediately called barret in to testify and his words blasted the cadets' case to smithereens. "... i have no idea what they were doing out in that rocket scout," he stated calmly. "i certainly didn't send them up on any such ridiculous tests. if you will examine the exhaust tubes of that ship, you'll see that they're made of standard materials used in all solar guard ships." he turned to the board, casually. "no, gentlemen," he continued, "i don't know what these boys are talking about. you can call professor hemmingwell in, if you like. i'm sure he'll vouch for what i've said." as barret stepped down from the stand, astro lunged toward him, blind with anger and shouting his fury. it took six space marines to force him back to his chair. roger merely sat, staring blankly into space, a wry smile curling his lips. he clearly saw the trap into which he and his unit mate had fallen, and there was no way out. the board didn't deliberate very long after the last testimony was taken. when they returned to the chamber, the presiding officer addressed roger and astro directly, asking formally whether they had anything to say before sentence was passed. roger stepped forward. "i have something to say, sir," he said in a quiet but firm voice. "very well," nodded the major. "sir," began roger, with a glance at astro, "this is not a plea for mercy but understanding. we are, it is true, nothing but boys in training to become officers of the solar guard. one of the most important parts of our training is how to take orders without question. now at this trial, we have been accused of three specific instances of misconduct. we can offer no other defense than what we have already claimed. major connel and warrant officer rush have stated that we should have cleared barret's orders with them first, since barret is only a civilian and has no right to give us orders. that may very well be true. but i submit this for your consideration, gentlemen--" roger paused and looked up and down the line of stony-faced officers. "what would have been your judgment," he resumed, "if dave barret had asked us to do these things and we had refused? would you have been less hard on us? that's all, sir." roger stepped back abruptly and the officers stirred uncomfortably. they recognized the merit in roger's statement, and had not the decision been made, there was more than one who might have reconsidered, remembering their own difficulties as space cadets. however, the presiding officer picked up a sheet of paper and addressed the boys coldly. "while i must compliment cadet manning for his admirable statement," he said, "it does not change the decision of this board. normally, these offenses would be punished by immediate dismissal from the cadet corps. however, in view of their past record at the academy, it is the decision of this board to exercise some lenience. cadet roger manning, cadet astro, you are sentenced to serve on the enlisted man's work gangs here at space academy for a period of exactly six months. all pay and privileges to be denied during that time. case is closed!" [illustration] chapter "atom city rocket liner now loading on ramp two!" the metallic voice of the dispatcher echoed through the waiting room of the subspaceport on the outskirts of marsport and the passengers began moving toward the field gate, where the stewards of the ship checked each ticket against the liner's seating plan. near them, a squad of four space marines scrutinized all passengers carefully as they boarded the waiting jet cars that would take them to the ship far out in the middle of the field. tom corbett sat at the refreshment stand in the waiting room, sipping a glass of milk thoughtfully and eying the squad of space marines. he wore a big-billed hat pulled low over his face and a tight-fitting black jacket, the standard uniform of a merchant spaceman. "anything else?" asked the pretty waitress behind the counter. "yeah," growled tom. "gimme another glass of milk and another of these crummy sandwiches." "well, you don't have to be rude about it!" snapped the girl. "somebody should teach you space tramps some manners!" as she flounced off angrily the young cadet smiled. he knew his disguise must be good indeed to fool this young girl, who met hundreds of people at the spaceport every day and could easily recognize a person for what he truly was. now his only hope was that the disguise would fool the squad of marines at the gate. after having abandoned the jet truck, tom had moved through the glittering city of marsport carefully, keeping to the dark alleys and shadows. gradually he had worked his way back to the area around sloppy sam's where, for a few credits, he had been able to buy a merchant spaceman's clothes with no questions asked. he buried his cadet uniform in the loose ground near a construction project. then, staying in the area, he wandered in and out of the dingy bars and restaurants looking for the man he had seen at the spaceport, the driver of the truck that had crashed the fence. he spent three days in his search, not daring to ask questions, simply keeping his eyes open for the man. finally he had been forced to abandon the search when he saw a stereo newscast reporting that the missing cadet, tom corbett, had been traced to skid row. he decided that it was time to leave mars and went to the huge main spaceport, hoping to get aboard a ship bound for earth. but the space marines were stationed at every gate, examining each departing passenger carefully, and tom knew it would be impossible to get past them. then he noticed a poster advertising special non-scheduled flights to atom city, earth, at reduced rates, that would blast off from a subspaceport on the outskirts of the city. with renewed hope, he had gone there immediately and bought a ticket. space marines were on guard here too, but only a small squad. the cadet resolved to make his break here. he had no other choice. "here's your milk!" said the waitress, slopping it down on the counter before the cadet. "and your sandwich!" [illustration: _tom saw that the space marines were watching the passengers very closely_] tom paid for the order and took his time about chewing the stale sandwich. he knew he had to get aboard the ship that was loading now, but the space marines were watching the passengers very closely. suddenly tom saw a spaceport attendant race up to the squad and hand a message to the sergeant in command of the squad. leaving the counter, tom walked quickly to a newsstand near the gate, where he could stand close to the marines. the sergeant read the message quickly and turned to his squad. tom strained his ears to listen. "we have to move out of here or we'll never get out," he said. "there's a martian sandstorm coming this way. it should hit in about fifteen minutes. this will be the last flight. then nothing will get off the ground until it blows over. may last for days." "but what about that cadet?" asked the man nearest to the sergeant. "what if he shows up?" "just about all the passengers for this flight are aboard now," growled the sergeant. "besides, do you see him anywhere?" tom turned his back to the troopers quickly and heard the marine reply, "naw." "then get your gear and pile on the truck outside," ordered the sergeant, "or we'll be living in this station for a couple of days." the marines quickly marched away from the gate, through the waiting room, and out the door. tom dug into his pocket for the ticket to atom city and stepped quickly to the gate, presenting his ticket to the steward. "spaceman wilson!" tom growled. the steward checked his ticket casually and announced, "seat fourteen, berth twelve!" tom walked through the gate, trying to look casual. "hey you!" there was a sudden cry of alarm behind tom and for a moment he was tempted to run. but he turned slowly and looked back. the man at the newsstand was shouting at him. "ya tryin' to steal my paper?" he yelled. tom looked down and saw that he was still holding the paper he had picked up to hide his face from the marines. he smiled, reached into his pocket for a coin, and flipped it back to the man. "sorry," he called and walked on. he hurried through a tunnel to the open area of the field where the other passengers were waiting in jet cars. he slipped into the nearest one and settled down beside a fat woman. she looked at him archly, sniffed audibly, and turned to stare out the window. tom merely grinned and settled deeper in the seat. in a moment the jet cab was speeding across the small field to the waiting passenger ship. safely inside the ship, tom sank into his assigned seat, buckled his acceleration belt, and listened to the voice of the skipper counting off the seconds until blast off. "five, four, three, two, one, _zero_!" there was very little acceleration shock, since this was a vessel designed for the comfort of the passengers. in fact, tom found it difficult to determine just exactly when it left the ground. the force of the drive pushed him deep in his seat, to be sure, but it was a gradual pressure and not at all like the sudden violent jerk that came when he gunned the _polaris_. he smiled. there was considerably less power in this ship than in the _polaris_! the thought of the giant rocket cruiser made him think about roger and astro. he wondered what they were doing and if they had stayed out of trouble. during the trip back to atom city, tom kept to himself, avoiding the other passengers on the ship as much as possible, taking his meals in his berth. the cadet had a lot of thinking to do. though temporarily safe, he knew he couldn't dodge the solar guard forever. he kept track of his pursuit by stereo newscasts which the ship picked up from both mars and earth, and he was pleased to learn that the marines and solar guardsmen were still searching for him in marsport. there was one bit of information that was general news to the others on the ship, but of particular interest to tom. he had sat up in his berth and listened. "... the report of a sabotage attempt on a highly secret project now in progress at space academy was denied today by project officials and commander walters. the commander said there was no basis for the report that the entire control panel of a new type ship had been destroyed." tom switched off his set and settled back in his bunk. he saw through the denial by commander walters. there was no need to upset the public and, more important, let the saboteur know how successful he had been. though tom knew who was responsible, this knowledge did not mean much while he was still a fugitive. he would have to have proof. he would have to have more than just _his_ word and accusation to make his charges stick. but how to get it? "attention," boomed the voice of the captain over the ship's loud-speaker. "fasten your deceleration belts, please! we land at atom city in thirty minutes. fasten your deceleration belts, please!" certain he wouldn't be seen by the passengers and crew strapped in for the landing, tom slipped out of his berth and down the companionway to the luggage compartment. safely inside, he examined the contents of several expensive-looking bags, opening them by springing the locks with his knife. finally he found a set of civilian clothes that would fit him. leaving a hundred credits in the suitcase, more than the clothes were worth, he returned to his berth where he quickly washed, shaved, and dressed in the stolen clothes, steadying himself against the lurching of the ship as it made its landing approach. when the ship finally touched down at the atom city spaceport, tom waited in his berth until he was sure most of the passengers had left. then he walked quickly out of the ship, head down and hat pulled low over his face, to lose himself in the crowded spaceport. safe for the time being, at least until the solar guard traced him to earth, tom moved openly through the streets of atom city and went directly to the monorail station where he purchased a ticket for space academy. he boarded a local train instead of the express and rode the jet-propelled train in the comfort of the dining car where he had a huge meal. the stop before the academy was a small village that catered to the wants of the hundreds of civilian workers at the academy spaceport. tom had been there many times with astro and roger, and knew of a small hotel where he could hide out until he could contact his unit mates. it was early evening when tom registered at the hotel under the name of joseph cazippi, an engineer from titan colony. safely in his room, tom turned to the window and stared longingly at the tower of galileo in the distance, as it caught the last of the sun's rays and gleamed proudly against the gathering night sky. he whirled away from the window and froze as someone knocked on the door and a young voice called: "lemme in, tom!" the young cadet gulped in fear. someone had recognized him! he wondered if he should open the door or slip out of the window and leave. "hey, tom!" the voice called. "this is tiny! come on, lemme in." "tiny!" shouted tom in swift relief. he opened the door and a small boy of about twelve stepped inside. "hiya, tom," greeted the boy enthusiastically. tom grinned his welcome. he and roger and astro had met the youngster on several of their trips to the village and had become great friends. they always had to tell him stories about the cadet corps. "how did you know i was here, tiny?" asked tom. "i followed you from the monorail station," replied the boy. "you couldn't fool me in those civvies. where's your uniform?" "never mind that now," said tom, kneeling before him. "look, tiny, can you keep a secret?" "sure!" said the boy gleefully. "sure i can, tom." "well, i'm on a secret assignment, see?" whispered the cadet with a conspiratorial air. "and i need someone like you to help me. but you can't tell anyone i'm here!" "sure, i understand, tom. whatcha want me to do?" "go to the academy and find astro and roger. tell them to come here at nine o'clock tonight. but remember, don't talk to anyone else!" "o.k.!" replied the youngster. "i getcha! you going to catch spies, tom?" "i don't know yet, tiny. but you do what i told you and then hurry right back to me and tell me what they said!" the boy nodded and hurried off. from the window, tom watched him climb on his jet bike and roar off into the gathering darkness toward the academy. it was nearly two hours before he heard the jet bike return and he hurried to the door, waiting impatiently for the boy to come in. when the door opened and tiny stepped in, tom sensed immediately that something was wrong. "tom!" gasped tiny, his eyes wide with shock. "you know what happened?" "what?" "roger and astro--" the boy stopped, seemingly unable to go on. "didn't you see them?" demanded tom. "naw, i couldn't. they wouldn't let me." "who wouldn't let you?" "the guards." "what guards? what are you talking about, tiny?" "the guards at the jail! roger and astro are on the enlisted man's work gang for six months!" said tiny. hiding his shocked surprise, tom hurriedly gave the boy a ten-credit note and swore him to silence. "now you hurry home, tiny, and don't tell anyone you've seen me!" he said. "o.k., tom," replied the boy. "but what does it all mean?" "i wish i knew," said tom grimly. "and when i find out, tiny, i promise you i'll let you know." when tom was finally alone, he stood at the window, staring at the gleaming tower, now lighted and shining brilliantly in the darkness. he suddenly felt that he would never see the tower again. chapter "stand clear!" professor hemmingwell's voice rang over the roar of activity in the hangar as the huge new control panel was lifted along the hull to a large hole that had been cut into the side of the experimental ship at the control-deck level. "easy does it!" called the professor, standing on the deck and peering through the hole. "careful now!" now even with the hole, the panel was slowly pulled into the ship by the workers. even major connel and steve strong lent a hand, setting it into place. when it had been securely anchored, a team of technicians swarmed over the panel to begin the intricate work of connecting all the controls to the various parts of the ship, and hemmingwell and the two solar guard officers stepped back to watch them. "this puts us back on schedule now," said the professor, turning, red-eyed and tired, to connel and strong. "it was a good idea of yours, steve, to prefabricate the panel and have it put into position all at once. if we had tried to install it piece by piece, we'd be weeks behind." "good work, steve," connel chimed in. strong merely nodded his thanks. he was tired. more tired than he had ever been in his life. not only had he supervised the construction of the new control panel, but he had been working on a special report to present to the solar guard review board requesting another trial for astro and roger. and he had spent every spare minute haunting the mp headquarters of the solar guard for word of tom. so, he accepted the compliments of connel and professor hemmingwell with little enthusiasm. "you better get some rest, steve," said connel, aware of strong's attitude. "i know how hard you've been working these past few days. so knock off and i want your word that you will go back to your quarters and get some sleep!" "sorry, major," replied strong, "i can't give you my word about that." connel's face darkened with anger. "all right! then do what you want. get out!" he shouted. strong merely nodded and left the ship. outside the hangar, he stopped suddenly when he saw dave barret step off the slidewalk from the academy and stride toward him. the young captain clenched his teeth in sudden anger. he had talked to astro and roger many times since they had been put on the work gang and they swore that their story of their ill-fated flight was true. strong could not believe that they would lie. he had been too close to them and had, many times, put his very life into their hands. but there seemed to be no way to break barret's story. he waited for the man to pass him. "good morning, strong," said barret, as though surprised. "well, how's the genius? get the control panel in this morning?" barret was annoyed that strong's plan to replace the control panel had been accepted over his own. the captain returned his cold stare and nodded. [illustration] "it's in," he said, and then added, "i would like to ask you a few questions, barret." "sorry, haven't got time!" replied barret curtly as he tried to brush past strong. but the young captain grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. "make time!" he snarled. "i want the straight story about that so-called test flight!" barret glared at strong. "i suggest that you let go of my arm, captain," he threatened, "or i will be forced to bring charges of assault against you!" realizing an open fight would be useless, strong released his grip on the man's arm and turned away quickly. barret's mocking laugh echoed in his ears as he stepped on the slidewalk and glided away toward the academy. behind him, the big hangar buzzed with the sound of men working in high gear again. the mighty ship and its specially designed equipment seemed at last to be ready for testing. but strong felt none of the excitement. it mattered little to the solar guard captain whether the project was a success or failure. his thoughts were of the three cadets in his unit, who were, first and foremost, his responsibility. with double guards around the hangar area and even tighter security restrictions than before, the unknown saboteur was unable to attack the precious ship again. but he struck elsewhere. the single track monorail that barret had run into the area was blocked by an explosion in the mouth of the tunnel. nearly a thousand tons of rock and earth had fallen on the hangar side, blocking delivery of vital equipment. with powerful earth-moving machinery, the tunnel was cleared of the heavy rocks and dirt, and all that remained was a general cleaning up, and the enlisted man's work gangs had been assigned to that job. nearly a hundred tough, battle-scarred spacemen from the enlisted ranks of the solar guard worked in the area, stripped to the waist, their bodies burned brown from the sun. sent to the work gang for petty offenses, rather than for criminal acts, the enlisted men as a whole did not mind the work. they were under guard, watched by a squad of space marines armed with paralo-ray guns, but there was no attempt to make the men feel as if they were criminals. most of the sentences were short, usually running from five to thirty days, with some extreme cases serving as long as three months. but no one had ever remembered a space cadet working on the squad, and particularly for six months! it was an extraordinary situation and the guards, as well as the men on the work details, sympathized with roger and astro. they realized that nothing really serious had been done, or the boys would have been sent to the prison asteroid, where all true criminals were sent. so a true spirit of comradeship developed between the cadets and the enlisted men. when captain strong arrived to speak to roger and astro, he found them in the tunnel, working as a team of a shoveler and a sweeper. roger would sweep up a little pile of dirt and astro would shovel it into a handcart nearby. "all right, you venusian pug!" bawled roger. "police the joint!" astro scooped up the little pile of dirt neatly and deposited it in the truck. "manning, what made the spaceship cross to pluto?" he asked. "to get to the other side of the universe," said roger. "all right," interrupted strong. "if you two will cut out the comedy, i'd like to talk to you." "captain strong!" yelled roger. "hey, fellas! look!" he turned to the other men on the work gang. "we're special characters! see? we have visitors during working hours!" strong laughed with the others, and then motioning for roger and astro to follow him, walked to an isolated corner of the tunnel. "how is it going?" he asked. "fine, sir," said roger. "we have no complaints." "yeah," chimed in astro with a grin. "the food is better here than at the academy!" "give this venusian bum a good kitchen and he'd go to the rock!" roger laughed. strong noted their lean, brown bodies and decided that a little work in the sun with a pick and shovel had done them good. but six months of it would interfere with their work at the academy and could hold them back. he told them of the work he had been doing to have their case renewed by the solar guard review board and asked them for any special details in their relationship with barret that might lend weight to his plea for outright pardon, rather than just a commutation of sentence. he wanted it clear on their records that they had been accused unjustly, and that, therefore, their sentence was an error. but neither astro nor roger could add anything to what the young captain already knew. he finally turned to leave, cautioning them both to stay out of trouble, especially roger. "manning," he warned, "your mouth is your big weakness. i'm detailing astro to make sure it stays closed!" "you see?" gloated astro. "you see who the captain trusts!" "listen, you big bum!" began roger angrily, then stopped and grinned. "o.k., captain strong, i'll keep on the ball." "you'd better," astro interrupted, "or i'll stand you on your head!" with a pat on the back, strong left them. just as he was about to leave the tunnel, roger called after him: "have you heard anything about tom, sir?" "not a word," replied strong grimly. "so far as i know, he's still on mars." "a--a fugitive?" asked astro. "yes, astro. the solar guard is still looking for him." strong watched the two cadets turn back to their work dejectedly, and then, sighing with weariness, he headed back to the slidewalk. in the morning he would check the reports of the security section for word of tom. then he squared his shoulders determinedly. he would check them now! he could not go to bed yet. not while tom was still missing and while astro and roger were on the work gang. he would not sleep until they were free and the _polaris_ unit was together again out in space! * * * * * tom corbett was also unable to sleep. he had spent the night in the village hotel tossing and turning, his mind seething with plans to aid roger and astro. finally, at dawn, he got up and sneaked out of the hotel. avoiding the convenience of the monorail, he struck out on foot over the rugged countryside for space academy. he had a plan, but the plan required that he talk to roger and astro first, and then to captain strong, but it had to be done secretly. he realized that his knowledge of the identity of the saboteur would be a more effective weapon if everyone still believed he was on mars. after getting close enough to the academy to use the slidewalk system crisscrossing the huge area, he loitered on the crowded platforms which connected the hangar, the academy, and the spaceport. he kept his coat collar high and his civilian hat pulled low over his eyes. he was on the main slidewalk, moving toward the tower building, when his eyes picked out the familiar close-cropped blond hair of roger and the unmistakable bulk of astro on the walk leading to the hangar. changing at the slidewalk intersection, he took off after them, hoping he would not be noticed in the crowd of civilian workers. roger and astro were carrying tools over their shoulders and were lagging behind the main body of workers moving toward a huge tunnel opening. tom saw his chance and moved up quickly beside them. "keep walking and don't show surprise!" he whispered sharply. but it was too much to ask. astro and roger jumped in surprise and let out involuntary shouts of joy, which attracted the attention of the guards. they noticed the stranger in civilian clothes and stared at him. "tom!" exclaimed roger. "what the devil are you--?" "sh!" hissed tom. "we haven't got much time." he saw one of the guards turn and stare at him. "listen to me," he continued quickly. "i've got important dope about the saboteur!" "how?" gasped astro. "never mind," replied tom. "now, to nail him, i've got to get him into the act! i need proof!" "but who is it?" asked roger. "i can't tell you now. here comes the guard. are you going to be working around here long?" "at least another three days," said roger. "but who--?" roger noticed the guard move up to them and he suddenly straightened up and snorted derisively, "yeah. but why a guy should want to join the solar guard is more than i can see. you must be wacky, mister!" he and astro walked away, and after a hesitant look at tom, the guard followed the two cadets. tom boarded the slidewalk heading back toward the academy. so far, so good. he knew where his unit mates were, but up ahead, in the gleaming tower of galileo, was his second target, captain strong. his skipper had to listen to him, had to be sympathetic and help him catch the saboteur. it was the only way tom could clear his own name and free roger and astro. chapter "scott!" "here!" bellowed a grizzled spaceman in reply to major connel's call. "augutino!" "here!" "jones! "present!" "smith!" "here!" "albert!" "here!" connel checked the last name on the clipboard and turned to professor hemmingwell standing beside him at the base of the ship. "all present and ready, sir." "fine!" said the professor. he turned and looked around. "where is dave?" "here he comes now," said connel. they both watched barret stride toward them, his arms loaded with gear. "this is the stuff i told you about, professor," he said as hemmingwell looked at it curiously. "what stuff?" asked connel. "portable heaters for the crew's space suits, just in case--" barret paused meaningfully. "in case of what?" growled connel. "why, ask them!" replied barret, gesturing toward the group of civilian crewmen who had been selected for the test flight of the spaceship. connel turned to look at them, then back at barret. "ask them what?" he barked. "how they feel about making this flight," said barret. connel scowled and turned to the men. "is there anything to what he says?" he demanded. the men shuffled their feet nervously but did not reply. "well?" exploded connel. "see, they're afraid of you, connel," said barret, deliberately omitting the courtesy of using the major's title. ignoring barret's thrust, connel continued to face the men. "is that right, men?" he shouted. "are you afraid of me?" there was a mumble from the group and then the man named scott, a thick-set individual with black flashing eyes, stepped forward. "speaking for myself," he said, looking straight at the major, "i'm not afraid of anything that walks. and that includes you, major connel. no offense meant, it's just a statement of fact." he paused and drew a deep breath. then he added, "but i am afraid of this ship." "why?" demanded connel, who could not help admiring the man for his straightforward approach. "she's junk-jinxed," said the man, using the expression of spacemen who believed a ship with a suspicious accident record should be junked because it was jinxed. "junk-jinxed!" cried connel, amazed. "preposterous," snorted professor hemmingwell. "why, you helped build this ship, scotty! do you doubt the work you've put into her? or the work of your friends?" "that has nothing to do with it," replied scott stubbornly. "the others feel the same way i do." barret stepped forward. arrogantly and before connel could stop him, he began addressing the men. "listen, you men!" he shouted. "you're being childish! why, you built this ship! how can you possibly allow yourselves to be so stupid as to believe in an idiotic thing like a jinx. now, why don't you just get aboard and stop being so ridiculously superstitious!" connel could have reached out with one of his big hands and squeezed barret's neck to shut him up. instead of allaying their fears, which even he would admit were real enough, the man was creating further resentment with his attack on their pride as thinking, reasoning men. "all right, all right!" he bellowed. "that's enough for now, _mister_ barret!" he turned to the men and he could tell by the expressions on their faces that he had lost them. they would not take the ship aloft. but he had to try. "now listen," he growled. "this is a very important project and someone has been trying to get us to wash out the whole idea. if you don't come through, he'll succeed. you are the best men in your fields, and if each of you attend to your particular job, then the ship will blast off and be a success! now, how about it?" he was met with the stony faces of men who were afraid. nothing he could say or offer them would get them to take the ship off the ground. he tried a new tack. "i'm offering you _double wages_!" he roared. the men were silent. "double wages _and_ a bonus!" silence. "all right! beat it!" he growled. "don't ever show your faces around here again!" connel turned to professor hemmingwell. "i'll see if i can't muster a crew from the ranks of the solar guard," he said. "major," said the professor, his face worn and haggard from the long ordeal of completing the project, "i wouldn't want men _ordered_ to man this vessel." "they're in the solar guard and they take orders," said connel. "no," persisted hemmingwell. "i will not let a man on that ship that does not want to go. remember, major, it is still my personal property." "all right," said connel grimly. "i'll see if i can recruit a crew from the civilian workers around the academy." but major connel encountered the same superstitious dread everywhere. the word had spread that the projectile ship was jinxed. old tales of other ships that had gone out into space, never to be heard of again, were recalled, and the men found instances of similar prelaunching happenings on the projectile ship. very little of it was true, of course. the stories were half-truths and legends that had been handed down through generations of spacemen, but they seemed to have special significance now. connel fumed and ranted, threatened and cajoled, begged and pleaded, but it was no use. there was not a man in the academy who would set foot inside the "jinxed" ship. finally, in a last desperate attempt, he ignored hemmingwell's order and appealed to commander walters. "no, lou. i cannot order men to take that ship up," commander walters replied, "and you know it!" "why not?" argued connel. "you're the commander, aren't you?" "i most certainly am," asserted walters, "and if i want to get other things done in the solar guard, i can't order men to take a jinxed ship off the ground." he looked at connel narrowly. "do you remember the old freighter, the _spaceglow_?" he asked. connel frowned but didn't reply. "you were mate on that ship before you enlisted in the solar guard," persisted walters. "and i read the log of your first trip when you wrote, and i quote, 'there seems to be some mysterious and unanswerable condition aboard this vessel that makes her behave as if she had human intelligence....'" "that has nothing to do with _this_ situation!" roared connel. "they're alike! you couldn't get a crew on that wagon in any port of call from venus to jupiter!" "but we found out what was wrong with her eventually!" "yes, but the legend still exists that the _spaceglow_ had intelligence of its own!" asserted walters. "all right," snorted connel. "so we have to fight superstition! but, blast it, commander, we're faced with a saboteur. there's nothing supernatural or mysterious about a man with a bomb!" connel turned abruptly and walked out of the commander's office, more furious than walters had ever seen him. back at the hangar, connel faced the professor. it was a tough thing to tell the elderly man, and connel, for all his hard exterior, could easily appreciate the professor's feelings. after many years of struggle to convince die-hard bankers of the soundness of his space projectile plan, followed by sabotage and costly work stoppages, it was heart-rending to have a "jinx" finally stop him. "i'm sorry," said connel, "but that's the way things are, professor." "i understand, major," replied hemmingwell wearily. he turned away, shoulders slumping, and walked back to his tiny office in the shadow of the mighty ship that was anchored on the ground. "may i speak to you a moment, major?" a voice broke the silence in the hangar. connel turned around slowly. "you!" he exclaimed. "if it hadn't been for you and your big mouth, this ship might be in space right now!" "stop blowing your jets!" snapped dave barret. "i want to see this ship in space as badly as you do. perhaps even more so. but listen, i'm not afraid of the jinx. neither are you, nor is professor hemmingwell. we're spacemen. and we know the operation of every piece of equipment on that ship. what's to prevent us from taking her up?" connel looked at the young man, immediately recognizing the value of his suggestion. he nodded his head curtly. "all right," he said. "i'll take you up on that." barret grinned, stuck out his hand, and after a friendly shake turned and ran to the professor's office. connel walked back to the outside of the hangar and began bellowing orders for the giant ship to be brought out to the blast ramp and prepared for the blast-off. [illustration] but dave barret did not go directly to professor hemmingwell's office. he made one stop. looking around quickly to make sure that he was not observed, he slipped into the teleceiver booth and made a hurried call to an atom city number. when a gruff voice answered, he merely said three words: "it's all set!" * * * * * roger and astro were some distance away from the main gang, working at the tunnel mouth overlooking the hangar area. "look, astro," said roger. "they're bringing out the ship. they must be ready to blast off!" [illustration] astro stopped his work momentarily and stared as the huge ship was inched out of the hangar, resting on her tail fins, her nose pointing skyward. "i'd sure like to be bucking the power deck on that baby," sighed astro. "yeah, and i'd give my eyeteeth to see that radar deck," said roger. "it must be really something with all the gear to control those projectiles when they're released." "do you believe any of that talk about her being jinxed?" asked astro. "stop being a venusian lunkhead!" snorted roger. "the only thing wrong with that ship is a rocket-blasting clever saboteur." "you know," said astro, "i've been thinking." "don't strain yourself," snorted roger. but when astro failed to reply in kind, the blond-haired cadet realized he was serious. "what is it?" he asked. "why, in the name of the moons of mars, would barret want to do the things he did to us?" "simple," said roger, beginning to sweep industriously as he saw the guard walking toward them. "he didn't like the way we manhandled him." "you think he was just getting even with us?" asked astro, also resuming work. "what else?" asked roger. "we made him look pretty silly. and that was no love tap i gave him that night we caught him in the hangar." "that's what i mean," said astro. "i know major connel said he was supposed to be there. but with that teleceiver conversation i overheard and all the rest--well, i just don't get it," he concluded lamely. "you'll get it in the neck if you don't watch out," said roger. "here comes spike and he doesn't like to see us loafing!" the two cadets worked steadily for ten minutes, and when the guard finally walked away, they paused to watch the big ship again. "i wonder what tom is up to?" said roger thoughtfully. "he said he knew who the saboteur was, but he needed help to prove it." "i'd give a full year's leave just to get my hands on that guy for ten minutes," said astro. "yeah," grunted roger. "well, come on, hot-shot, we still got a lot of cleaning to do." they returned to their work, but even then, as they watched the preparations for the take-off of the big ship, they both thought about tom. they knew his problems were as difficult as their own, and with much more at stake. if tom failed in his efforts to catch the saboteur, it could very well mean the end of the _polaris_ unit. [illustration] chapter "_bump-ty--bump-ty--bump-ty--_" tom corbett's heart beat with such rapid, heavy drumming that the young cadet felt as though it was going to tear itself right out of his chest. for nearly six hours tom had lain in wait in galaxy hall, the museum of space academy, on the second floor of the tower building. he was hiding in the tail section of the _space queen_, the first rocket ship to breach space safely, blasting from earth to luna and back again. he had kept watch through a crack in the hull of the old ship, waiting for the lights to go out, a signal that the academy had bedded down for the night. now, in the silence of the museum, surrounded by the ancient objects that traced man's progress to the stars, tom felt like crying. for as long as he had been at the academy, he had revered these crude, frail objects and wondered if he would ever match the bravery of the men who used them. now, unless his plan was successful, he would be finished as a cadet and the dream of being an officer in the solar guard would vanish forever. the tower building had been quiet for over an hour. tom had not heard any voices or movement other than the evenly paced steps of the guards patrolling their lonely beats outside. [illustration] he slipped out of the antiquated ship, and staying well in the shadows, moved out into the corridor to the head of the slidestairs. he peered over the railing to the main floor below and saw warrant officer mike mckenny through the open door of a small office, seated at his desk, watching an evening stereo program. the young cadet jumped on the stairs quickly and rode the moving belt of plastic to the upper floors where the officers' quarters were located. tom was in great danger of discovery. no civilian was allowed on academy grounds after taps. and he was still wearing the civilian clothes he had taken from the suitcase on the passenger ship from mars. silently but swiftly, he made his way from level to level toward the seventy-fifth floor. he knew that there would be a guard stationed in the halls outside the officers' apartments and it would be impossible to elude him. he would simply have to brazen it out. at the seventy-fifth floor the young cadet stepped off the slidestairs noisily, his heels clicking on the dark crystal floor, and strode down the hall. he was immediately seen by the guard who advanced to meet him, his ray gun at the ready. tom was prepared. "guard!" he yelled. the guard stopped in front of him, a puzzled look on his face. "yes?" he replied. "sir!" snapped tom. "show me where captain strong's quarters are and be quick about it!" "but who are--?" the guard started to protest, but tom did not give him the chance to finish. "don't stand there like an idiot, man! _move!_" "uhh--yes, sir," stammered the guard, obviously taken aback. "lead the way," continued tom loudly. "i haven't much time." "yes, sir, but would you mind lowering your voice, sir? some of the officers are asleep, sir." "well, get on then and stop jabbering!" the guard turned quickly and started down the hall. tom followed, hardly able to keep from smiling at the man's frustration and confusion. they stopped at the door to captain strong's quarters and the guard rapped softly. "yes?" came a muffled voice from inside. "someone to see you, sir," called the guard. "just a moment." the guard stepped to one side and stood at rigid attention. when the door opened and captain strong was revealed, tom brushed past the guard and stepped into the room, talking quickly. "my name is hinkleworth, captain," he announced. "i am here at the request of commissioner jessup to discuss the installation of new radar equipment on all solar guard rocket cruisers!" tom slammed the door closed behind him and turned to face the astonished solar guard officer. "what in the star-blazing--?" strong began angrily. "it's me, captain strong!" tom said quickly, pulling his hat off and lowering his collar. "corbett!" gasped strong, taking an involuntary step back, his face mirroring his disbelief. "sh!" whispered the boy, motioning to the door. recovering his composure, strong swept past him, opened the door, and found the guard still standing there at attention. "all right, corporal," said strong. "resume your station." "yes, sir," replied the guard and walked down the hall. strong watched him for a moment, then turned back into his room, closing and locking the door behind him. he faced the young cadet, who grinned back at him weakly. "all right, spaceboy," said strong, flopping in the nearest chair. "start at the beginning and give it to me. _all of it!_" tom began his story with the incident of the runaway truck at marsport, told of his abduction and escape from the two truckers, cag and monty, his efforts to reach space academy, and finally revealed the identity of the man he thought was responsible for the whole effort to stop the projectile operation. at this, strong jumped to his feet. "that's the most fantastic thing i've ever heard, corbett!" he snapped. "what kind of proof do you have?" "none, sir," replied tom. "the only reason i came here tonight is to ask you to help me get that proof." when strong was silent, shaking his head, tom tried again. "sir, you do believe me, don't you?" asked the boy with a sinking feeling in his heart. "what about all the things that have happened to me and to roger and astro?" "i can explain them away just as easily as you can explain your theory," replied strong. he walked over and patted the cadet on the shoulder sympathetically. "i'm sorry, tom," he said gently. "your story is just too fantastic and you haven't even the slightest shred of evidence. just a few words an unreliable witness said under duress." "i realize that, sir," replied the cadet. "but don't you see? this is the only way to clear my name." strong turned to the window, looked out thoughtfully for a moment, and then turned back to the boy. "how do you think i can help you?" he said, a more sympathetic note in his voice. his eyes bright with hope again, tom spoke quickly and eagerly. the solar guard captain calmly packed his pipe and lighted it, stopping the boy now and then to ask a question. finally, when tom was finished, strong nodded and silently puffed at his pipe. "well, sir?" asked tom eagerly. "i don't know, tom," replied strong. "it's a pretty wild idea. and it leaves me way out on a limb." "only if we fail, sir," said tom. "which is more than likely," strong commented dryly. "captain strong," said tom, "if you really don't think it can work, then i suggest that you call the guard and turn me in. i've put you in enough trouble already." tom moved to the door. "stop playing the hero, corbett," said strong. "i didn't say i wouldn't help you. but we have to think this thing out." tom sat down, eying strong hopefully. "now, let me get this straight," said strong. "first you want me to help astro and roger escape from the work gang. all right, that may work easily enough. but why?" "so we can get aboard the projectile ship and go through her tests with her." "i suppose you've heard that connel, professor hemmingwell, and dave barret are going to take her up." "yes, sir," tom replied, grinning. "that's why i want to go along. to make sure no more accidents happen." "i could send a squad of space marines for that kind of job," mused strong. "but that would alert barret," protested tom. "he might not try anything. if he doesn't suspect he's being watched, we may be able to catch him in the act. and he certainly wouldn't think the three of us are aboard." "hum. maybe you're right," nodded strong. "then after i get you three on the ship, i'm supposed to spend my time trailing your prize suspect, right?" "yes, sir," nodded the young cadet. "i'll have to give it consideration, tom," said strong after a momentary pause. "as much as i admire your plan and as much as i want to help you, this places me in a highly untenable position. have you stopped to think what would happen to me if it were ever known that i had sheltered you here in my quarters and aided in the escape of two convicted cadets from the work gang?" "yes, sir," replied tom soberly. "and--all i can say is i'll do whatever you think is best." "well, get some sleep now," sighed strong. "i've got to make a tour of the guard." without another word, tom went into captain strong's bedroom and fell asleep thirty seconds after his head hit the pillow. his last waking thought was that if his plan had any merit captain strong would help him. steve strong did not leave his quarters immediately. he sat in the easy chair and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe until there was nothing left in the burnt and charred bowl. then he rose and left the room to make his rounds. he walked slowly through the hollow, empty hallways of the tower building, riding up and down the slidestairs, speaking curtly to the guards, and finally walked out on the wide steps facing the grassy quadrangle. strong glanced up at the sky. he counted the stars he could see and he remembered that as a boy of eight he knew the names and positions of every one. he recalled his entrance to the academy as a cadet and how his unit instructor had guided him and taught him the many things a spaceman must know. he thought of his long tour as a line officer in the solar guard fleet under commander walters, then a major, and he remembered his brother officers, many of whom were now dead. there was one thing they all had in common, one thing that overshadowed all personal differences. one thing that was almost like a religion. comradeship. a feeling of belonging, a knowledge that there was _always_ someone who would believe in you and your ideas. one thing. friendship. captain strong spun on his heel, walked back into the tower, and rode the slidestairs back to his quarters. he had made up his mind. chapter "_stand by to raise ship!_" connel's bull-throated roar blasted through the intercom of the gleaming projectile ship from the power deck where dave barret was stationed, up to the radar bridge where professor hemmingwell waited anxiously. on the main deck, seated at the controls, connel spoke rapidly into the audioceiver microphone. "projectile vessel to spaceport traffic control," he called. "request blast-off clearance!" "spaceport traffic control to connel," came a voice in reply over the audioceiver. "you are cleared. your time is two minutes to zero!" connel began snapping the many levers and switches on the control panel in proper sequence, keeping a wary eye on the astral chronometer over his head as one of its red hands ticked off the seconds to blast-off. the teleceiver screen to his right showed a view of the stern of the vessel and connel could see some of the ground crew slowly rolling away the boarding equipment. flipping on the switch that opened a circuit to an outside loud-speaker, he bellowed an order for the area to be cleared. the crew scurried back behind the blast deflectors and watched the ship through the thick crystal viewports. "power deck," connel called into the intercom, "check in!" "power deck, aye!" reported barret. "radar deck, check in!" "radar deck, aye!" professor hemmingwell acknowledged in a thin voice. "feed reactant!" connel ordered. "reactant feeding at d- rate," said barret after a split-second pause. "energize cooling pumps!" "cooling pumps, aye!" "cut in take-off gyros!" "gyros on," repeated barret. "all clear forward and up!" replied the elderly man. "right!" bawled major connel. "stand by!" tensely he watched the red hand crawl up the face of the chronometer and he gripped the intercom microphone tightly. "blast off," he began, "minus five, four, three, two, one, _zero_!" connel slammed home the master control switch and in an instant the silver ship trembled under a tremendous surge of power. flame and smoke poured out of its exhaust and slowly it began to reach for sky, straining as if to break invisible bonds holding it to earth. her jets shrieking torturously, the ship picked up speed and then suddenly, as though shot from a cannon, it blasted up through the atmosphere--spacebound. a moment later, on the control deck of the ship, major connel swung forward in his chair, shook off the effects of the tremendous acceleration, and called into the intercom, "switch on the gravity generators!" as soon as the artificial gravity was in effect, the officer put the ship on standard cruising speed, changed course slightly to put them on a direct heading to mars, and then ordered barret and hemmingwell to the control deck. "well, professor," he said as he gave the old man a hearty handshake, "so far so good. she handles like a baby carriage. if the projectiles work half as well, you'll really have yourself something!" professor hemmingwell smiled appreciatively and turned to barret, who was just climbing through the hatch from the power deck. "you've done as much as anyone to help this ship get into space, dave," he said. "thank you!" "think nothing of it, professor," replied barret airily. "well, shall we begin the first series of tests?" asked connel. "by all means!" said the professor enthusiastically. "if you and dave will check the firing stations, i'll take care of the paper work!" "right," replied connel. "let's go, barret!" "i'll work outside, major," said barret, turning toward the air lock. "you see that all the firing chambers are properly loaded." "anything you say, barret." the two men turned away from the smiling professor and left the control deck. they separated in the companionway, connel hurrying to the starboard firing chambers and barret going to the midships air lock where he put on a space suit for his task out on the hull. in two minutes the young scientist was out on the odd-looking blisters that marked the exterior of the firing chambers ringing the hull. at each blister barret examined the hollow firing tube carefully. in several he made delicate adjustments to a small metallic ring extending from the opening of the tube. the ring was one of the most important parts of the firing unit, emitting the long-range electronic beam controlling the flight of the projectile. meanwhile, inside the ship, connel checked the loading of each of the chambers, making certain that each of the ten-foot-long torpedolike projectiles was properly secured in its blasting cradle. after fifteen minutes and a complete trip around the ship, the major was satisfied that all was in readiness. he returned to the control deck, meeting barret on the way, and they found professor hemmingwell just completing his calculations for the initial test. he turned to them, waving a paper in front of their eyes. "gentlemen," he said proudly, "we are almost ready. if you will adjust course fifteen degrees to port, we'll be in proper position for the test!" "right," nodded connel. "stand by below, barret." "on my way," replied barret, disappearing through the hatch. "well, professor," said connel, walking to the controls, "this is the big moment!" "yes," nodded hemmingwell. "if these rocket projectiles prove workable now, there's nothing to stop us from carrying on with our test of the ground receivers on mars immediately." "power deck to control deck, check in!" barret's voice suddenly crackled over the intercom. "control deck, aye," replied connel. "ready to blast?" "all set!" "give me a ten-second burst on the starboard steering rockets," ordered connel, gripping the steering vane control tightly. "coming up!" there was a sudden, jolting blast from the stern and connel and hemmingwell hung on grimly as the mighty ship turned in space. watching the control panel instruments carefully, connel slammed home the switch that opened the powerful nose braking rockets and brought the ship to a dead stop in space. "on course, professor, ready to fire!" connel announced triumphantly, and hemmingwell took his station before the giant projectile control board. "stand by to fire one!" said the professor, making a minute adjustment on the panel. behind him, connel unconsciously crossed his fingers. "fire one!" shouted hemmingwell. connel pressed a red button on the panel and waited, holding his breath. there was a distinct hissing and then the great ship lurched slightly. on the teleceiver overhead a white flash appeared, streaked across the screen, and then disappeared in the darkness of space. "fire two!" again there was a hissing sound and another white burst of light faded into the millions of other pinpoints of lights in the black void. over and over again, at one-minute intervals, the projectiles were fired, until all twelve of the firing chambers had discharged their fire-tailed missiles. the professor sat back and smiled weakly at connel. the gruff major winked encouragingly and they both turned to watch the teleceiver screen anxiously. the gyros on each projectile had been preset for a circular flight of fifteen minutes' duration. soon they would be returning and the delicate job of bringing them safely aboard would begin. "here comes number one," shouted connel, as a small pinpoint of light appeared on the screen. "i'm ready!" said the professor. he watched the teleceiver screen carefully, made a minute adjustment of the dial controlling the directional beam emitted by the ring in the number-one firing chamber, and at the last possible moment, snapped the remote-control switch that cut the power in the approaching test projectile. it hung dead in space, immediately over the chamber. gently the professor increased the power of the electro-magnetic ring and pulled the projectile back into the chamber as easily as slipping a hand in a glove. "success!" connel shouted. "professor, you've done it!" "congratulations, sir," dave barret called over the intercom from the power deck. "here comes number two," said professor hemmingwell excitedly, and began to repeat the process to draw the approaching projectiles back into the ship. one after another, five projectiles were taken aboard successfully. then, as he worked on the sixth, the professor began to frown. he rechecked his instruments and then shook his head, obviously disturbed. "what's the trouble?" growled connel, noticing hemmingwell's growing nervousness. "the homing ring on number six tube isn't working properly," replied hemmingwell. "i can't control the projectile." "any idea what's wrong?" the solar guard officer asked. "the settings on the ring must be wrong." the professor picked up the intercom mike. "dave," he called, "check in!" "yes, sir?" replied barret immediately. "did you check the settings on all the rings in the firing chambers?" "yes, sir," reported barret. "they looked o.k. to me. why don't you check with connel? he supervised their installation." "that's true," said the major. "i'll go outside and look them over." connel turned on his heel and hurried to the air-lock chamber. moving with amazing speed for a big man, he donned the space suit in the chamber while the pressure was being equalized. as soon as the air-lock portal opened, he scrambled out on the hull and made his way forward to the bulging firing chambers. stooping over the empty tube of number six, he examined the ring carefully and began to frown. moving on to number seven, his frown deepened. by the time he checked the rings of eight and nine, his face was a grim mask of anger. "professor," he called into his helmet microphone, "check in." [illustration] "yes, major," replied hemmingwell from the control deck. "have you found the trouble?" "i sure have," connel growled. "it's sabotage! and now i think i know who--" connel never finished. there was a sudden burst of power from the great ship and the officer was hurled into space. "major!" cried hemmingwell. "barret! what have you done? connel is outside!" "i couldn't help it, professor," replied barret from the power deck. "my hand slipped and--" "don't talk!" shouted hemmingwell. "stop the ship!" "i can't! the control is jammed!" as the ship surged through space and the professor and barret yelled at each other over the intercom, three space cadets rose from their hiding place in the hold of the ship. tom corbett nudged roger and astro. "you hear that?" he said grimly. "yeah!" replied roger. "let's go!" growled astro. without another word, they opened the hatch and made their way quickly through the rocketing ship, each going to their separate stations, according to the prearranged plan. roger climbed up to the radar bridge, tom entered the control deck, and astro burst into the power deck. "you!" barret cried out, his eyes wide with sudden fear as the huge venusian advanced on him menacingly. "get away from those controls," growled the big cadet. "if you don't, so help me, i'll break you in two!" barret backed away, his face white, hands pawing the air frantically as if he were trying to push the big cadet back. "get over there," said astro. "sit down and keep your mouth shut!" on the control deck, tom was strapping himself into the pilot's chair and calling frantically into the intercom, "give me a course, roger!" "one-seventy-degree turn to starboard," replied roger, "and full ahead! i've got the major on my scanner." "pour on the power, astro!" shouted tom, gripping the controls firmly. as the mighty ship blasted in a long, sweeping arc, professor hemmingwell sat numbly in his chair, aware only that the three cadets were taking the vessel back into the area where the remaining projectiles, completely out of control, were buzzing around in space like maddened hornets. [illustration] chapter "there he is!" roger's voice rose to a triumphant shout on the intercom. "put the brakes on this wagon!" "check!" retorted astro from the power deck, his fingers flying over the switches of the control panel and bringing the ship to a sudden blasting stop. on the control deck, tom turned to professor hemmingwell. "i'm going outside to get major connel, sir," he said. "do you think you'll be all right?" the old man nodded absently, still dazed by the sudden turn of events. tom hurried past him and met roger coming down from the radar bridge. "i'm going too!" the blond-haired cadet announced. "you tell astro?" "yeah. he's got barret locked in the power-deck storeroom and he'll take over the control deck. wonder if they have a jet boat aboard?" "i doubt it. not on a test flight." "we'll have to hurry," said roger as they reached the air lock and began to scramble into space suits. "yes," replied tom. "he probably doesn't have much oxygen." "there's another reason," grunted roger. "what?" "those projectiles. we're right back in the middle of them. any one of them could wreck the ship." "i see what you mean," said tom. "guess it's up to astro to keep dodging them." "never thought i'd be out in space ducking hot projectiles to save old blast-off connel's hide." "neither did i," said tom. "but here we are." stepping into the air lock, they quickly equalized the pressure and a moment later climbed out on the hull. "see him, roger?" asked tom over the helmet intercom. "not yet," replied roger. "i see him," called astro from the control deck. "i got him spotted on the teleceiver. go aft, about a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred yards. i'll direct you from there." "right!" snapped roger. "and listen, you venusian bonehead! make it good. i don't like being a clay pigeon for this crazy shooting gallery out here!" "aw, damp your tubes and get to work," drawled astro. "honestly, tom, did you ever hear him _not_ complain?" tom did not answer. he was busy fastening two oxygen tanks to the front of his space suit and roger's. when he had finished, he checked the pressure and, satisfied, nodded to his unit mate. opening the nozzles of the bottles, they shot away from the ship into the nothingness of space. "you have to go about fifteen degrees to your starboard and five degrees up on the ecliptic," called astro from the control deck. "you'll hit connel right on the nose!" "right!" replied tom, turning the nozzle of the oxygen bottle to the left and immediately shooting off in the indicated direction. roger followed quickly and expertly. "see him?" called tom. "no," replied roger. "are you sure, you big clunk?" "he's right above you!" snorted astro over the intercom. then his voice rose in alarm. "no! that isn't--" "duck, tom!" cried roger. tom opened the nozzle of his oxygen bottle wide and turned it. as he shot away, a projectile roared through the area he had just left. roger had done the same thing, flipping over and shooting up and away from the moving object. "whew!" exclaimed tom. "that was close!" "you blockhead!" roared roger. "what are you trying to do to us? set us up for coffins?" "for you, that's not a bad idea, manning!" snorted astro. "just damp your tubes. i made a mistake." "some mistake!" growled roger. tom and roger maneuvered back together, and locking arms so they would not drift apart, scanned the void around them for connel. suddenly tom jerked free. "roger!" he cried. "what is it?" replied the cadet. "do you see him?" "there!" tom pointed back to the ship. "on the stern! he's hanging on to the cleat over the main tubes!" [illustration: "_he's hanging on to the cleat over the main tube!_"] "astro," roger called, "we're coming back in. we've spotted him." "i heard you!" said astro. "must've come back on his own steam. go get him, quick!" turning the nozzles of their oxygen tanks, the two cadets shot toward the ship. they quickly clambered onto the stern where connel lay stretched out on the side of the hull, arms extended, his gloved hands gripping the small cleat on the side of the hull. in a matter of minutes, the two boys had the solar guard officer safely inside the air-lock chamber and had removed his space helmet and suit. his eyes were closed, and his face was deathly white. tom immediately clapped an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, while roger applied heating units to the wrists and neck. astro burst into the chamber, followed by the professor. "will he be all right?" hemmingwell asked anxiously. "think nothing of it, professor hummingbird," said roger. "the old major will come around any second, and when he does, stand back. the first thing he'll do is yell." "roger, the name is hemmingwell," hissed tom. "oh, yeah, sure," nodded roger, and then turned to astro. "is barret still locked up?" "yeah," replied the venusian. "and i hid the key, so connel can't get to him until he cools off." "the major is coming around," said tom. as they watched, connel stirred, coughed several times, and then opened his eyes. he stared in amazement at tom, then turned to blink unbelievingly at roger and astro. "what in the star-blazing--?" "it's us all right, sir!" tom assured him. "yeah," chimed in roger. "and you're not in heaven or--er--any place else either." as connel suddenly flushed with anger and sat up, hemmingwell spoke quickly. "they saved your life, major," he said. "they did?" connel's face clouded in confusion. "i don't understand. how did you three get aboard, anyway?" "it's a long story, sir," said tom. "right now, maybe we'd better--" before the cadet could finish, there was a loud crashing and a series of jolting bumps as the ship lurched. "what the blue blazes!" roared connel, jumping to his feet in alarm. "the projectiles!" exclaimed roger. "we've got to get out of here!" "by the craters of luna!" cried astro. "i forgot all about them!" tom, roger, astro, hemmingwell, and connel raced out of the air lock to their stations. astro poured on the power without waiting for an order from the control deck and soon they were rocketing into the safety of space. watching the wildly flying missiles on the teleceiver screen, connel breathed a sigh of relief. "wow!" he snorted. "glad we're out of that mess." "but what are we going to do about them, sir," asked tom, a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as he watched the screen. "we can't just leave those things there. some other ship may--" "don't worry about it," connel broke in brusquely. "the projectiles will run out of fuel in a few minutes and they'll just drift. they can be fished out any time." "we can go back and get them ourselves," said the young cadet eagerly. "roger and i can--" "we've got more important things to do now!" thundered connel. switching on the intercom, he ordered roger and astro to report to the control deck. they appeared within seconds of his order and he faced the three cadets grimly. "well, boys," he asked, "what's the story?" "i guess we'd better explain, sir," said tom. "i guess you'd better," nodded connel. tom quickly ran over the chain of events, beginning with his abduction on mars to their appearance on the ship, including the part barret had played in tricking roger and astro into taking the scout. as he spoke, connel looked more and more amazed, and when tom finally uttered the name of the man he thought was responsible for all the sabotage, connel jumped out of his chair. "i can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "you were nearly killed a few minutes ago, sir," said tom. "and who sabotaged the rings? barret! who was around every time something happened? who incited the crew to keep from taking this ship into space? who spread the rumor that it was jinxed? the answer to every one of those questions, sir, is barret. and dave barret is working for--" "let me at that sniveling space pup!" interrupted connel, snarling his rage. "i'll tear him apart and throw him to the buzzards!" the enraged major jumped to the hatch but astro and tom barred his way, with roger stepping quickly in back of him, a heavy wrench in his hand, ready to assist in any manner necessary to subdue the howling officer. "try to kill me!" connel howled. "why, i'll--i'll--" "no, major!" shouted tom. "he's the only one that can help us convict carter devers!" connel stopped. he stared at astro's bulk and then turned to see roger trying to hide the wrench. "were you going to hit me with that thing, manning?" he growled. roger gulped. "yes, sir," he said. "if it was necessary to keep you away from barret, sir. i'm sorry, sir." connel spun back to face tom. "corbett, you must have a plan," he said. "let's have it quick." tom grinned. "all right, sir," he began. suddenly, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw professor hemmingwell slump to the deck. hurriedly they picked up the old man and eased him gently to the nearby acceleration couch. after gulping some water that roger poured for him, the old man smiled weakly. "i'm afraid i don't have the strength to withstand all this excitement," he said. "but now i understand why things were never easy for me. carter devers--he did this to me. he blocked the proposals every time that they were submitted to the solar delegations. he--" hemmingwell's head fell back. roger had put a sedative into the water and the old man was now unconscious. "it's just fatigue," said connel. "he'll be all right in a little while." he turned to tom. "all right, corbett, carry on!" tom hurriedly concluded his story of the events leading up to their startling appearance on the ship, and as he spoke, he saw the major's frown change to a glowing grin. when tom finished, connel suddenly extended his hand in a gesture of friendship. "i have to admit it, corbett," he said. "you've done a good job. and," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "by going along with you, i am an accomplice with captain strong in the aiding of three fugitives from the solar guard." tom, astro, and roger grinned. "now, let's get barret up here and ask him a few questions," continued connel. "and, manning, if i can't restrain myself, you have my permission to hit me with that wrench! but so help me, if you belt me before the time comes, i'll bend that wrench over your skull!" while astro and roger went below to get barret, connel and tom reviewed their plan. "better keep the news quiet for a while," said connel. "if we telecast it back to the academy, devers might get wise." "good idea, sir," acknowledged tom. "but i can't understand devers' motive," said connel. "what does he stand to gain if this project is a failure?" "he'll lose plenty if it's a success," tom asserted. "devers owns jilolo spaceways, the parent company of universal jet trucking and surface transportation! if the projectiles worked, surface cargo delivery would be wiped out." before connel could comment on tom's startling revelation, they heard the sound of angry voices just outside the control-deck hatch. "that must be astro and roger bringing in barret," said tom with a grin. the hatch clanked open and astro appeared, carrying roger under one arm and barret under the other. he dropped them both unceremoniously on the deck, but when they jumped to their feet, roger charged forward quickly and landed a stinging right to barret's jaw. the man dropped to the deck again like a stone. "manning!" roared connel. "what was the idea?" "i wanted to make sure i got in my licks before the solar guard got hold of him," replied roger, rubbing his knuckles and looking down at barret's inert form. astro grinned sheepishly. "i tried to stop him, sir!" he said. "i'll just bet you tried to stop him!" bellowed connel. "cadet manning, you put that man to sleep, now you wake him up!" "yes, sir!" said roger, and while connel, astro, and tom roared with laughter, he poured an entire bottle of water on barret's face. chapter "i don't know what you're talking about!" shouting angrily, barret sat in one of the pilot's chairs, flanked by roger and astro, while connel and tom stood in front of him firing questions. "barret," said connel, "i have enough evidence on you now to send you to a prison asteroid for ten years at least!" "on what charge?" demanded the young man. "trying to kill an officer of the solar guard." "where is your proof?" demanded barret. "right there!" snorted major connel, pointing to the sleeping figure of professor hemmingwell. "what do you mean?" demanded barret. "he'll swear that you deliberately sent this ship into full drive while i was out on the hull checking the rings." "he can't," protested barret. "he was on the bridge! he couldn't have seen a thing!" tom shook his head gently. "barret, after what you've done to his ship and the projectile operation," he said, "hemmingwell will swear to anything." "it's a frame-up!" shouted barret. "and what do you think you did to us?" snarled roger. barret flushed and turned away. "you can't scare me," he muttered. "go ahead. let him swear to whatever he wants." connel stepped back grimly and turned to astro and roger. "all right, boys," he said. "take him below and see if you can't get some different answers out of him." the hardened spaceman turned his back and walked to the viewport. "why, you dirty space rat!" screamed barret. "you wouldn't dare!" "oh, wouldn't he!" retorted roger. "listen, pal, he figures we owe you plenty for what you did to us, and he's just giving us a chance to pay you back!" he faced barret grimly. "mister, you're going to get the works! come on, astro!" as the giant venusian advanced on barret, the man shrank back in his chair, eyes widening in sudden fear. when astro stretched out his huge hand and grabbed him by the front of his jacket, he screamed in fright. "all right, all right!" he cried out. "i'll talk! devers did it! he made me do it! he's responsible for the whole thing!" "turn on that audiograph, corbett!" shouted connel. tom snapped on the machine and brought the microphone over to barret, holding it in front of his trembling mouth. "all right, talk!" connel growled. "and tell it all." barret had hardly uttered the first stumbling words when roger let out a shout of alarm. "hey! the scanner!" he cried. they all turned to the teleceiver screen. to their horror, they saw a menacing shape blasting toward them. they recognized it instantly--a space torpedo! astro dove through the power-deck hatch while roger raced for the radar-bridge ladder. tom hurled himself into the copilot's chair, and with connel beside him in the command position, he waited for astro to supply power. suddenly the ship trembled violently and then shot forward as, far below, the jet exhausts screamed under the full thrust of all the atomic reactors. tom rode the controls hard and kept his eye on the scanner screen. "it's a magnetic gyrofish!" he cried as he saw the torpedo curve after them. "roger, can you plot her for me?" "working on it now, tom!" yelled roger over the intercom. "how in blazes did that thing get out here?" muttered connel. "we'll have to worry about that later, i'm afraid, sir," replied tom. "we're going to have our hands full getting away from her. with that magnetic warhead, she'll follow us all over space unless we can throw her off." "which will take some doing!" grunted connel, frowning in deep concern. "hey, tom!" roger's voice called over the intercom. "it's blasting on maximum thrust now. we have a pretty good chance. use that idea we worked out. make a series of left turns and always on the up-plane of the ecliptic!" "right!" said tom, clutching the master manual-control lever and beginning to fly the giant ship through space by "feel." "what in blazes are you doing, corbett?" shouted connel in sudden alarm. "just hang on and watch, sir," replied tom, keeping his eyes on the scanner where he could see the space torpedo trailing them. over and over, tom kept slamming the ship into sharp left turns, while the torpedo followed in an ever-narrowing circle. "all right, tom!" yelled roger again. "give it the same thing on the right and the down-plane of the ecliptic!" "check!" answered tom, reversing his controls and sending the ship corkscrewing through space on an opposite course. connel grabbed the arms of his chair and gasped, "you kids are space happy!" "those gyros are so perfect, sir," said tom, working the controls quickly and smoothly, "that the only way you can throw them off balance is to confuse them." "confuse them!" exclaimed connel. "yes, sir," said tom. "it's a theory roger and i worked out together. no gyro is perfect, and if you can get it bouncing back and forth in extreme turns, it will be thrown out of balance. then all we have to do is make the torpedo miss once and it won't come back." "heaven help us all!" was connel's groaning reply. "on the ball, tom!" cried roger. "she's closing in on us!" "i see her," replied tom calmly. "hang on, everybody. i'm going to turn this ship inside out!" jerking the controls, tom threw the ship into a mad, whirling spin, subjecting the vessel to the most severe strain tests it would ever undergo. the hull groaned and creaked, and badly fitted equipment tore loose and clattered across the deck. suddenly the young cadet leveled the ship. "nose braking rockets, astro!" he called. "braking rockets, aye!" acknowledged the venusian over the intercom. on the power deck, astro jammed the forward drive closed and slammed open the nose rockets. the ship trembled, bucked, and finally came to a shuddering stop before it started a reverse course, accelerating quickly. "here it comes!" yelled roger. as connel and tom watched tensely, the space torpedo loomed large and menacing on the scanner, and then, as they held their breaths, it whistled past the silvery hull of the ship, with less than two feet to spare! sighing deeply, tom brought the ship back to level flight. "we're o.k. now, sir," he said. "her gyros are out. she won't come back." "by the craters of luna!" connel suddenly exploded. "the solar guard spends a fortune to develop a foolproof space torpedo and two hot-shot cadets come along and get away from the blasted thing! why haven't you told this to anyone before?" "why--er--" stammered tom, "we've never had the chance to prove it, sir." behind them, the power-deck hatch suddenly opened and astro stepped in. "nice work, tom!" he called. "and as for you, you venusian ape," roared connel, "don't you realize that you can blow a reactor tube by throwing so much power into a ship without energizing the cooling pumps first?" astro smiled. "not if you open the by-pass, sir," he said, "and feed directly off the pump reservoir. the gas cools the tube and at the same time expands itself and adds to the power thrust." at astro's easy reply connel could only stand openmouthed in amazement. again, one of the three cadets of the _polaris_ unit had developed a revolutionary procedure that even top rocket scientists would be proud to call their own. winking at tom, astro turned away and suddenly noticed barret sprawled on the deck, unconscious. "what happened to him?" asked the big venusian. "oh, i forgot all about him," said tom. "guess he didn't get into an acceleration chair in time. better get some more water." "we haven't time for him now!" snapped connel. "strap him in good and tight. we've got to find out where that torpedo came from." as though in answer to the major's order, there was a sudden call over the ship's intercom. "radar bridge to control deck, check in!" there was a note of alarm in roger's voice. tom jumped to the control panel to reply. "control deck, aye!" he snapped into the microphone. "there's a spaceship to starboard!" called roger. "distance twenty miles, fifteen degrees up on the plane of the ecliptic. and i swear she's maneuvering to fire another torpedo!" "stand by action stations!" roared connel, diving into his chair before the control panel. tom strapped in next to him, while astro made a headlong dash for the power deck. "yes!" shouted roger. "she's fired a torpedo!" "raise her! raise her!" bellowed connel. "tell them who we are!" he turned to tom. "go into your act, corbett," he said, "and make it good!" as tom manipulated the controls again, the silver ship plunged through space, turning and gyrating in the same series of maneuvers it had performed to escape the first torpedo. but this time the distance separating them was not as great and the torpedo closed in quickly. "can't you raise that ship yet, manning?" connel roared into the intercom. "i just have, sir," replied roger in a strained voice. "but it's--" "let me talk to that lame brain of a skipper," interrupted connel. "by the stars, i'll teach him to--" "it's no use, connel," said a gruff voice over the control-deck loud-speaker. "even if you duck this torpedo, i've got ten more!" "who is this?" roared connel. "don't you know, connel? why, i'm surprised!" the teleceiver screen glowed into life and tom and connel stared in horror as they recognized the images of three men. the one in the foreground smiled mockingly and said, "remember me, connel?" "devers!" connel roared. "and the other two behind him--" stuttered tom. "cag and monty!" "why, you dirty space crawler," cried connel, "i'll get you if it's the last thing i do!" [illustration] "no, you won't, major." devers laughed. "the last thing you'll do is kiss a space torpedo. then no more major blast-off connel, no more whimpering professor hemmingwell, and most important, no more projectile ship!" and as devers laughed loudly, tom threw the ship into another violent turn and cried, "it's no use, major. i can't duck this one!" "all hands brace for torpedo!" warned connel. suddenly there was an explosion aft. the ship lurched and shuddered violently, spinning through space, and as tom fought the controls, everything went black. the ship drifted helplessly, out of control. [illustration] chapter "turn on the lights! cut in the emergency batteries!" connel's bull-throated roar carried through the ship as he stood on the power deck with astro and shouted to tom on the control deck. the space torpedo had destroyed the stern of the vessel, and if it hadn't been for astro's quick action in sealing off the aftersection of the ship, all the air might have been lost and the crew dead of suffocation. a moment later the emergency lights glowed weakly and connel and the big venusian cadet began a quick inspection of the ship. the power deck was a total loss. the ship would never get under way again. up on the radar bridge, roger was about to turn on the radar scanner when tom appeared and stopped him. "wait a while, roger," he said. "we may need the power for something else." "what, for instance?" snorted roger. "that ship is still out there, probably closing in for the kill." "a blasted lot we can do about it," roger growled. "i've got a plan that might work," said tom half-heartedly. "it's about the only thing i can think of, unless connel and astro have a better idea." "what is it? whatever it is, it's better than sitting here like a dead duck, waiting for that rat to come in and finish us off!" said roger. "look, i've just got to see what he's doing out there." he flipped on the scanner switch and while he waited for the set to warm up he turned back to tom. "what's your idea?" "well," began tom, "the only thing we've got on board that we can use to fight back with are those projectiles." "how can we fight with projectiles?" demanded roger. "they don't carry warheads!" "no," agreed tom. "but they're big and heavy. they pack a wallop if they hit anything." roger's eyes brightened suddenly. "say, i think--" the scanner began to beep and roger turned his attention to the screen. tom leaned over his shoulder and watched eagerly. they both saw devers' ship flying in a slow circle around them. "probably looking to see which would be the best way to let us have it!" snarled roger. at that moment major connel climbed into the radar bridge, followed by astro. "time to go," announced the officer. "go where?" demanded roger. "we have to abandon ship," declared connel. "the power deck is shot. we'll never get under way, and we're just sitting ducks if we stay aboard." "what's to prevent devers from picking us off while we're outside?" asked roger. "nothing," said connel. "but he'll have a harder job and maybe he won't get all of us." "then, sir," said tom with a glance at roger, "i have an idea." "let's have it," said connel. "the projectiles, sir," replied tom. "what about them?" "we can still fire them off the emergency batteries, sir." "will you get to the point, corbett?" growled connel. "devers is liable to send another torpedo our way any second and--" connel suddenly stopped and his eyes widened. "a torpedo!" he gasped. "exactly, sir!" exclaimed tom. "we have five projectiles! we can use them as torpedoes!" "jumping jupiter!" exclaimed astro. "what a terrific idea!" "what a terrific pipe dream!" snapped connel. "those projectiles don't have any warheads!" "they could still do a lot of damage if they hit that ship," asserted tom. "and how do you expect to aim them?" demanded connel. "there's not enough juice in the batteries to steer them!" "we'll just fire them straight ahead, sir," broke in roger. "look!" he continued, pointing to the scanner screen. "devers' ship is just circling us now. and he's on the same plane of the ecliptic. if he holds that course--" "he'll cross our bow!" exclaimed astro excitedly. "a perfect shot!" "ridiculous!" shouted connel. "preposterous! it'll never work in a million light years! he'll fire another torpedo and we'll be blasted into space dust!" "but we can try it, can't we, sir?" asked tom, grinning. "of course we can!" roared connel. "i've never given up a battle yet and, by the stars, i'm not going to now!" forgetting rank and protocol, the three cadets danced around the major, slapping him on the back and howling their enthusiasm. connel could not restrain a momentary grin and then his features assumed his usual bulldog look. "knock it off!" he shouted. "we've got work to do. manning!" "yes, sir?" "keep your eyes nailed to that scanner!" connel bellowed. "sing out if devers changes course by so much as a hair!" "aye, aye, sir!" "astro!" "sir?" "put space suits on professor hemmingwell and barret and stand by with them on the control deck." "aye, aye, sir!" "corbett, you and i will check the projectiles. make sure they're in firing order!" spinning on his heel, connel left the radar bridge. alone for just an instant, the three cadets of the _polaris_ unit clasped hands in silent determination and then plunged into their various assignments. five minutes later, connel and tom returned to the control deck to find astro waiting for them. professor hemmingwell and barret, both in space suits, were seated on acceleration couches. as connel walked up to him, hemmingwell raised his head slowly, still under the effects of the sedative. "what's--what's happening, major?" he asked haltingly. "professor," said connel, "one of two things is going to happen. either your ship will be blown to space dust or carter devers will be finished and we'll bring your ship back to earth!" "good, good," murmured hemmingwell. "and as for you, barret"--connel turned toward the man angrily--"now you can see what kind of thanks you get for your dirty work! your boss is just as willing to get rid of you as he is to destroy this project!" barret flushed under connel's glare and turned away. at the control panel, tom opened the circuits to the five loaded firing chambers and then turned to connel. "all set to fire, sir!" he called. "any word from manning?" asked connel. "not while i've been here," replied astro. connel picked up the intercom microphone. "hello, manning!" he shouted. "what's the story?" "coming up to the last chapter," replied roger over the intercom. "devers is holding course. should cross our bow in two minutes!" "good," replied connel. "keep us posted!" replacing the microphone, he turned to tom. "stupid fool!" he snorted. "he should've fired another torpedo and wiped us out. what's the matter with him?" connel abhorred stupidity, even in an adversary. "maybe he thinks we've already had it," suggested astro. "with our stern blasted away, he might figure all the air's gone out of the ship." "let's hope he keeps on figuring that way," said connel. "everything ready to fire, corbett?" "all set, sir," the young cadet replied. "i've hooked up all circuits to this button." he pointed to a button on the control panel. "we'll blast in salvo." "oh, we will, will we?" exclaimed connel. "if you think it's advisable," tom amended hurriedly. "of course it's advisable!" snorted connel. "we're almost aiming blind as it is. a salvo will give us a bigger spread. besides," he added, "with a whole barrel of luck, we might hit him with two of the projectiles. that would really do some damage." "i'd like just a little potful of luck," murmured astro, "and be able to land one." "heads up, down there!" roger's voice suddenly sang out on the intercom. "devers crossing our bow yet?" asked tom. "he's still holding course," said roger. "but he's training his number one starboard tube this way. he's going to blast us again!" "how long do we have to wait for that bow shot?" demanded connel. "another forty-five seconds at least!" came roger's reply. "blast it!" muttered connel. "plenty of time for him to fire." barret suddenly rose from his acceleration couch, screaming, "you can't keep me here! let me go!" astro grabbed him quickly and threw him back down. "stay put," he growled. "no," cried barret, frantic with fear. "it's murder! let me go!" "relax and enjoy it, barret," snorted connel. "it's your boss who's doing it!" "what about professor hemmingwell, sir?" asked tom. "shouldn't we--?" "no," hemmingwell spoke up from his daze. "i want to stay with my ship." "hey!" roger cried over the intercom. "we're getting company!" "company?" exclaimed tom. "what're you talking about?" "a solar guard cruiser," replied roger. "coming up to port. about five hundred miles away. hey! it's the _polaris_!" "it must be captain strong!" shouted tom. "he won't do us much good now," muttered connel. "how much time do we have, roger?" "get set down there. only another ten seconds and devers will be right on our bow." "on the ball, tom!" ordered connel. "ready, sir." the seconds ticked by slowly. one--two--three--four--beads of sweat appeared on connel's brow. astro clenched and unclenched his fists. hemmingwell closed his eyes calmly and waited. barret slumped back in his couch, almost paralyzed with fear. "coming up, tom!" cried roger. tom didn't reply. he kept his fingers poised on the firing button. and the seconds ticked off slowly, maddeningly. seven--eight--nine--! "they've fired," roger shouted. "point-blank! we're going to get it!" "fire, tom!" shouted connel. even as connel spoke, tom's finger pressed down hard on the firing button. the ship quivered as five projectiles blasted from the firing chambers and winged their deadly way through space. the control room of the ship was silent, everyone waiting for the impact of the torpedo and praying that somehow, someway, they could know whether their own attack had succeeded even if they lost their own lives in the attempt to destroy devers' ship. there was a sudden, blasting roar and a brilliant white flash of light filled the cabin. the deck heaved violently, then dropped sickeningly. under the force of the explosion, everyone was thrown to the deck and lay deathly still. * * * * * in the wardroom of the rocket cruiser _polaris_, captain strong, major connel, professor hemmingwell, and roger and astro were sipping tea and calmly discussing the events of the past hour. "your ship wasn't too badly damaged, professor," said strong. "we'll take her in tow and bring her back to space academy. she'll be good as new." "i'm afraid you'll have to do without the services of dave barret though, sir," commented connel dryly. "he's got a previous engagement on a prison asteroid and it's going to take him a long time." "i can do very well without him," said hemmingwell. "as a matter of fact, i would have done extremely well without him before." he paused and shook his head. "i feel so ashamed of myself when i think of the things i said to those boys." he nodded toward astro and roger. "and all the time they were right." astro grinned shyly. roger was about to open his mouth and make a typically flip remark when the hatch opened and tom appeared, a bandage covering his head. the two cadets jumped toward him and snowed him under with affectionate slaps on the back. "wait a minute!" cried tom. "i'm injured. look at my head!" "you couldn't have hit the control panel with anything better!" snorted connel. "but what happened?" asked tom. "two of the projectiles hit devers' ship," said roger. "one of them on the power deck. must've smashed the reaction tanks and made the stuff wildcat, because it blew him into rocket dust!" [illustration: "_the projectiles blew devers' ship into rocket dust!_"] "but his torpedo! he fired at the same time!" said tom. "this unit is the luckiest in the universe," said roger proudly. "one of the other projectiles smacked the torpedo and exploded the warhead. we were bounced around by the shock wave but that's all!" "well, i'll be a martian mouse," sighed tom. "then everything is o.k. now?" "so far as you three are concerned, it's perfect," said strong. "barret has spilled everything. you're cleared of all charges!" "what about pat troy?" asked tom. "he's in the clear, too," said strong. "you may remember that he refused to tell us who he was working for besides professor hemmingwell and that made us suspicious of him. well, we found out, when he regained consciousness a short time ago, that he is a security agent for the solar alliance council. he had been assigned to work with the professor and to help protect him. barret has admitted that he tried to murder troy." "humph!" snorted connel, suddenly rising. the room was intensely quiet and tom, astro, and roger felt that there was something coming. strong could hardly suppress a grin as connel took a paper from his tunic. "this message was received just fifteen minutes ago," he said. "it reads, quote, major connel, solar guard. with reference to operation space projectile, information has come to us that the space cadet unit, known as the _polaris_ unit, has contributed in an outstanding and extraordinary way to the successful completion of this highly valuable project. as senior line officer of the academy, it is hereby requested that you bestow upon this unit some form of expression of the gratitude of this council for their remarkable and inspired behavior in the face of relentless odds. signed, secretary general, solar council, venusport, venus. fourteenth of june, , end quote." connel slipped the paper inside his tunic and faced the three cadets. "all right, you heard it!" he growled. "and you deserve it. you have three weeks' leave. but when you come back," he added, "watch out!" "oh, for the life of a space cadet!" said tom, grinning at his unit mates. "it's wonderful!" [illustration] +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's notes | | | | | | the following typos have been corrected. | | | | particularly particular | | stomach. that stomach that | | i"ll i'll | | an attempt at murder," "an attempt at murder," | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ etext of simple sabotage field manual office of strategic services simple sabotage field manual strategic services (provisional) prepared under direction of the director of strategic services oss reproduction branch simple sabotage field manual strategic services (provisional) strategic services field manual no. office of strategic services washington, d. c. january this simple sabotage field manual strategic services (provisional) is published for the information and guidance of all concerned and will be used as the basic doctrine for strategic services training for this subject. the contents of this manual should be carefully controlled and should not be allowed to come into unauthorized hands. the instructions may be placed in separate pamphlets or leaflets according to categories of operations but should be distributed with care and not broadly. they should be used as a basis of radio broadcasts only for local and special cases and as directed by the theater commander. ar - , pertaining to handling of secret documents, will be complied with in the handling of this manual. william j. donovan contents . introduction . possible effects . motivating the saboteur . tools, targets, and timing . specific suggestions for simple sabotage . introduction the purpose of this paper is to characterize simple sabotage, to outline its possible effects, and to present suggestions for inciting and executing it. sabotage varies from highly technical coup de main acts that require detailed planning and the use of specially-trained operatives, to innumerable simple acts which the ordinary individual citizen-saboteur can perform. this paper is primarily concerned with the latter type. simple sabotage does not require specially prepared tools or equipment; it is executed by an ordinary citizen who may or may not act individually and without the necessity for active connection with an organized group; and it is carried out in such a way as to involve a minimum danger of injury, detection, and reprisal. where destruction is involved, the weapons of the citizen-saboteur are salt, nails, candles, pebbles, thread, or any other materials he might normally be expected to possess as a householder or as a worker in his particular occupation. his arsenal is the kitchen shelf, the trash pile, his own usual kit of tools and supplies. the targets of his sabotage are usually objects to which he has normal and inconspicuous access in everyday life. a second type of simple sabotage requires no destructive tools whatsoever and produces physical damage, if any, by highly indirect means. it is based on universal opportunities to make faulty decisions, to adopt a noncooperative attitude, and to induce others to follow suit. making a faulty decision may be simply a matter of placing tools in one spot instead of another. a non-cooperative attitude may involve nothing more than creating an unpleasant situation among one's fellow workers, engaging in bickerings, or displaying surliness and stupidity. this type of activity, sometimes referred to as the "human element," is frequently responsible for accidents, delays, and general obstruction even under normal conditions. the potential saboteur should discover what types of faulty decisions and the operations are normally found in this kind of work and should then devise his sabotage so as to enlarge that "margin for error." . possible effects acts of simple sabotage are occurring throughout europe. an effort should be made to add to their efficiency, lessen their detectability, and increase their number. acts of simple sabotage, multiplied by thousands of citizen-saboteurs, can be an effective weapon against the enemy. slashing tires, draining fuel tanks, starting fires, starting arguments, acting stupidly, short-circuiting electric systems, abrading machine parts will waste materials, manpower, and time. occurring on a wide scale, simple sabotage will be a constant and tangible drag on the war effort of the enemy. simple sabotage may also have secondary results of more or less value. widespread practice of simple sabotage will harass and demoralize enemy administrators and police. further, success may embolden the citizen-saboteur eventually to find colleagues who can assist him in sabotage of greater dimensions. finally, the very practice of simple sabotage by natives in enemy or occupied territory may make these individuals identify themselves actively with the united nations war effort, and encourage them to assist openly in periods of allied invasion and occupation. . motivating the saboteur to incite the citizen to the active practice of simple sabotage and to keep him practicing that sabotage over sustained periods is a special problem. simple sabotage is often an act which the citizen performs according to his own initiative and inclination. acts of destruction do not bring him any personal gain and may be completely foreign to his habitually conservationist attitude toward materials and tools. purposeful stupidity is contrary to human nature. he frequently needs pressure, stimulation or assurance, and information and suggestions regarding feasible methods of simple sabotage. ( ) personal motives (a) the ordinary citizen very probably has no immediate personal motive for committing simple sabotage. instead, he must be made to anticipate indirect personal gain, such as might come with enemy evacuation or destruction of the ruling government group. gains should be stated as specifically as possible for the area addressed: simple sabotage will hasten the day when commissioner x and his deputies y and z will be thrown out, when particularly obnoxious decrees and restrictions will be abolished, when food will arrive, and so on. abstract verbalizations about personal liberty, freedom of the press, and so on, will not be convincing in most parts of the world. in many areas they will not even be comprehensible. (b) since the effect of his own acts is limited, the saboteur may become discouraged unless he feels that he is a member of a large, though unseen, group of saboteurs operating against the enemy or the government of his own country and elsewhere. this can be conveyed indirectly: suggestions which he reads and hears can include observations that a particular technique has been successful in this or that district. even if the technique is not applicable to his surroundings, another's success will encourage him to attempt similar acts. it also can be conveyed directly: statements praising the effectiveness of simple sabotage can be contrived which will be published by white radio, freedom stations, and the subversive press. estimates of the proportion of the population engaged in sabotage can be disseminated. instances of successful sabotage already are being broadcast by white radio and freedom stations, and this should be continued and expanded where compatible with security. (c) more important than (a) or (b) would be to create a situation in which the citizen-saboteur acquires a sense of responsibility and begins to educate others in simple sabotage. ( ) encouraging destructiveness it should be pointed out to the saboteur where the circumstances are suitable, that he is acting in self-defense against the enemy, or retaliating against the enemy for other acts of destruction. a reasonable amount of humor in the presentation of suggestions for simple sabotage will relax tensions of fear. (a) the saboteur may have to reverse his thinking, and he should be told this in so many words. where he formerly thought of keeping his tools sharp, he should now let them grow dull; surfaces that formerly were lubricated now should be sanded; normally diligent, he should now be lazy and careless; and so on. once he is encouraged to think backwards about himself and the objects of his everyday life, the saboteur will see many opportunities in his immediate environment which cannot possibly be seen from a distance. a state of mind should be encouraged that anything can be sabotaged. (b) among the potential citizen-saboteurs who are to engage in physical destruction, two extreme types may be distinguished. on the one hand, there is the man who is not technically trained and employed. this man needs specific suggestions as to what he can and should destroy as well as details regarding the tools by means of which destruction is accomplished. (c) at the other extreme is the man who is a technician, such as a lathe operator or an automobile mechanic. presumably this man would be able to devise methods of simple sabotage which would be appropriate to his own facilities. however, this man needs to be stimulated to re-orient his thinking in the direction of destruction. specific examples, which need not be from his own field, should accomplish this. (d) various media may be used to disseminate suggestions and information regarding simple sabotage. among the media which may be used, as the immediate situation dictates, are: freedom stations or radio false (unreadable) broadcasts or leaflets may be directed toward specific geographic or occupational areas, or they may be general in scope. finally, agents may be trained in the art of simple sabotage, in anticipation of a time when they may be able to communicate this information directly. ( ) safety measures (a) the amount of activity carried on by the saboteur will be governed not only by the number of opportunities he sees, but also by the amount of danger he feels. bad news travels fast, and simple sabotage will be discouraged if too many simple saboteurs are arrested. (b) it should not be difficult to prepare leaflets and other media for the saboteur about the choice of weapons, time, and targets which will insure the saboteur against detection and retaliation. among such suggestions might be the following: ( ) use materials which appear to be innocent. a knife or a nail file can be carried normally on your person; either is a multi-purpose instrument for creating damage. matches, pebbles, hair, salt, nails, and dozens of other destructive agents can be carried or kept in your living quarters without exciting any suspicion whatever. if you are a worker in a particular trade or industry you can easily carry and keep such things as wrenches, hammers, emery paper, and the like. ( ) try to commit acts for which large numbers of people could be responsible. for instance, if you blow out the wiring in a factory at a central fire box, almost anyone could have done it. on-the-street sabotage after dark, such as you might be able to carry out against a military car or truck, is another example of an act for which it would be impossible to blame you. ( ) do not be afraid to commit acts for which you might be blamed directly, so long as you do so rarely, and as long as you have a plausible excuse: you dropped your wrench across an electric circuit because an air raid had kept you up the night before and you were half-dozing at work. always be profuse in your apologies. frequently you can "get away" with such acts under the cover of pretending stupidity, ignorance, over-caution, fear of being suspected of sabotage, or weakness and dullness due to undernourishment. ( ) after you have committed an act of easy sabotage, resist any temptation to wait around and see what happens. loiterers arouse suspicion. of course, there are circumstances when it would be suspicious for you to leave. if you commit sabotage on your job, you should naturally stay at your work. . tools, targets, and timing the citizen-saboteur cannot be closely controlled. nor is it reasonable to expect that simple sabotage can be precisely concentrated on specific types of target according to the requirements of a concrete military situation. attempts to control simple sabotage according to developing military factors, moreover, might provide the enemy with intelligence of more or less value in anticipating the date and area of notably intensified or notably slackened military activity. sabotage suggestions, of course, should be adapted to fit the area where they are to be practiced. target priorities for general types of situations likewise can be specified, for emphasis at the proper time by the underground press, freedom stations, and cooperating propaganda. ( ) under general conditions (a) simple sabotage is more than malicious mischief, and it should always consist of acts whose results will be detrimental to the materials and manpower of the enemy. (b) the saboteur should be ingenious in using his every-day equipment. all sorts of weapons will present themselves if he looks at his surroundings in a different light. for example, emery dust -- a at first may seen unobtainable but if the saboteur were to pulverize an emery knife sharpener or emery wheel with a hammer, he would find himself with a plentiful supply. (c) the saboteur should never attack targets beyond his capacity or the capacity of his instruments. an inexperienced person should not, for example, attempt to use explosives, but should confine himself to the use of matches or other familiar weapons. (d) the saboteur should try to damage only objects and materials known to be in use by the enemy or to be destined for early use by the enemy. it will be safe for him to assume that almost any product of heavy industry is destined for enemy use, and that the most efficient fuels and lubricants also are destined for enemy use. without special knowledge, however, it would be undesirable for him to attempt destruction of food crops or food products. (e) although the citizen-saboteur may rarely have access to military objects, he should give these preference above all others. ( ) prior to a military offensive during periods which are quiescent in a military sense, such emphasis as can be given to simple sabotage might well center on industrial production, to lessen the flow of materials and equipment to the enemy. slashing a rubber tire on an army truck may be an act of value; spoiling a batch of rubber in the production plant is an act of still more value. ( ) during a military offensive (a) most significant sabotage for an area which is, or is soon destined to be, a theater of combat operations is that whose effects will be direct and immediate. even if the effects are relatively minor and localized, this type of sabotage is to be preferred to activities whose effects, while widespread, are indirect and delayed. ( ) the saboteur should be encouraged to attack transportation facilities of all kinds. among such facilities are roads, railroads, auto mobiles, trucks, motor-cycles, bicycles, trains, and trams. ( ) any communications facilities which can be used by the authorities to transmit instructions or morale material should be the objects of simple sabotage. these include telephone, telegraph and power systems, radio, newspapers, placards, and public notices. ( ) critical materials, valuable in themselves or necessary to the efficient functioning of transportation and communication, also should become targets for the citizen-saboteur. these may include oil, gasoline, tires, food, and water. . specific suggestions for simple sabotage it will not be possible to evaluate the desirability of simple sabotage in an area without having in mind rather specifically what individual acts and results are embraced by the definition of simple sabotage. a listing of specific acts follows, classified according to types of target. this list is presented as a growing rather than a complete outline of the methods of simple sabotage. as new techniques are developed, or new fields explored, it will be elaborated and expanded. ( ) buildings warehouses, barracks, offices, hotels, and factory buildings are outstanding targets for simple sabotage. they are extremely susceptible to damage, especially by fire; they offer opportunities to such untrained people as janitors, charwomen, and casual visitors; and, when damaged, they present a relatively large handicap to the enemy. (a) fires can be started wherever there is an accumulation of inflammable material. warehouses are obviously the most promising targets but incendiary sabotage need not be confined to them alone. ( ) whenever possible, arrange to have the fire start after you have gone away. use a candle and paper, combination, setting it as close as possible to the inflammable material you want to burn: from a sheet of paper, tear a strip three or four centimeters wide and wrap it around the base of the candle two or three times. twist more sheets of paper into loose ropes and place them around the base of the candle. when the candle flame reaches the encircling strip, it will be ignited and in turn will ignite the surrounding paper. the size, heat, and duration of the resulting flame will depend on how much paper you use and how much of it you can cramp in a small space. ( ) with a flame of this kind, do not attempt to ignite any but rather inflammable materials, such as cotton sacking. to light more resistant materials, use a candle plus tightly rolled or twisted paper which has been soaked in gasoline. to create a briefer but even hotter flame, put celluloid such as you might find in an old comb, into a nest of plain or saturated paper which is to be fired by a candle. ( ) to make another type of simple fuse, soak one end of a piece of string in grease. rub a generous pinch of gunpowder over the inch of string where greasy string meets clean string. then ignite the clean end of the string. it will burn slowly without a flame (in much the same way that a cigarette burns) until it reaches the grease and gunpowder; it will then flare up suddenly. the grease-treated string will then burn with a flame. the same effect may be achieved by using matches instead of the grease and gunpowder. run the string over the match heads, taking care that the string is not pressed or knotted. they too will produce a sudden flame. the advantage of this type of fuse is that string burns at a set speed. you can time your fire by the length and thickness of the string you chose. ( ) use a fuse such as; the ones suggested above to start a fire in an office after hours. the destruction of records and other types of documents would be a serious handicap to the enemy. ( ) in basements where waste is kept, janitors should accumulate oily and greasy waste. such waste sometimes ignites spontaneously, but it can easily be lit with a cigarette or match. if you are a janitor on night duty, you can be the first to report the fire, but don't report it too soon. ( ) a clean factory is not susceptible to fire, but a dirty one is. workers should be careless with refuse and janitors should be inefficient in cleaning. if enough dirt and trash can be accumulated an otherwise fireproof building will become inflammable. ( ) where illuminating gas is used in a room which is vacant at night, shut the windows tightly, turn on the gas, and leave a candle burning in the room, closing the door tightly behind you. after a time, the gas will explode, and a fire may or may not follow. (b) water and miscellaneous ( ) ruin warehouse stock by setting the automatic sprinkler system to work. you can do this by tapping the sprinkler heads sharply with a hammer or by holding a match under them. ( ) forget to provide paper in toilets; put tightly rolled paper, hair, and other obstructions in the w. c. saturate a sponge with a thick starch or sugar solution. squeeze it tightly into a ball, wrap it with string, and dry. remove the string when fully dried. the sponge will be in the form of a tight hard ball. flush down a w. c. or otherwise introduce into a sewer line. the sponge will gradually expand to its normal size and plug the sewage system. ( ) put a coin beneath a bulb in a public building during the daytime, so that fuses will blow out when lights are turned on at night. the fuses themselves may be rendered ineffective by putting a coin behind them or loading them with heavy wire. then a short-circuit may either start a fire, damage transformers, or blow out a central fuse which will interrupt distribution of electricity to a large area. ( ) jam paper, bits of wood, hairpins, and anything else that will fit, into the locks of all unguarded entrances to public buildings. ( ) industrial production: manufacturing (a) tools ( ) let cutting tools grow dull. they will be inefficient, will slow down production, and may damage the materials and parts you use them on. ( ) leave saws slightly twisted when you are not using them. after a while, they will break when used. ( ) using a very rapid stroke will wear out a file before its time. so will dragging a file in slow strokes under heavy pressure. exert pressure on the backward stroke as well as the forward stroke. ( ) clean files by knocking them against the vise or the workpiece; they are easily broken this way. ( ) bits and drills will snap under heavy pressure. ( ) you can put a press punch out of order by putting in it more material than it is adjusted for--two blanks instead of one, for example. ( ) power-driven tools like pneumatic drills, riveters, and so on, are never efficient when dirty. lubrication points and electric contacts can easily be fouled by normal accumulations of dirt or the insertion of foreign matter. (b) oil and lubrication systems are not only vulnerable to easy sabotage, but are critical in every machine with moving parts. sabotage of oil and lubrication will slow production or stop work entirely at strategic points in industrial processes. ( ) put metal dust or filings, fine sand, ground glass, emery dust (get it by pounding up an emery knife sharpener) and similar hard, gritty substances directly into lubrication systems. they will scour smooth surfaces, ruining pistons, cylinder walls, shafts, and bearings. they will overheat and stop motors which will need overhauling, new parts, and extensive repairs. such materials, if they are used, should be introduced into lubrication systems past any filters which otherwise would strain them out. ( ) you can cause wear on any machine by uncovering a filter system, poking a pencil or any other sharp object through the filter mesh, then covering it up again. or, if you can dispose of it quickly, simply remove the filter. ( ) if you cannot get at the lubrication system or filter directly, you may be able to lessen the effectiveness of oil by diluting it in storage. in this case, almost any liquid will do which will thin the oil. a small amount of sulphuric acid, varnish, water-glass, or linseed oil will be especially effective. ( ) using a thin oil where a heavy oil is prescribed will break down a machine or heat up a moving shaft so that it will "freeze" and stop. ( ) put any clogging substance into lubrication systems or, if it will float, into stored oil. twisted combings of human hair, pieces of string, dead insects, and many other common objects will be effective in stopping or hindering the flow of oil through feed lines and filters. ( ) under some circumstances, you may be able to destroy oil outright rather than interfere with its effectiveness, by removing stop-plugs from lubricating systems or by puncturing the drums and cans in which it is stored. (c) cooling systems ( .) a water cooling system can be put out of commission in a fairly short time, with considerable damage to an engine or motor, if you put into it several pinches of hard grain, such as rice or wheat. they will swell up and choke the circulation of water, and the cooling system will have to be torn down to remove the obstruction. sawdust or hair may also be used to clog a water cooling system. ( ) if very cold water is quickly introduced into the cooling system of an overheated motor, contraction and considerable strain on the engine housing will result. if you can repeat the treatment a few times, cracking and serious damage will result. ( ) you can ruin the effectiveness of an air cooling system by plugging dirt and waste into intake or exhaust valves. if a belt-run fan is used in the system, make a jagged cut at least half way through the belt; it will slip and finally part under strain and the motor will overheat. (d) gasoline and oil fuel tanks and fueling engines usually are accessible and easy to open. they afford a very vulnerable target for simple sabotage activities. ( .) put several pinches of sawdust or hard grain, such as rice or wheat, into the fuel tank of a gasoline engine. the particles will choke a feed line so that the engine will stop. some time will be required to discover the source of the trouble. although they will be hard to get, crumbs of natural rubber, such as you might find in old rubber bands and pencil erasers, are also effective. ( ) if you can accumulate sugar, put it in the fuel tank of a gasoline engine. as it burns together with the gasoline, it will turn into a sticky mess which will completely mire the engine and necessitate extensive cleaning and repair. honey and molasses are as good as sugar. try to use about - grams for each gallons of gasoline. ( ) other impurities which you can introduce into gasoline will cause rapid engine wear and eventual breakdown. fine particles of pumice, sand, ground glass, and metal dust can easily be introduced into a gasoline tank. be sure that the particles are very fine, so that they will be able to pass through the carburetor jet. ( ) water, urine, wine, or any other simple liquid you can get in reasonably large quantities will dilute gasoline fuel to a point where no combustion will occur in the cylinder and the engine will not move. one pint to gallons of gasoline is sufficient. if salt water is used, it will cause corrosion and permanent motor damage. ( ) in the case of diesel engines, put low flashpoint oil into the fuel tank; the engine will not move. if there already is proper oil in the tank when the wrong kind is added, the engine will only limp and sputter along. ( ) fuel lines to gasoline and oil engines frequently pass over the exhaust pipe. when the machine is at rest, you can stab a small hole in the fuel line and plug the hole with wax. as the engine runs and the exhaust tube becomes hot, the wax will be melted; fuel will drip onto the exhaust and a blaze will start. ( ) if you have access to a room where gasoline is stored, remember that gas vapor accumulating in a closed room will explode after a time if you leave a candle burning in the room. a good deal of evaporation, however, must occur from the gasoline tins into the air of the room. if removal of the tops of the tins does not expose enough gasoline to the air to ensure copious evaporation, you can open lightly constructed tins further with a knife, ice pick or sharpened nail file. or puncture a tiny hole in the tank which will permit gasoline to leak out on the floor. this will greatly increase the rate of evaporation. before you light your candle, be sure that windows are closed and the room is as air-tight as you can make it. if you can see that windows in a neighboring room are opened wide, you have a chance of setting a large fire which will not only destroy the gasoline but anything else nearby; when the gasoline explodes, the doors of the storage room will be blown open, a draft to the neighboring windows will be created which will whip up a fine conflagration. (e) electric motors electric motors (including dynamos) are more restricted than the targets so far discussed. they cannot be sabotaged easily or without risk of injury by unskilled persons who may otherwise have good opportunities for destruction. ( ) set the rheostat to a high point of resistance in all types of electric motors. they will overheat and catch fire. ( ) adjust the overload relay to a very high value beyond the capacity of the motor. then overload the motor to a point where it will overheat and break down. ( ) remember that dust, dirt, and moisture are enemies of electrical equipment. spill dust and dirt onto the points where the wires in electric motors connect with terminals, and onto insulating parts. inefficient transmission of current and, in some cases, short circuits will result. wet generator motors to produce short circuits. ( ) "accidentally" bruise the insulation on wire, loosen nuts on connections, make faulty splices and faulty connections in wiring, to waste electric current and reduce the power of electric motors, the power output or cause short circuiting in direct-current motors: loosen or remove commutator holding rings. sprinkle carbon, graphite, or metal dust on commutators. put a little grease or oil at the contact points of commutators. where commutator bars are close together bridge the gaps between them with metal dust, or sawtooth their edges with a chisel so that the teeth on adjoining bars meet or nearly meet and current can pass from one to the other. ( ) put a piece of finely grained emery paper half the size of a postage stamp in a place where it will wear away rotating brushes. the emery paper and the motor will be destroyed in the resulting fire. ( ) sprinkle carbon, graphite or metal dust on slip-rings so that the current will leak or short circuits will occur. when a motor is idle, nick the slip-rings with a chisel. ( ) cause motor stoppage or inefficiency by applying dust mixed with grease to the face of the armature so that it will not make proper contact. ( ) to overheat electric motors, mix sand with heavy grease and smear it between the stator and rotor, or wedge thin metal pieces between them. to prevent the efficient generation of current, put floor sweepings, oil, tar, or paint between them. ( ) in motors using three-phase current, deeply nick one of the lead-in wires with a knife or file when the machine is at rest, or replace one of the three fuses with a blown-out fuse. in the first case, the motor will stop after running awhile, and in the second, it will not start. (f) transformers ( ) transformers of the oil-filled type can be put out of commission if you pour water, salt water, machine-tool coolant, or kerosene into the oil tank. ( ) in air-cooled transformers, block the ventilation by piling debris around the transformer. ( ) in all types of transformers, throw carbon, graphite or metal dust over the outside bushings and other exposed electrical parts. (g) turbines for the most part are heavily built, stoutly housed, and difficult of access. their vulnerability to simple sabotage is very low. ( ) after inspecting or repairing a hydro turbine, fasten the cover insecurely so that it will blow off and flood the plant with water. a loose cover on a steam turbine will cause it to leak and slow down. ( ) in water turbines, insert a large piece of scrap iron in the head of the penstock, just beyond the screening, so that water will carry the damaging material down to the plant equipment. ( ) when the steam line to a turbine is opened for repair, put pieces of scrap iron into it, to be blasted into the turbine machinery when steam is up again. ( ) create a leak in the line feeding oil to the turbine, so that oil will fall on the hot steam pipe and cause a fire. (h) boilers ( ) reduce the efficiency of steam boilers any way you can. put too much water in them to make them slow-starting, or keep the fire under them low to keep them inefficient. let them dry and turn the fire up; they will crack and be ruined. an especially good trick is to keep putting limestone or water containing lime in the boiler; it will deposit lime on the bottom and sides. this deposit will provide very good insulation against heat; after enough of it has collected, the boiler will be completely worthless. ( ) production. metals (a) iron and steel ( ) keep blast furnaces in a condition where they must be frequently shut down for repair. in making fire-proof bricks for the inner lining of blast furnaces, put in an extra proportion of tar so that they will wear out quickly and necessitate constant re-lining. ( ) make cores for casting so that they are filled with air bubbles and an imperfect cast results. ( ) see that the core in a mold is not properly supported, so that the core gives way or the casting is spoiled because of the incorrect position of the core. ( ) in tempering steel or iron, apply too much heat, so that the resulting bars and ingots are of poor quality. (b) other metals no suggestions available. ( ) production: mining and mineral extraction (a) coal ( ) a slight blow against your davy oil lamp will extinguish it, and to light it again you will have to find a place where there is no fire damp. take a long time looking for the place. ( ) blacksmiths who make pneumatic picks should not harden them properly, so that they will quickly grow dull. ( ) you can easily put your pneumatic pick out of order. pour a small amount of water through the oil lever and your pick will stop working. coal dust and improper lubrication will also put it out of order. ( ) weaken the chain that pulls the bucket conveyers carrying coal. a deep dent in the chain made with blows of a pick or shovel will cause it to part under normal strain. once a chain breaks, normally or otherwise take your time about reporting the damage; be slow about taking the chain up for repairs and bringing it back down after repairs. ( ) derail mine cars by putting obstructions on the rails and in switch points. if possible, pick a gallery where coal cars have to pass each other, so that traffic will be snarled up. ( ) send up quantities of rock and other useless material with the coal. ( ) production: agriculture (a) machinery ( ) see par. b. ( ) (c), (d), (e). (b) crops and livestock probably will be destroyed only in areas where there are large food surpluses or where the enemy (regime) is known to be requisitioning food. ( .) feed crops to livestock. let crops harvest too early or too late. spoil stores of grain, fruit and vegetables by soaking them in water so that they will rot. spoil fruit and vegetables by leaving them in the sun. ( ) transportation: railways (a) passengers ( .) make train travel as inconvenient as possible for enemy personnel. make mistakes in issuing train tickets, leaving portions of the journey uncovered by the ticket book; issue two tickets for the same seat in the train, so that an interesting argument will result; near train time, instead of issuing printed tickets write them out slowly by hand, prolonging the process until the train is nearly ready to leave or has left the station. on station bulletin boards announcing train arrivals and departures, see that false and misleading information is given about trains bound for enemy destinations. ( ) in trains bound for enemy destinations, attendants should make life as uncomfortable as possible for passengers. see that the food is especially bad, take up tickets after midnight, call all station stops very loudly during the night, handle baggage as noisily as possible during the night, and so on. ( ) see that the luggage of enemy personnel is mislaid or unloaded at the wrong stations. switch address labels on enemy baggage. ( ) engineers should see that trains run slow or make unscheduled stops for plausible reasons. (b) switches, signals and routing ( ) exchange wires in switchboards containing signals and switches, so that they connect to the wrong terminals. ( ) loosen push-rods so that signal arms do not work; break signal lights; exchange the colored lenses on red and green lights. ( ) spread and spike switch points in the track so that they will not move, or place rocks or close-packed dirt between the switch points. ( ) sprinkle rock salt or ordinary salt profusely over the electrical connections of switch points and on the ground nearby. when it rains, the switch will be short-circuited. ( ) see that cars are put on the wrong trains. remove the labels from cars needing repair and put them on cars in good order. leave couplings between cars as loose as possible. (c) road-beds and open track ( ) on a curve, take the bolts out of the tie-plates connecting to sections of the outside rail, and scoop away the gravel, cinders, or dirt for a few feet on each side of the connecting joint. ( ) if by disconnecting the tie-plate at a joint and loosening sleeper nails on each side of the joint, it becomes possible to move a sections of rail, spread two sections of rail and drive a spike vertically between them. (d) oil and lubrication ( ) see b. ( ) (b). ( ) squeeze lubricating pipes with pincers or dent them with hammers, so that the flow of oil is obstructed. (e) cooling systems ( ) see b ( ) (c). (f) gasoline and oil fuel ( ) see b ( ) (d). (g) electric motors ( ) see b ( ) (e) and (f). (h) boilers ( ) see b ( ) (h). ( ) after inspection put heavy oil or tar in the engines' boilers, or put half a kilogram of soft soap into the water in the tender. (i) brakes and miscellaneous ( ) engines should run at high speeds and use brakes excessively at curves and on downhill grades. ( ) punch holes in air-brake valves or water supply pipes. ( ) in the last car of a passenger train or or a front car of a freight, remove the wadding from a journal box and replace it with oily rags. ( ) transportation: automotive (a) roads. damage to roads [( ) below] is slow, and therefore impractical as a d-day or near d-day activity. ( ) change sign posts at intersections and forks; the enemy will go the wrong way and it may be miles before he discovers his mistakes. in areas where traffic is composed primarily of enemy autos, trucks, and motor convoys of various kinds remove danger signals from curves and intersections. ( ) when the enemy asks for directions, give him wrong information. especially when enemy convoys are in the neighborhood, truck drivers can spread rumors and give false information about bridges being out, ferries closed, and detours lying ahead. ( ) if you can start damage to a heavily traveled road, passing traffic and the elements will do the rest. construction gangs can see that too much sand or water is put in concrete or that the road foundation has soft spots. anyone can scoop ruts in asphalt and macadam roads which turn soft in hot weather; passing trucks will accentuate the ruts to a point where substantial repair will be needed. dirt roads also can be scooped out. if you are a road laborer, it will be only a few minutes work to divert a small stream from a sluice so that it runs over and eats away the road. ( ) distribute broken glass, nails, and sharp rocks on roads to puncture tires. (b) passengers ( ) bus-driver can go past the stop where the enemy wants to get off. taxi drivers can waste the enemy's time and make extra money by driving the longest possible route to his destination. (c) oil and lubrication ( ) see b. ( ) (b). ( ) disconnect the oil pump; this will burn out the main bearings in less than miles of normal driving. (d) radiator ( ) see b. ( ) (c). (e) fuel ( ) see b. ( ) (d). (f) battery and ignition ( ) jam bits of wood into the ignition lock; loosen or exchange connections behind the switchboard; put dirt in spark plugs; damage distributor points. ( ) turn on the lights in parked cars so that the battery will run down. ( ) mechanics can ruin batteries in a number of undetectable ways: take the valve cap off a cell, and drive a screw driver slantwise into the exposed water vent, shattering the plates of the cell; no damage will show when you put the cap back on. iron or copper filings put into the cells i.e., dropped into the acid, will greatly shorten its life. copper coins or a few pieces of iron will accomplish the same and more slowly. one hundred to cubic centimeters of vinegar in each cell greatly reduces the life of the battery, but the odor of the vinegar may reveal what has happened. (g) gears ( ) remove the lubricant from or put too light a lubricant in the transmission and other gears. ( ) in trucks, tractors, and other machines with heavy gears, fix the gear case insecurely, putting bolts in only half the bolt holes. the gears will be badly jolted in use and will soon need repairs. (h) tires ( ) slash or puncture tires of unguarded vehicles. put a nail inside a match box or other small box, and set it vertically in front of the back tire of a stationary car; when the car starts off, the nail will go neatly through the tire. ( ) it is easy to damage a tire in a tire repair shop: in fixing flats, spill glass, benzine, caustic soda, or other material inside the casing which will puncture or corrode the tube. if you put a gummy substance inside the tube, the next flat will stick the tube to the casing and make it unusable. or, when you fix a flat tire, you can simply leave between the tube and the casing the object which caused the flat in the first place. ( ) in assembling a tire after repair, pump the tube up as fast as you can. instead of filling out smoothly, it may crease, in which case it will wear out quickly. or, as you put a tire together, see if you can pinch the tube between the rim of the tire and the rim of the wheel, so that a blow-out will result. ( ) in putting air into tires, see that they are kept below normal pressure, so that more than an ordinary amount of wear will result. in filling tires on double wheels, inflate the inner tire to a much higher pressure than the outer one; both will wear out more quickly this way. badly aligned wheels also wear tires out quickly; you can leave wheels out of alignment when they come in for adjustment, or you can spring them out of true with a strong kick, or by driving the car slowly and diagonally into a curb. ( ) if you have access to stocks of tires, you can rot them by spilling oil, gasoline, caustic acid, or benzine on them. synthetic rubber, however, is less susceptible to these chemicals. ( ) transportation: water (a) navigation ( ) barge and river boat personnel should spread false rumors about the navigability and conditions of the waterways they travel. tell other barge and boat captains to follow channels that will take extra time, or cause them to make canal detours. ( ) barge and river boat captains should navigate with exceeding caution near locks and bridges, to waste their time and to waste the time of other craft which may have to wait on them. if you don't pump the bilges of ships and barges often enough, they will be slower and harder to navigate. barges "accidentally" run aground are an efficient time waster too. ( ) attendants on swing, draw, or bascule bridges can delay traffic over the bridge or in the waterway underneath by being slow. boat captains can leave unattended draw bridges open in order to hold up road traffic. ( ) add or subtract compensating magnets to the compass on cargo ships. demagnetize the compass or maladjust it by concealing a large bar of steel or iron near to it. (b) cargo ( ) while loading or unloading, handle cargo carelessly in order to cause damage. arrange the cargo so that the weakest and lightest crates and boxes will be at the bottom of the hold, while the heaviest ones are on top of them. put hatch covers and tarpaulins on sloppily, so that rain and deck wash will injure the cargo. tie float valves open so that storage tanks will overflow on perishable goods. ( ) communications (a) telephone ( ) at office, hotel and exchange switch boards delay putting enemy calls through, give them wrong numbers, cut them off "accidentally," or forget to disconnect them so that the line cannot be used again. ( ) hamper official and especially military business by making at least one telephone call a day to an enemy headquarters; when you get them, tell them you have the wrong number. call military or police offices and make anonymous false reports of fires, air raids, bombs. ( ) in offices and buildings used by the enemy, unscrew the earphone of telephone receivers and remove the diaphragm. electricians and telephone repair men can make poor connections and damage insulation so that cross talk and other kinds of electrical interference will make conversations hard or impossible to understand. ( ) put the batteries under automatic switchboards out of commission by dropping nails, metal filings, or coins into the cells. if you can treat half the batteries in this way, the switchboard will stop working. a whole telephone system can be disrupted if you can put percent of the cells in half the batteries of the central battery room out of order. (b) telegraph ( ) delay the transmission and delivery of telegrams to enemy destinations. ( ) garble telegrams to enemy destinations so that another telegram will have to be sent or a long distance call will have to be made. sometimes it will be possible to do this by changing a single letter in a word -- for example, changing "minimum" to "maximum," so that the person receiving the telegram will not know whether "minimum" or "maximum" is meant. (c) transportation lines ( ) cut telephone and telegraph transmission lines. damage insulation on power lines to cause interference. (d) mail ( ) post office employees can see to it that enemy mail is always delayed by one day or more, that it is put in wrong sacks, and so on. (e) motion pictures ( ) projector operators can ruin newsreels and other enemy propaganda films by bad focusing, speeding up or slowing down the film and by causing frequent breakage in the film. ( ) audiences can ruin enemy propaganda films by applauding to drown the words of the speaker, by coughing loudly, and by talking. ( ) anyone can break up a showing of an enemy propaganda film by putting two or three dozen large moths in a paper bag. take the bag to the movies with you, put it on the floor in an empty section of the theater as you go in and leave it open. the moths will fly out and climb into the projector beam, so that the film will be obscured by fluttering shadows. (f) radio ( ) station engineers will find it quite easy to overmodulate transmissions of talks by persons giving enemy propaganda or instructions, so that they will sound as if they were talking through a heavy cotton blanket with a mouth full of marbles. ( ) in your own apartment building, you can interfere with radio reception at times when the enemy wants everybody to listen. take an electric light plug off the end of an electric light cord; take some wire out of the cord and tie it across two terminals of a two-prong plug or three terminals of a four-prong plug. then take it around and put it into as many wall and floor outlets as you can find. each time you insert the plug into a new circuit, you will blow out a fuse and silence all radios running on power from that circuit until a new fuse is put in. ( ) damaging insulation on any electrical equipment tends to create radio interference in the immediate neighborhood, particularly on large generators, neon signs, fluorescent lighting, x-ray machines, and power lines. if workmen can damage insulation on a high tension line near an enemy airfield, they will make ground-to-plane radio communications difficult and perhaps impossible during long periods of the day. ( ) electric power (a) turbines, electric motors, transformers ( ) see b. ( ) (e), (f),and (g). (b) transmission lines ( .) linesmen can loosen and dirty insulators to cause power leakage. it will be quite easy, too, for them to tie a piece of very heavy string several times back and forth between two parallel transmission lines, winding it several turns around the wire each time. beforehand, the string should be heavily saturated with salt and then dried. when it rains, the string becomes a conductor, and a short-circuit will result. ( ) general interference with organizations and production (a) organizations and conferences ( ) insist on doing everything through "channels." never permit short-cuts to be taken in order to expedite decisions. ( ) make "speeches." talk as frequently as possible and at great length. illustrate your "points" by long anecdotes and accounts of personal experiences. never hesitate to make a few appropriate "patriotic" comments. ( ) when possible, refer all matters to committees, for "further study and consideration." attempt to make the committees as large as possible -- never less than five. ( ) bring up irrelevant issues as frequently as possible. ( ) haggle over precise wordings of communications, minutes, resolutions. ( ) refer back to matters decided upon at the last meeting and attempt to re-open the question of the advisability of that decision. ( ) advocate "caution." be "reasonable" and urge your fellow-conferees to be "reasonable" and avoid haste which might result in embarrassments or difficulties later on. ( ) be worried about the propriety of any decision -- raise the question of whether such action as is contemplated lies within the jurisdiction of the group or whether it might conflict with the policy of some higher echelon. (b) managers and supervisors ( ) demand written orders. ( ) "misunderstand" orders. ask endless questions or engage in long correspondence about such orders. quibble over them when you can. ( ) do everything possible to delay the delivery of orders. even though parts of an order may be ready beforehand, don't deliver it until it is completely ready. ( ) don't order new working materials until your current stocks have been virtually exhausted, so that the slightest delay in filling your order will mean a shutdown. ( ) order high-quality materials which are hard to get. if you don't get them argue about it. warn that inferior materials will mean inferior work. ( ) in making work assignments, always sign out the unimportant jobs first. see that the important jobs are assigned to inefficient workers of poor machines. ( ) insist on perfect work in relatively unimportant products; send back for refinishing those which have the least flaw. approve other defective parts whose flaws are not visible to the naked eye. ( ) make mistakes in routing so that parts and materials will be sent to the wrong place in the plant. ( ) when training new workers, give incomplete or misleading instructions. ( ) to lower morale and with it, production, be pleasant to inefficient workers; give them undeserved promotions. discriminate against efficient workers; complain unjustly about their work. ( ) hold conferences when there is more critical work to be done. ( ) multiply paper work in plausible ways. start duplicate files. ( ) multiply the procedures and clearances involved in issuing instructions, pay checks, and so on. see that three people have to approve everything where one would do. ( ) apply all regulations to the last letter. (c) office workers ( ) make mistakes in quantities of material when you are copying orders. confuse similar names. use wrong addresses. ( ) prolong correspondence with government bureaus. ( ) misfile essential documents. ( ) in making carbon copies, make one too few, so that an extra copying job will have to be done. ( ) tell important callers the boss is busy or talking on another telephone. ( ) hold up mail until the next collection. ( ) spread disturbing rumors that sound like inside dope. (d) employees ( ) work slowly. think out ways to increase the number of movements necessary on your job: use a light hammer instead of a heavy one, try to make a small wrench do when a big one is necessary, use little force where considerable force is needed, and so on. ( ) contrive as many interruptions to your work as you can: when changing the material on which you are working, as you would on a lathe or punch, take needless time to do it. if you are cutting, shaping or doing other measured work, measure dimensions twice as often as you need to. when you go to the lavatory, spend a longer time there than is necessary. forget tools so that you will have to go back after them. ( ) even if you understand the language, pretend not to understand instructions in a foreign tongue. ( ) pretend that instructions are hard to understand, and ask to have them repeated more than once. or pretend that you are particularly anxious to do your work, and pester the foreman with unnecessary questions. ( ) do your work poorly and blame it on bad tools, machinery, or equipment. complain that these things are preventing you from doing your job right. ( ) never pass on your skill and experience to a new or less skillful worker. ( ) snarl up administration in every possible way. fill out forms illegibly so that they will have to be done over; make mistakes or omit requested information in forms. ( ) if possible, join or help organize a group for presenting employee problems to the management. see that the procedures adopted are as inconvenient as possible for the management, involving the presence of a large number of employees at each presentation, entailing more than one meeting for each grievance, bringing up problems which are largely imaginary, and so on. ( ) misroute materials. ( ) mix good parts with unusable scrap and rejected parts. ( ) general devices for lowering morale and creating confusion (a) give lengthy and incomprehensible explanations when questioned. (b) report imaginary spies or danger to the gestapo or police. (c) act stupid. (d) be as irritable and quarrelsome as possible without getting yourself into trouble. (e) misunderstand all sorts of regulations concerning such matters as rationing, transportation, traffic regulations. (f) complain against ersatz materials. (g) in public treat axis nationals or quislings coldly. (h) stop all conversation when axis nationals or quislings enter a cafe. (i) cry and sob hysterically at every occasion, especially when confronted by government clerks. (j) boycott all movies, entertainments, concerts, newspapers which are in any way connected with the quisling authorities. (k) do not cooperate in salvage schemes. farmer by mack reynolds illustrated by ritter [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine june . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] someone out there didn't like trees. he wanted to wreck the sahara project--and he was willing to murder in the process! i one of the auto-copters swooped in and landed. johnny mccord emptied his pipe into the wastebasket, came to his feet and strolled toward the open door. he automatically took up a sun helmet before emerging into the saharan sun. he was dressed in khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt, wool socks and yellow moroccan babouche slippers. the slippers were strictly out of uniform and would have been frowned upon by johnny's immediate superiors. however, the arabs had been making footwear suitable for sandy terrain for centuries before there had ever been a sahara reforestation commission. johnny was in favor of taking advantage of their know-how. especially since the top brass made a point of staying in the swank air-conditioned buildings of colomb-bechar, tamanrasset and timbuktu, from whence they issued lengthy bulletins on the necessity of never allowing a malian to see a commission employee in less than the correct dress and in less than commanding dignity. while they were busily at work composing such directives, field men such as johnny mccord went about the commission's real tasks. it was auto-copter , which johnny hadn't expected for another half hour. he extracted the reports and then peered into the cockpit to check. there were two red lights flickering on the panel. work for reuben. this damned sand was a perpetual hazard to equipment. number had just had an overhaul a few weeks before and here it was throwing red lights already. he took the reports back into the office and dumped them into the card-punch. while they were being set up, johnny went over to the office refrigerator and got out a can of tuborg beer. theoretically, it was as taboo to drink iced beer in this climate, and particularly at this time of day, as it was to go out into the sun without a hat. but this was one place where the commission's medics could go blow. by the time he'd finished the danish brew, the card-punch had stopped clattering so he took the cards from the hopper and crossed to the sorter. he gave them a quick joggling--cards held up well in this dry climate, though they were a terror further south--and sorted them through four code numbers, enough for this small an amount. he carried them over to the collator and merged them into the proper file. he was still running off a report on the alphabetyper when derek mason came in. johnny drawled in a horrible caricature of a new england accent, "i say, si, did the cyclone hurt your barn any?" derek's voice took on the same twang. "don't know, hiram, we ain't found it yet." johnny said, "you get all your chores done, si?" derek dropped the pseudo-twang and his voice expressed disgust. "i got a chore for you johnny, that you're going to love. rounding up some livestock." johnny looked up from the report he was running off and shot an impatient glance at him. "livestock? what the hell are you talking about?" "goats." johnny mccord flicked the stop button on the alphabetyper. "where've you been? there isn't a goat within five hundred miles of here." derek went over to the refrigerator for beer. he said over his shoulder, "i was just making a routine patrol over toward amérene el kasbach. i'd estimate there were a hundred tuareg in camp there. camels, a few sheep, a few horses and donkeys. mostly goats. thousands of them. by the looks of the transplants, they've been there possibly a week or so." * * * * * johnny said in agony, "oh, lord. what clan were they?" derek punched a hole in his beer can with the opener that hung from the refrigerator by a string. "i didn't go low enough to check. you can never tell with a tuareg. they can't resist as beautiful a target as a helicopter, and one of these days one of them is going to make a hole in me, instead of in the fuselage or rotors." johnny mccord, furious, plunked himself down before the telephone and dialed tessalit, kilometers to the south. the girl on the desk there grinned at him and said, "hello, johnny." johnny mccord was in no mood for pleasantries. he snapped, "who's supposed to be on bedouin patrol down there?" she blinked at him. "why, mohammed is in command of patrolling this area, mr. mccord." "mohammed? mohammed who? eighty percent of these malians are named mohammed." "captain mohammed mohmoud ould cheikh." she added, unnecessarily, "the cadi's son." johnny grunted. he'd always suspected that the captain had got his ideas of what a cadi's son should be like from seeing hollywood movies. "look, kate," he said. "let me talk to mellor, will you?" her face faded to be replaced by that of a highly tanned, middle-aged executive type. he scowled at johnny mccord with a this-better-be-important expression, not helping johnny's disposition. he snapped, "somebody's let several thousand goats into my eucalyptus transplants in my western four hundred." mellor was taken aback. johnny said, "i can have derek back-trail them, if you want to be sure, but it's almost positive they came from the south, this time of year." mellor sputtered, "they might have come from the direction of timmissao. who are they, anyway?" "i don't know. tuareg. i thought we'd supposedly settled with all the tuareg. good lord, man, do you know how many transplants a thousand goats can go through in a week's time?" "a week's time!" mellor rasped. "you mean you've taken a whole week to detect them?" johnny mccord glared at him. "a _whole_ week! we're lucky they didn't spend the whole _season_ before we found them. how big a staff do you think we have here, mellor? there's just three of us. only one can be spared for patrol." "you have natives," the older man growled. "they can't fly helicopters. most of them can't even drive a land rover or a jeep. besides that, they're scared to death of tuaregs. they wouldn't dare report them. what i want to know is, why didn't you stop them coming through?" mellor was on the defensive. he ranked johnny mccord, but that was beside the point right now. he said finally, "i'll check this all the way through, mccord. meanwhile, i'll send young mohammed mohmoud up with a group of his men." "to do what?" johnny demanded. "to shoot the goats, what else?" * * * * * johnny growled, "one of these days a bunch of these tuareg are going to decide that a lynching bee is in order, and that's going to be the end of this little base at bidon cinq." mellor said, "if they're tuareg nomads then they have no legal right to be within several hundred miles of bidon cinq. and if they've got goats, they shouldn't have. the commission has bought up every goat in this part of the world." johnny growled, "sure, bought them up and then left it to the honor of the tuareg to destroy them. the honor of the tuareg! ha!" the other said pompously, "are you criticizing the upper echelons, mccord?" johnny mccord snapped, "you're damned right i am." he slammed off the telephone and turned on derek mason. "what are you grinning about?" derek drawled, "i say, hiram, i got a sneaky suspicion you ain't never gonna graduate off'n this here farm if you don't learn how to cotton up to the city slickers better." "oh, shut up," johnny growled. "let's have another beer." before derek could bring it to him, the telephone screen lit up again and paul peterson, of the poste weygand base, was there. he said, "hi. you guys look like you're having a crisis." "hello, paul," johnny mccord said. "crisis is right. those jerks down south let a clan of tuareg, complete with a few thousand goats, camels and sheep through. they've been grazing a week or more in my west four hundred." "good grief." paul grimaced. "at least that's one thing we don't have to worry about. they never get this far up. how'd it happen?" "i don't know, but i'm going to find out. i haven't seen the mess yet, but it's certain to wreck that whole four hundred. have you ever seen just one goat at work on the bark of three-year transplants?" paul shuddered sympathetically. "look, johnny," he said. "the reason i called you. there's an air-cushion land rover coming through. she just left." derek mason looked over johnny's shoulder into the screen. "what d'ya mean, _she_?" paul grinned. "just that, and, buster, she's stacked. a mademoiselle hélène desage of _paris match_." johnny said, "the french magazine? what's she doing in a road car? why doesn't she have an aircraft? there hasn't been a road car through here this whole year." paul shrugged. "she claims she's getting it from the viewpoint of how things must've been twenty years ago. so, anyway, we've notified you. if she doesn't turn up in eight or ten hours, you better send somebody to look for her." "yeah," johnny mccord said. "well, so long, paul." the other's face faded from the screen and johnny mccord turned to his colleague. "one more extraneous something to foul up our schedule." derek said mildly, "i say, hiram, what're you complaining about? didn't you hear tell what paul just said? she's stacked. be just like a traveling saleswoman visitin' the farm." "yeah," johnny growled. "and i can see just how much work i'll be getting out of you as long as she's here." ii poste maurice cortier, better known in the sahara as bidon cinq, is as remote a spot on earth in which man has ever lived. some kilometers to the south is bourem on the niger river. if you go west of bourem another kilometers, you reach timbuktu, the nearest thing to a city in that part of the sudan. if you travel north from bidon cinq , kilometers you reach colomb-béchar, the nearest thing to a city in southern algeria. there are no railroads, no highways. the track through the desert is marked by oil drums filled with gravel so the wind won't blow them away. there is an oil drum every quarter of a mile or so. you go from one to the next, carrying your own fuel and water. if you get lost, the authorities come looking for you in aircraft. sometimes they find you. in the latter decades of the twentieth century, bidon cinq became an outpost of the sahara reforestation commission which was working north from the niger, and south from algeria as well as east from the atlantic. the water table in the vicinity of bidon cinq was considerably higher than had once been thought. even artesian wells were possible in some localities. more practical still were springs and wells exploited by the new solar-powered pumps that in their tens of thousands were driving back the sands of the world's largest desert. johnny mccord and derek mason ate in the officer's mess, divorced from the forty or fifty arabs and songhai who composed their work force. it wasn't snobbery, simply a matter of being able to eat in leisure and discuss the day's activities free of the chatter of the larger mess hall. derek looked down into his plate. "hiram," he drawled, "who ever invented this here _cous cous_?" johnny looked over at the tall, easy-going canadian who was his second in command and scowled dourly. he was in no humor for their usual banter. "what's the matter with _cous cous_?" johnny growled. "i don't know," derek said. "i'm a meat and potatoes man at heart." johnny shrugged. "_cous cous_ serves the same purpose as potatoes do. or rice, or spaghetti, or bread, or any of the other bland basic foods. it's what you put on it that counts." derek stared gloomily into his dish. "well, i wish they'd get something more interesting than ten-year-old mutton to put on this." johnny said, "where in the devil is pierre? it's nearly dark." "reuben?" derek drawled. "why reuben went out to check the crops up in the northeast forty. took the horse and buggy." that didn't help johnny's irritation. "he took an air-cushion jeep, instead of a copter? why, for heaven's sake?" "he wanted to check quite a few of the pumps. said landing and taking off was more trouble than the extra speed helped. he'll be back shortly." "he's back now," a voice from the door said. pierre marimbert, brushing sand from his clothes, pushed into the room and made his way to the mess-hall refrigerator. he said nothing further until he had a can of beer open. johnny said, "damn it, pierre, you shouldn't stay out this late in a jeep. if you got stuck out there, we'd have one hell of a time finding you. in a copter you've at least got the radio." pierre had washed the dust from his throat. now he said quietly, "i wanted to check on as many pumps as i could." "you could have gone back tomorrow. the things are supposed to be self-sufficient, no checking necessary more than once every three months. there's practically nothing that can go wrong with them." pierre finished off the can of beer, reached into the refrigerator for another. "dynamite can go wrong with them," he said. * * * * * the other two looked at him, shocked silent. pierre said, "i don't know how many altogether. i found twenty-two of the pumps in the vicinity of in ziza had been blown to smithereens--out of forty i checked." johnny rapped, "how long ago? how many trees...?" pierre laughed sourly. "i don't know how long ago. the transplants, especially the slash pine, are going to be just so much kindling before i get new pumps in." derek said, shocked, "that's our oldest stand." pierre marimbert, a forty-year-old, sun-beaten algerian _colon_, eldest man on the team, sank into his place at the table. he poured the balance of his can of beer into a glass. johnny said, "what ... what can we do? how many spare pumps can you get into there, and how soon?" pierre looked up at him wearily. "you didn't quite hear what i said, johnny. i only checked forty. forty out of nearly a thousand in that vicinity. twenty-two of them were destroyed, better than fifty percent. for all i know, that percentage applies throughout the whole in ziza area. if so, there's damn few of your trees going to be left alive. we have a few spare pumps on hand here, but we'd have to get a really large number all the way from dakar." derek said softly, "that took a lot of men and a lot of dynamite. which means a lot of transport--and a lot of money. we've had trouble before, but usually it was disgruntled nomads, getting revenge for losing their grazing land." johnny snorted, "damn little grazing this far north." derek nodded. "i'm simply saying that even if we could blame our minor sabotage on the tuareg in the past, we can't do it this time. there's money behind anything this big." johnny mccord said wearily, "let's eat. in the morning we'll go out and take a look. i'd better call timbuktu on this. if nothing else, the mali federation can send troops out to protect us." derek grunted. "with a standing army of about , men, they're going to patrol a million and a half square miles of desert?" "can you think of anything else to do?" "no." * * * * * pierre marimbert began dishing _cous cous_ into a soup plate, then poured himself a glass of _vin ordinaire_. he said, "i can't think of a better place for saboteurs. twenty men could do millions of dollars of destruction and never be found." johnny growled, "it's not as bad as all that. they've got to eat and drink, and so do their animals. there are damned few places where they can." from the door a voice said, "i am intruding?" they hadn't heard her car come up. the three men scrambled to their feet. "good evening," johnny mccord blurted. "hell ... o!" derek breathed. pierre marimbert was across the room, taking her in hand. "_bonjour, mademoiselle. que puis-je faire pour vous? voulez-vous une biere bien fraiche ou un apéritif? il fait trés chaud dans le desert._" he led her toward the table. "easy, easy there, reuben," derek grumbled. "the young lady speaks english. give a man a chance." johnny was placing a chair for her. "paul peterson, from poste weygand, radioed that you were coming. you're a little late, mademoiselle desage." she was perhaps thirty, slim, long-legged, parisian style. even at bidon cinq, half a world away from the champs elysées, she maintained her chic. she made a moue at johnny, while taking the chair he held. "i had hoped to surprise you, catch you off guard." she took in the sun-dried, dour-faced american wood technologist appraisingly, then turned her eyes in turn to derek and pierre. "you three are out here all alone?" she said demurely. "desperately," derek said. johnny mccord said, "mademoiselle hélène desage, i am john mccord, and these are my associates, monsieur pierre marimbert and mr. derek mason. gentlemen, mademoiselle desage is with _paris match_, the french equivalent of _life_, so i understand. in short, she is undoubtedly here for a story. so ixnay on the ump-pays." "i would love cold beer," hélène desage said to pierre, and to johnny mccord, "these days a traveling reporter for _paris match_ must be quite a linguist. my english, spanish and italian are excellent. my german passable. and while i am not fluent in pig-latin, i can follow it. what is this you are saying about the pumps?" "oh, lord," johnny said. "perhaps i'll tell you in the morning. but for now, would you like to clean up before supper? you must be exhausted after that kilometers from poste weygand." pierre said hurriedly, "i'll take mademoiselle desage over to one of the guest bungalows." "zut!" she said. "the sand! it is even worse than between reggan and poste weygand. do you realize that until i began coming across your new forests i saw no life at all between these two posts?" the three forestry experts bowed in unison, as though rehearsed. "mademoiselle," derek, from the heart, "calling our transplant forests is the kindest thing you could have said in these parts." they all laughed and pierre led her from the room. derek looked at johnny mccord. "wow, that was a slip mentioning the pumps." johnny was looking through the door after her. "i suppose so," he said sourly. "i'll have to radio the brass and find out the line we're supposed to take with her. that's the biggest magazine in the french-speaking world and you don't get a job on it without knowing the journalistic ropes. that girl can probably smell a story as far as a tuareg can smell water." "well, then undoubtedly she's already sniffing. because, between that clan of tuareg with its flocks and the pump saboteurs, we've got more stories around here than i ever expected!" iii in the morning hélène desage managed to look the last word in what desert fashion should be, when she strolled into johnny mccord's office. although she came complete with a sun helmet that must have been the product of a top parisian shop, she would have been more at place on the beaches at miami, honolulu or cannes. her shorts were short and fitting, her blouse silken, her walking shoes dainty. he considered for a moment and then decided against informing her that moslems, particularly in this part of the world, were little used to seeing semi-nude women strolling about. he'd leave the job of explanation to pierre, as a fellow frenchman and the oldest man present to boot. "_bonjour_," she said. "what a lovely day. i have been strolling about your little oasis. but you have made it a garden!" "thanks," johnny said. "we've got to have something to do after working hours. entertainment is on the scarce side. but it's more than a garden. we've been experimenting to see just what trees will take to this country--given water and care through the early years. besides, we use it as a showplace." "showplace?" "for skeptical politicians who come through," johnny said, seating her in a chair near his desk. "we give them the idea that the whole sahara could eventually be like this square mile or so at bidon cinq. palm trees, fruit trees, pines, shade trees. the works." "and could it?" johnny grinned sourly. "well, not exactly. not all in one spot, at least. you've got to remember, the sahara covers an area of some three and a half million square miles. in that area you find almost everything." "everything except water, eh?" she was tapping a cigarette on a polish-reddened thumbnail. as he lit it for her, johnny mccord realized that he hadn't seen fingernail polish for a year. he decided it was too long. "even water, in some parts," he said. "there's more water than most people realize. for instance, the niger, which runs right through a considerable part of the sahara, is the eleventh largest river in the world. but until our commission went to work on it, it dumped itself into the gulf of guinea, unused." "the niger is a long way from here," she said through her smoke. he nodded. "for that matter, though, we have a certain amount of rain, particularly in the highland regions of the central massif. in the past, with no watershed at all, it ran off, buried itself in the sands, or evaporated." "mr. mccord," she said, "you are amazingly optimistic. formerly, i must admit i had little knowledge of the sahara reforestation commission. and i deliberately avoided studying up on the subject after receiving this assignment, because i wanted first impression to be received on the spot. however, i've just driven across the sahara. my impression is that your commission is one great--_comment dit-on?_--boon-doggling project, a super-w.p.a. into which to plow your american resources and manpower. it is a fake, a delusion. this part of the world has never been anything but wasteland, and never will be." johnny mccord heard her out without change in expression. he'd been through this before. in fact, almost every time a junketing congressman came through. there was danger in the viewpoint, of course. if the fantastic sums of money which were being spent were cut off, such pessimistic views would become automatically correct. he took the paperweight from a stack of the correspondence on his desk and handed it to her. she looked at it and scowled--very prettily, but still a scowl. "what is this? it's a beautiful piece of stone." "i picked it up myself," johnny said. "near reggan. it's a chunk of petrified wood, miss desage. from a tree that must have originally had a diameter of some ten feet. not quite a redwood, of course, but big." "yes," she said, turning it over in her hand. "i can see this part, which must have once been bark. but why do you show it to me?" "the sahara was once a semi-tropical, moist area, highly wooded. it can become so again." * * * * * she put the piece of fossil back on his desk. "how long ago?" she said bluntly. "a very long time ago, admittedly. during the last ice age and immediately afterwards. but, given man's direction, it can be done again. and it must be." she raised pencilled eyebrows at him. "must be?" johnny mccord shifted in his chair. "you must be aware of the world's population explosion, miss desage. the human race can't allow three and a half million square miles of land to be valueless." he grunted in deprecation. "and at the rate it was going, it would have been four million before long." she didn't understand. johnny spelled it out for her. "a desert can be man-made. have you ever been in the middle east?" at her nod, he went on. "visitors there usually wonder how in the world the ancient jews could ever have thought of that area as a land of milk and honey. on the face of it, it's nothing but badlands. what was once the fertile crescent now looks like arizona." hélène desage was frowning at him. "and you suggest man did this--not nature?" "the goat did it. the goat, and the use of charcoal as fuel. along with ignorance of soil erosion and the destruction of the wonderful watershed based on the cedars of lebanon. same thing applies to large areas of libya and tunisia, and to morocco and spain. those countries used to be some of the richest agricultural areas of the roman empire. but you can't graze goats, probably the most destructive animal domesticated, and you can't depend on charcoal for fuel, unless you want to create desert." "those things happened a long time ago." johnny snorted. "when we first began operations, the sahara was going south at the rate of two miles a year. goats prefer twigs and bark even to grass. they strip a country." "well," the reporter said, shrugging shapely shoulders, "at any rate, the task is one of such magnitude as to be fantastic. yesterday, i drove for nearly eight hours without seeing even a clump of cactus." "the route you traveled is comparatively untouched by our efforts, thus far," johnny nodded agreeably. "however, we're slowly coming down from algeria, up from the niger, and, using the new chemical methods of freshening sea water, east from mauretania." he came to his feet and pointed out spots on the large wall map. "our territory, of course, is only this area which once was called french west africa, plus algeria. the battle is being fought elsewhere by others. the egyptians and sudanese are doing a fairly good job in their country, with soviet complex help. the tunisians are doing a wonderful job with the assistance of common europe, especially italy." she stood beside him and tried to understand. "what is this area, here, shaded green?" he said proudly, "that's how far we've got so far, heading north from the niger. in the past, the desert actually came down to the side of the river in many places. the water was completely wasted. now we've diverted it and are reforesting anywhere up to three miles a year." "three miles a year," she scoffed. "you'll take five centuries." * * * * * he shook his head and grinned. "it's a progressive thing. water is admittedly the big problem. but as our forests grow, they themselves bring up the moisture content of the climate. down in this area--" he made a sweeping gesture over the map which took in large sections north of the niger--"we've put in hundreds of millions of slash pine, which is particularly good for sandy soil and fast growing. in ten years you've gone from two-year-old seedlings to a respectable forest." johnny pointed out bidon cinq on the map. "at the same time we found what amounts to a subterranean sea in this area. not a real sea, of course, but a water-bearing formation or aquifer, deep down under the surface of the earth--layers of rock and gravel in which large quantities of water are lying. the hydro-geological technicians who surveyed it estimate that it holds reserves of several billion tons of water. utilizing it, we've put in several hundred square miles of seedlings and transplants of various varieties. where there are natural oases, of course, we stress a lot of date palm. in rocky areas it's _acacia tortila_. in the mountains we sometimes use varieties of the pinyon--they'll take quite a beating but are a little on the slow-growing side." she was looking at him from the sides of her eyes. "you're all taken up by this, aren't you mr. mccord?" johnny said, surprise in his voice. "why, it's my work." derek came sauntering in and scaled his sun helmet onto his own desk. "good morning, mademoiselle," he said. and to johnny, "hiram, that city slicker from timbuktu just came up with his posse." hélène said, "what is this _si_, _hiram_ and _reuben_ which you call each other?" johnny smiled sourly, "in a way, miss desage, this is just one great tree farm. and all of us are farmers. so we make jokes about it." he thought for a moment. "derek, possibly you better take over with mohammed. i want to get over to in ziza with reuben." "to see about the pumps?" hélène said innocently. johnny frowned but was saved from an answer by the entrance of mohammed mohmoud. he was dark as a saharan becomes dark, his original berber blood to be seen only in his facial characteristics. he wore the rather flamboyant mali federation desert uniform with an air. when he saw the girl, his eyebrows rose and he made the moslem salaam with a sweeping flourish. johnny said, "mademoiselle desage, may i present captain mohammed mohmoud ould cheikh, of the mali desert patrol." he added sourly, "the officer in charge of preventing nomads from filtering up from the south into our infant forests." the moslem scowled at him. "they could have come from the east, from timmissao," he said in quite passable english. "or even from mauritania." he turned his eyes to hélène desage. "_enchanté, mademoiselle. trés heureux de faire ta connaissance._" she gave him the full benefit of her eyes. "_moi aussi, monsieur._" johnny wasn't through with the malian officer. "there's a hundred of them," he snapped, "with several thousand head of goats and other livestock. it would have been impossible to push that number across from mauritania or even from the east, and you know it." a lighter complexion would have shown a flush. mohammed mohmoud's displeasure was limited in expression to a flashing of desert eyes. he said, "wherever their origin, the task would seem to be immediately to destroy the animals. that is why my men and i are here." pierre marimbert had entered while the conversation was going on. he said, "johnny, weren't you going over to in ziza with me?" hélène desage said, the tip of her right forefinger to her chin as she portrayed thought, "i can't decide where to go. to this crisis of the tuareg, or to the crisis of the pumps--whatever that is." johnny said flatly, "sorry, but you'd just be in the way at either place." mohammed mohmoud was shrugging. "why not let her come with me? i can guarantee her protection. i have brought fifty men with me, more than a match for a few bedouin." "gracious," she said. "evidently i was unaware of the magnitude of this matter. i absolutely _must_ go." johnny said, "no." she looked at him appraisingly. "mr. mccord," she said, "i am here for a story. has it occurred to you that preventing a _paris match_ reporter from seeing your methods of operation is probably a bigger story than anything else i could find here?" she struck a mock pose. "i can see the headlines. _sahara reforestation authorities prevent journalists from observing operations_." "oh, good lord," johnny growled. "this should happen to me, yet! go on with derek and the captain, if you wish." * * * * * pierre marimbert and johnny mccord took one of the faster helicopters, pierre piloting. with french élan he immediately raised the craft a few feet and then like a nervous horse it backed up, wheeled about and dashed forward in full flight. spread below them were the several dozen buildings which comprised bidon cinq; surrounding the buildings, the acres of palm and pine, eucalyptus and black locust. quick-growing, dry-climate trees predominated, but there were even such as balsam fir, chestnut and elm. it made an attractive sight from the air. the reforestation projects based on bidon cinq were not all in the immediate vicinity of the home oasis. by air, in ziza was almost kilometers to the northeast. by far the greater part of the land lying in between was still lacking in vegetation of any sort. the hydro-geological engineers who had originally surveyed the area for water had selected only the best sections for immediate sinking of wells, placement of solar power pumps, and eventually the importation of two-year seedlings and three- and four-year-old transplants. the heavy auto-planters, brought in by air transport, had ground their way across the desert sands in their hundreds, six feet between machines. stop, dig the hole, set the seedling, splash in water, artfully tamp down the soil, move on another six feet, stop--and begin the operation all over again. fifty trees an hour, per machine. in less than two months, the planters had moved on to a new base further north. the mob of scientists, engineers, water and forest technicians, mechanics and laborers melted away, leaving johnny mccord, his two assistants, his half dozen punch-card machines, his automated equipment and his forty or fifty native workers. it was one of a hundred such centers. it would eventually be one of thousands. the sahara covered an area almost the size of europe. johnny mccord growled, "friend mohammed seems quite taken with our reporter." pierre grinned and tried to imitate a new england twang. "why not, hiram? she's the first, eh, women folks seen in these parts for many a day." he looked down at the endless stretches of sand dunes, gravel and rock out-croppings. "mighty dry farm land you've got around here, hiram." johnny mccord grunted. "derek said the other day it's so dry even the mirages are only mud holes." he pointed with his forefinger. "there's the first of our trees. now, what pumps did you check?" pierre directed the copter lower, skimmed not much higher than the young tree tops. some of them had already reached an impressive height. but johnny mccord realized that the time was not too distant when they'd have to replant. casualties were considerably higher than in forest planting at home. considerably so. and replanting wasn't nearly so highly automated as the original work. more manpower was required. "these pumps here seem all right," he said to pierre. "a little further north," pierre said. "i came in over the track there, from the road that comes off the main route to poste weygand. yes, there we are. look! completely destroyed." johnny swore. the trees that had depended on that particular pump wouldn't last a month, in spite of the fact that they were among the first set in this area. he said, "go higher. we should be able to spot the complete damage with glasses. you saw twenty-two, you say?" "yes, i don't know how many more there might be." there were twenty-five destroyed pumps in all. and all of them were practically together. it was sheer luck that pierre marimbert had located them so soon. had his routine check taken place in some other section of the vast tree development, he would have found nothing untoward. "this isn't nearly so bad as i had expected," johnny growled. he was scowling thoughtfully. "what's the matter?" pierre said. "i just don't get it," johnny said. "number one, nomads don't carry dynamite, unless it's been deliberately given them. two, if it was given them by someone with a purpose, why only enough to blow twenty-five pumps? that isn't a drop in the bucket. a few thousand trees are all we'll lose. three, where did they come from? where are their tracks? and where have they gone? this job wasn't done so very long ago, probably within a week or two at most." "how do you know that?" "otherwise those trees affected would already be dying. at their age, they couldn't stand the sun long without water." pierre said, his face registering disbelief, "do you think it could be simple vandalism on the part of a small band of tuareg?" "sure, if the pumps had been destroyed by hand. but with explosives? even if your band of tuareg did have explosives they wouldn't waste them on a few sahara reforestation commission pumps." "this whole thing just doesn't make sense," pierre marimbert decided. "let's land and take a look at one of those pumps," johnny said. "you know, if you get the whole crew to work on this you might be able to replace them before we lose any of these transplants. it's all according to how long ago they were destroyed." iv back at bidon cinq again that afternoon, johnny mccord was greeted by the native office assistant he'd left in charge while all three of the officers were gone. mellor, at the tissalit base, had made several attempts to get in touch with him. "mellor!" pierre grunted. "how do you americans say it? stuffed shirt!" "yeah," johnny mccord said, sitting down to the telephone. "but my boss." while pierre was fishing two cans of beer from the refrigerator, johnny dialed tissalit. kate's face lit up the screen. johnny said, "hi. i understand the old man wants to talk to me." "that's right," the girl said, and moved a switch. "just a minute, johnny." her face faded to be replaced by that of mellor. johnny noted that as usual the other wore a business suit, complete with white shirt and tie--in the middle of the sahara! mellor was scowling. "where've you been, mccord?" "checking some pumps near in ziza," johnny said evenly. "leaving no one at all at camp?" the other said. johnny said, "there were at least a score of men here, mr. mellor." "no officers. suppose an emergency came up?" johnny felt like saying, _an emergency did come up, two of them in fact. that's why we were all gone at once._ but for some reason he decided against explaining current happenings at bidon cinq until he had a clearer picture. he said, "there are only three of us here, mr. mellor. we have to stretch our manpower. derek mason had to go over to amérene el kasbach with mohammed mohmoud and his men to clear out those nomads and their livestock." "what did they find? where were the tuareg from?" "they haven't returned yet." automatically, johnny took up his can of beer and took a swallow from it. mellor's eyebrows went up. "drinking this early in the day, mccord?" johnny sighed deeply, "look, mr. mellor, pierre marimbert and i just returned from several hours in the desert, inspecting pumps. we're dehydrated, so we're drinking cold beer. it tastes wonderful. i doubt if it will lead either of us to a drunkard's grave." mellor scowled pompously. he said finally, "see here, mccord--the reason i called--you can be expecting a reporter from one of the french publications--" "she's here." "oh," mellor said. "i just received notice this morning. orders are to give her the utmost cooperation. things are on the touchy side right now. very touchy." "how do you mean?" johnny said. "there are pressures on the highest levels," mellor said, managing to put over the impression that these matters were above and beyond such as johnny mccord but that he, mellor, was privy to them. "what pressures?" johnny said wearily. "if you want me to handle this woman with kid gloves, then i've got to know what i'm protecting her against, or hiding from her, or whatever the hell i'm supposed to do." mellor glared at him. "i'm not sure i always appreciate your flippancy, mccord," he said. "however, back home the opposition is in an uproar over our expenditures. things are very delicate. a handful of votes could sway the continuance of the whole project." johnny mccord closed his eyes in pain. this came up every year or so. mellor said, "that isn't all. the russkies are putting up a howl in the reunited nations. they claim the west plans to eventually take over all northwest africa. that this reforestation is just preliminary to make the area worth assimilating." johnny chuckled sourly, "let's face it. they're right." mellor was shocked. "mr. mccord! the west has never admitted to any such scheme." johnny sighed. "however, we aren't plowing billions into the sahara out of kindness of heart. the mali federation alone has almost two million square miles in it, and less than twenty million population. already, there's fewer people than are needed to exploit the new lands we've opened up." "well, that brings up another point," mellor said. "the southeast asia bloc is putting up a howl too. they claim they should be the ones allowed to reclaim this area and that it should go into farmland instead of forest." "they're putting the cart before the horse," johnny said. "at this stage of the game, the only land they could use really profitably for farming would be along the niger. we're going to have to forest this whole area first, and in doing so, change the whole climate. _then_ it'll...." mellor interrupted him. "i'm as familiar with the program of the sahara reforestation commission as you are, i am sure, mccord. i need no lecture. see that miss desage gets as sympathetic a picture of our work as possible. and, for heaven's sake, don't let anything happen that might influence her toward writing something that would change opinions either at home or in the reunited nations." "i'll do my best," johnny said sourly. the other clicked off. * * * * * pierre was handy with another can of beer, already opened. "so mademoiselle desage is to be handled with loving care." johnny groaned, "and from what we've seen so far of mademoiselle desage, she's going to take quite a bit of loving care to handle." outside, they could hear the beating of rotors coming in. two helicopters, from the sound of it. beer cans in hand they went over to the window and watched them approach. "derek and the girl in one, mohammed in the other," pierre said. "evidently our good captain left the messy work of butchering goats to his men, while he remains on the scene to be as available to our girl hélène as she will allow." the copters swooped in, landed, the rotors came to a halt and the occupants stepped from the cockpits. the arab ground crew came running up to take over. preceded by hélène desage, the two men made their way toward the main office. even at this distance there seemed to be an aggressive lift to the girl's walk. "oh, oh, my friend," pierre said. "i am afraid mademoiselle desage is unhappy about something." johnny groaned. "i think you're right. but smile, reuben, smile. you heard the city slicker's orders. handle her with all the care of a new-born heifer." hélène desage stormed through the door and glared at johnny mccord. "do you realize what your men are doing?" "i thought i did," johnny said placatingly. derek and mohammed mohmoud entered behind her. derek winked at johnny mccord and made a beeline for the refrigerator. "beer, everybody?" he said. mohammed mohmoud said, "a soft drink for me, if you please, mr. mason." derek said, "sorry, i forgot. beer, miss desage?" she turned and glared at him. "you did nothing whatsoever to prevent them!" derek shrugged. "that's why we went out there, honey. did you notice how much damage those goats had done to the trees? thousands of dollars worth." johnny said wearily, "what happened?" he sank into the chair behind his desk. the reporter turned to him again. "your men are shooting the livestock of those poverty-stricken people." mohammed mohmoud said, "we are keeping an accurate count of every beast destroyed, mr. mccord." his dark face was expressionless. johnny mccord attempted to explain to the girl. "as i told you, miss desage, goats are the curse of the desert. they prefer leaves, twigs and even the bark of young trees to grass. the commission before ever taking on this tremendous project arranged through the mali federation government to buy up and have destroyed every grazing animal north of the niger. it cost millions upon millions. but our work couldn't even begin until it was accomplished." "but why slaughter the livelihood of those poor people? you could quite easily insist that they return with their flocks to whatever areas are still available to them." derek offered her a can of beer. she seemed to be going to reject it, but a desert-born thirst changed her mind. she took it without thanking him. the lanky canadian said mildly, "i tried to explain to her that the tuareg aren't exactly innocent children of the desert. they're known as the apaches of the sahara. for a couple of thousand years they've terrified the other nomads. they were slave raiders, bandits. when the commission started its work the other tribes were glad to sell their animals and take up jobs in the new oases. send their kids to the new schools we've been building in the towns. begin fitting into the reality of modern life." her eyes were flashing now. "the apaches of the sahara, eh? _bien sur!_ if i remember correctly, the american apaches were the last of the indian tribes which you americans destroyed. the last to resist. now you export your methods to africa!" johnny mccord said mildly, "miss desage, it seems to be the thing these days to bleed over the fate of the redman. actually, there are a greater number of them in the united states today than there were when columbus landed. but even if you do carry a torch for the noble indian, picking the apaches as an example is poor choice. they were bandit tribes, largely living off what they could steal and raid from the pueblo and other harder working but less warlike indians. the tuareg are the north african equivalent." "who are you to judge?" she snapped back. "those tribesmen out there are the last defenders of their ancient desert culture. their flocks are their way of life. you mercilessly butcher them, rob their women and children of their sole source of food and clothing." * * * * * johnny mccord ran his hand over his face in an unhappy gesture. "look," he said plaintively. "those goats and sheep have already been bought and paid for by the commission. the tuareg should have destroyed them, or sold them as food to be immediately butchered, several years ago. where they've been hiding is a mystery. but they simply have no right to be in possession of those animals, no right to be in this part of the country, and, above all, no right to be grazing in our transplants." "it's their country! what right have you to order them away?" johnny mccord held up his hands, palms upward. "this country is part of the mali federation, miss desage. it used to be called french sudan and south algeria. the government of the federation gladly accepted the project of reforestating the sahara. why not? we've already succeeded in making one of the most poverty-stricken areas in the world a prosperous one. far from there being unemployment here, we have a labor shortage. schools have opened, even universities. hospitals have sprung up. highways have been laid out through country that hadn't even trails before. the federation is booming. if there are a few tuareg who can't adapt to the new world, it's too bad. their children will be glad for the change." she seated herself stiffly. "i am not impressed by your excuses," she said. johnny shrugged and turned to mohammed mohmoud who had been standing silently through all this, almost as though at attention. johnny said, "did you learn where this band comes from? where they had kept that many animals for so long without detection?" the moslem officer shook his head. "they wouldn't reveal that." johnny looked at derek mason. the canadian shook his head. "none of them spoke french, johnny. or if they did, they wouldn't admit it. when we first came up they looked as though they were going to fight. happily, the size of the captain's command made them decide otherwise. at any rate, they're putting up no resistance. i let them know through the captain, here, that when they got back to tissalit, or timbuktu, they could put in a demand for reimbursement for their animals--if the animals were legally theirs." johnny looked at the malian officer again. "how come you've returned to camp? shouldn't you be out there with your men?" "there were a few things to be discussed," the moslem said. he looked significantly at the french reporter. hélène desage said, "let me warn you, i will not tolerate being sent away. i want to hear this. if i don't, i demand you let me communicate immediately with my magazine and with the transatlantic newspaper alliance for whom i am also doing a series of articles on the sahara reforestation _scheme_." johnny mccord winced. he said, "there is nothing going on around here, miss desage, that is secret. you won't be ordered away." he turned to mohammed mohmoud. "what did you wish to discuss, captain?" "first, what about the camels, asses and horses?" "shoot them. practically the only graze between here and tissalit are our trees." "and how will they get themselves and their property out of this country?" the reporter snapped. johnny said wearily, "we'll truck them out, miss desage. they and all their property. and while we're doing it, we'll feed them. i imagine, before it's all over it will cost the commission several thousand dollars." he turned back to the desert patrol captain. "what else?" from a tunic pocket mohammed mohmoud brought a handgun and handed it to johnny mccord. "i thought you might like to see this. they were quite well armed. at first i thought there might be resistance." johnny turned the automatic over in his hands, scowling at it. "what's there to see that's special? i don't know much about guns." mohammed mohmoud said, "it was made in pilsen." johnny looked up at him. "czechoslovakia, eh?" the other said, "so were most of their rifles." hélène desage snorted in deprecation. "so, we'll drag in that old wheeze. the red menace. blame it on _la russie_." johnny mccord said mildly, "we haven't blamed anything on the russkies, miss desage. the tuareg have a right to bear arms, there are still dangerous animals in the mali federation. and they are free to purchase czech weapons if they find them better or cheaper than western ones. don't find an exciting story where there is none. things are tranquil here." hélène desage stared at him. so did mohammed mohmoud and derek mason for that matter. only pierre marimbert realized johnny mccord's position, and he chuckled and went for more beer. v johnny mccord was a man who didn't like to be thrown out of routine. he resented the interference with his schedule of the past few days. by nature he was methodical, not given to inspiration. all of which was probably the reason that he spent a sleepless night trying to find rhyme and reason where seemingly there was none. at dawn, he stepped from the door of his quonset hut quarters and looked for a moment into the gigantic red ball which was the saharan sun. neither dawn nor sunset at bidon cinq were spectacular, nor would they become so until the sahara reforestation commission began to return moisture to desert skies. johnny wondered if he would live to see it. he made his way over to the huge steel shed which doubled as garage and aircraft hanger. as yet, none of the native mechanics were stirring, although he could hear sounds of activity in the community kitchen. derek mason looked up from his inspection of hélène desage's air-cushion land rover. johnny mccord scowled at him. "what in the hell are you doing here?" the lanky canadian came erect and looked for a long moment at his superior. he said finally, soberly, "it occurs to me that i'm probably doing the same thing you came to do." "what have you found?" "that a small bomb has been attached to the starter." johnny didn't change expression. it fitted in. "what else?" he said. derek handed him a steel ring. johnny mccord looked at it, recognized it for what it was and stuck it in his pocket. "let's go back to the office. yell in to the cook to send some coffee over, and call pierre. we've got some notes to check." mademoiselle desage was a late riser. when she entered the office, the three sahara reforestation commission officers were already at work. she said snappishly to johnny mccord, "today i would like to see these destroyed pumps." johnny said, his eyebrows questioning, "how did you know they were destroyed?" "it doesn't seem to be much of a secret. the story is all about the camp." "oh?" johnny sighed, then drawled to derek, "i say, si, you better go get the hired hand, we might as well finish this up so we can get back to work." derek nodded and left. johnny mccord left the collator he'd been working with, went around behind his desk and sat down. "take a chair, miss desage. i want to say a few things in the way of background to you." she sat, but said defiantly, "i have no need of a lengthy lecture on the glories of the sahara reforestation commission." "coffee?" pierre marimbert said politely. "no, thank you." johnny said, his voice thoughtful, "i imagine the real starting point was back about when the chinese discovered that a nation's greatest natural resource is its manpower." * * * * * she frowned at him. "what in the world are you talking about?" he ignored her and went on. "originally, appalled by the job of feeding over half a billion mouths, they had initiated a birth control plan. but after a year or two they saw it was the wrong approach. they were going to succeed, if they succeeded, in their _great leaps forward_ by utilizing the labor of every man, woman and child in the country. and that's what they proceeded to do. the lesson was brought home to the rest of the world in less than ten years, when such other countries as india and indonesia failed to do the same." johnny leaned back in his chair, and his eyes were thoughtful but unseeing. "even we of the west learned the lesson. the most important factor in our leadership was our wonderful trained labor force. as far back as we had more than million americans working daily in industry and distribution. even the russkies, with their larger population, didn't begin to equal that number." "what are you driveling about?" the reporter demanded. "to sum it up," johnny said mildly, "the battle for men's minds continues and each of the world's great powers has discovered that it can't afford to limit its population--its greatest resource. so population continues to explode and the world is currently frantically seeking sources of food for its new billions. the amazon basin is being made into a tropical garden; the japanese, landless, are devising a hundred methods of farming the sea; australia is debouching into its long unpopulated interior, doing much the same things we are here in the sahara. the chinese are over-flowing into sinkiang, mongolia and tibet; the russkies into siberia. we of the west, with the large underdeveloped areas of the western hemisphere have not been so greatly pushed as some others. however, there is always tomorrow." derek entered with captain mohammed mohmoud. the latter day rudolph valentino had a puzzled expression on his dark face. "here's the hired man, hiram," derek drawled. the desert patrol officer nodded questioningly to the men and said, "_bonjour_," to hélène desage. johnny went on. "yes, there's tomorrow. and by the time we run out of _lebensraum_ in brazil and alaska, in central america and the argentine, in texas and saskatchewan, we're going to need the three million square miles of the sahara." she said in ridicule, "it will take you a century at least to reforest the desert." "at least." johnny nodded agreeably. "and we're willing and able to look that far ahead. possibly by that time our opponents will also be looking for new lands for their expanding peoples. and where will they find them? the advantage will be ours, miss desage." mohammed mohmoud looked from one to the other, frowning. "what are we discussing?" he said. "i should be getting back to my men." derek yawned and said, "forget about it, pal. you're never going to be getting back to your men again." * * * * * the desert patrol officer's eyes widened. he turned his glare on johnny mccord, "what is all this?" johnny said, "i'll tell it, derek." hélène desage was as surprised as the malian. "what is going on? are you trying to whitewash yourselves by casting blame on this gentleman?" "let me go on," johnny said. "needless to say, there are conflicting interests. the soviet complex obviously would as soon we didn't succeed. however, wars are impractical today, and the russkies and chinese are taken up with their own development. the southeast asia bloc wouldn't mind taking over here themselves, they desperately need land already. but they aren't our biggest opponents. there's another group even more involved--the _colons_ of algeria and morocco and those of even such mali cities as dakar. i suppose it is this last element that you represent, miss desage." she was staring unbelievingly at him now. "their interest is to get the sahara reforestation commission out of the way so that they can immediately exploit the area. they are interested in the _now_, not the potentialities of the future. they resent the use of the niger for reforestation, when they could use it for immediate irrigation projects. they would devote the full resources of the mali federation and algeria to seeking oil and minerals and in the various other ways the country might be exploited. finally, they rather hate to see the western schools, hospitals, and other means used to raise the local living standards. they liked the low wage rates that formerly applied." johnny nodded. "yes, i imagine that's your angle." hélène desage stormed to her feet. "i don't have to listen to this!" derek said, "honey, we sure aren't holding you. you're free to go any time you want. and you can take this pal of yours along with you." he jerked his head contemptuously at mohammed mohmoud. pierre marimbert said, "mademoiselle, we have no idea of where you two met originally, nor how close your relationship, but the captain should have remembered that i too am french. a gentleman, on first meeting a lady, would never, never address her as _tu in our_ language." johnny sighed again and looked at his watch. "other things pile up too, miss desage. you let slip a few moments ago that you knew about the pumps being destroyed. you said the rumor was all around camp. but it couldn't be. the only persons who knew about it were myself, pierre and derek. on top of that, there were no signs of bedouin or animals near the exploded pumps; the person who did the job must have come in an aircraft or air-cushion car. and, besides, we found the pin of a hand grenade in your land rover this morning. we had thought at first that dynamite had been used, but evidently you smuggled your much more compact bombs across the desert with you. obviously, no one would have dreamed of searching your vehicle. "no, miss desage, it's obvious that you detoured from the track on the way down from poste weygand, went over to in ziza, a comparatively short distance, and blew up twenty-five of our pumps." johnny turned to the malian officer now. "at the same time you were coordinating with her, you and whatever gang is hiring you. someone supplied those tuareg with the livestock and paid them to trek up here. you, of course, turned your back and let them through. the same someone who supplied the livestock also supplied czech weapons." hélène desage was still sputtering indignation. "ridiculous! why? what would motivate me to such nonsense?" johnny grimaced. "the whole thing makes a beautiful story at a time when the american government is debating the practicality of the whole project. you could do quite a sob story on the poor, poverty-stricken tuareg having their livestock destroyed. then, quite a tale about the bedouin raiding our pumping stations and blowing them up. and quite a tale about the tuareg being armed with czech weapons. oh, i imagine before it was through you'd have drawn a picture of civil war going on here between the nomads and the commission. blowing up your own car with a small bomb attached to the starter was just one more item. by the way, were you going to do it yourself? or did you intend to allow one of our mechanics to kill himself?" she flushed. "don't be ridiculous. no one would have been hurt. the bomb is a very small one. more smoke and flash than anything else." "well, thanks for small favors," derek said sarcastically. * * * * * she gave up. "very well," she snapped. "there is nothing you can do. this whole project, as i said before, is nothing but american boon-doggling, a way of plowing endless resources into a hole. your real motivation is an attempt to prevent depression and unemployment in your country." pierre marimbert said softly, "so you admit to this whole scheme to discredit us?" "why not?" she turned to the door. "i will still write my articles. it's my word or yours." derek grinned at her. "i think i could fall in love with you, honey," he said. "life would provide few dull moments. however, you didn't notice how nice and automated this office is. card machines, electric typewriters, all the latest--including tape recorders for office conversations. you talked too much, honey." "_cochon!_" she shrilled at him. she whirled and was through the door. johnny turned to mohammed mohmoud. "i guess the best thing for you would be to turn in your commission, captain." dark eyes snapped. "and if i say no?" johnny shook his head. "the mali federation passed some awfully strict laws when it was drawing up its constitution. among them was one involving capital punishment for anyone destroying a source of water in the desert. miss desage did the actual work but you were hand in glove with her. i'd hate to have to report that to your superiors." derek jumped forward quickly. his hand snaked out and chopped the other's forearm. the heavy military pistol fell to the floor, and the canadian kicked it to one side. "shucks," he drawled, "the hired hand sure is tricky, ain't he?" "good lord," johnny mccord said disgustedly, "i didn't say i was going to report you. just threatened to if you didn't resign. now get out of here, we've got work to do. i'm three days behind on my reports!" assassin by bascom jones, jr. _everyone is allowed to commit an error. the trouble was that i couldn't._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, january . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] i deliberately dug my heels into the concrete floor of the corridor of the pentagon. the steel plates on the heels of my black uniform boots heralded my approach with sharp anvil sounds as i marched confidently toward the unmarked door five hundred feet ahead. what was that expression used by earth people of the th century? i shifted back through my training, shuffled through the facts about earth's past history with which i had been indoctrinated, searching for the word. _assassin!_ that was it. but the term fell short. it lacked in magnitude. there was a difference in the murder of one person and the assassination of the occupants of an entire planet! one foot in front of the other, i paced off the distance toward the end of the hallway, carefully duplicating the strut which was a trademark of the earth council's security police. i'd practiced the peculiar, jolting method of walking a thousand times, but i began to feel the effects of earth's heavier gravity before i had covered half the distance. it had been impossible to simulate the difference in gravity in my training. the two guards standing outside the door alertly watched my approach. when i was still four paces away, one of them ordered me to stop. they ignored as though they were not there the gold stars prominently displayed on the shoulders of my tunic. the guard on the left said, "your id card, sir." the guards were well trained. they would not hesitate to shoot if i made the slightest slip. i handed the card to him and watched as he held it up to a visi-scanner in the wall. the scanner glowed into life and purred softly, rapidly checking the invisible identification codings on the card against the id component of earth's master machine. then it dulled and was silent. the strident alarm siren over the scanner remained inactive. the id card was returned to me and the guards snapped smartly to attention as i went on into the room beyond the door. i had passed the first test. * * * * * the reception room was small. thick carpeting deadened the clump of my heels as i marched toward the chromed desk guarding a second unmarked door. a flawlessly proportioned redhead sat behind the desk. her eyes and face showed no expression when i stopped in front of her. her tight-fitting uniform was black and bore the gold trim of the security police. constricting my throat, i let the words snap out crisply, as i had been trained. "general spicer," i said, "commanding general of the security police, reporting to the secretary of defense. as requested." i waited. her eyes, still showing no outward expression, ran over me rapidly. then she thumbed a button on the desk and a screen, recessed into the chromed surface, glowed into life. almost immediately, a full-face reproduction of the features of general spicer appeared on the screen in color. she checked the image against my face, her eyes flickering to the tiny scar under my left eye and to the old blaster burn across my right ear. when the image changed to a profile view, i turned my head to give her the same angle. she nodded, pressing the button on her desk which darkened the screen. she said, "you're early. your appointment with secretary bartlett is--" "for hours," i filled in automatically, when she hesitated in one last routine test. "i was in the building on another matter, however, and came here after i had finished my other business." "yes, of course," she said. "please take a seat. senator chambers is ahead of you, but his business will not take long." i fought back the sudden impulse to pivot and stare in the direction her eyes were indicating. _senator carl chambers._ my briefing on him had been lengthy. for earth years, he had headed the un-earth activities committee. as general spicer, i was supposed to have a nodding acquaintance with him, but no more than that. during the years, our rivalry had become legend. his unanticipated presence in the waiting room could prove disastrous. chambers would not be fooled easily. turning slowly, i nodded stiffly and curtly in chambers' direction and then selected a chair across the room from him. the senator's head merged directly into the shoulders of his grossly rotund body. small, round eyes stared unblinkingly at me from the red pudginess of his face. they hesitated on the black swagger stick which i held loosely in my right hand, moved on, and then returned to it. the invisible scars, made by the electro-surgical knives in re-designing my body, began to tense slowly. i shifted the swagger stick in my hand. then the redheaded secretary stood up. she said, "secretary bartlett will see you now. senator." * * * * * for a fraction of a time, i thought senator chambers had not heard her. his expressionless eyes were still on me. then, with a grunt, he lifted himself to his feet and disappeared through the door behind her. a tiny clicking noise indicated that it locked automatically. i shifted my gaze and saw that the secretary was looking at me intently. it was impossible to guess at what might be going on behind those eyes. the tension began to build inside me again, but i kept my own eyes as expressionless as hers. the girl picked up a folded piece of paper out of a receptacle on her desk and brought it over to me. she said, "while you're waiting, general, you might like to read the latest facsimile. or have you already seen it?" i shook my head. "i saw the fac-report, but i missed this one." she handed it to me and returned to her desk. there was just the slightest suggestion of a rolling movement in her walk, not at all unpleasant. when i looked down at the facsimile sheet, the headline screamed silently up at me. i swiveled my eyes over at the secretary, but she was working her recordo-writer, her fingers moving rapidly, mechanically. the headline read: alien invader discovered! the story that followed reported that two security police guards had intercepted someone who looked like and was dressed like an earthman, trying to enter the senate at hours that morning. a discrepancy had been discovered during the routine id card check and the imposter had tried to escape. the guards had opened fire at close range, scoring two direct hits. while the account was obviously censored, it intimated that a full report to be released later by security police headquarters would be almost unbelievable. it hinted that the hideous mess revealed when the guards' weapons had ripped through the surprisingly soft body armor of the impostor positively confirmed the fact that the individual was an enemy alien. before i could read any further, there was a muted tone from the direction of the desk. the secretary acknowledged the signal, spoke several words which i couldn't hear, then looked at me. she said, "you may go in now, general spicer." i placed the facsimile sheet on her desk and waited while she activated the circuit, which would release the catch on her side of the door. _who had it been? there had been four of us. volunteers. we had been selected, briefed and trained separately. we had been housed separately during the mental and physical tortures of the surgical and the psych labs. the ship which had brought us to earth had released us at separate points above the earth capital. only our ultimate goal was the same. but now there was one less of us to accomplish that goal! and we had lost the element of surprise._ the door clicked twice and swung open. i stepped through, just in time to see the rotund shape of senator chambers go out a private exit on the far side of the room. both doors closed at almost the same moment and i stood alone before the secretary of defense for the planet earth. the secretary sat behind a desk on the far side of the room. he was a powerful man, in keeping with the importance of the job he filled. but the huge memory bank which he relied upon and which filled the entire wall behind his desk seemed to dwarf him. without looking up immediately, secretary bartlett carefully rewound a tape he had been referring to and fed it back into the open mouth of the memory unit. * * * * * he said, "spicer, we've been talking about you. do you have anything new on this alien incident? chambers said an impulse cleared the master machine last night, indicating there may have been some sort of ship overhead." "no, sir," i lied. "my people are working on it, but we don't have much more to go on than appeared in the latest fac-report." "if there was a ship overhead, it was protected by a new type of anti-identification device. the master machine probed for more than six minutes and registered only a void. chambers, of course, is always--" bartlett didn't finish the sentence. his words trailed off into a moment of puzzled silence as he turned and looked squarely at me for the first time. something had gone wrong. something that i had done or hadn't done had revealed to him that i wasn't general spicer. secretary bartlett started to rise. "why, you're not spicer! you're an impostor!" his eyes displayed neither fear nor surprise, but his hand was less than a time point from the alarm buzzer on the top of his desk when i touched the tiny stud on the hilt of my useless-looking swagger stick. for the tick of a pulse, he sat there with his body bathed in the colored ray, his finger poised above the warning buzzer. then his body began to glow. i closed my eyes when the heat and brightness reached my face. when i opened them, there was nothing left of bartlett but a swirl of dust motes. stepping behind the desk, i stripped off the thin plasti-mask which had disguised my features to look like those of general spicer. my hands moved almost automatically. each motion had been rehearsed, timed, analyzed, and timed again. i reversed my coat, hiding the gold markings of the security police, and revealing the precious-metal insignia which had been worn by the secretary of defense. the now-useless id card, which i had obtained earlier when i destroyed the real general spicer, was dropped into the office incendiary tube, along with the mask and the removable steel cappings of my boots. by the time i had finished, only the swagger stick remained to connect me with general spicer. i carefully telescoped its length, twisting and turning the artfully designed tubing, until it was identical to bartlett's cane of state, leaning against the desk. the real cane i disposed of by dropping it into the incendiary tube after the other articles. i turned the stiff black collar of my coat up, in the same manner that bartlett had worn his. the upturned collar hid the tiny metal electrodes protruding from the base of my neck, under each ear. * * * * * when i sat down behind the desk, the image reflected up at me from the chromed top was, feature for feature, that of defense secretary bartlett. the electro-surgical knives, wielded by experts, had done a good job. i grimaced. i puffed out my cheeks. i rolled my eyes. and, in turn, the reflected image grimaced, puffed out its cheeks, and rolled its eyes. the texture of my skin was that of bartlett's. even the pore structure. this had been the final big hurdle. the rest was now up to me. no! more accurately, the rest depended upon routine--a routine established more than earth years ago--a routine so inflexible that it had not been broken for a single day. my mission was to break that routine. destruction of spicer and bartlett was important only as a means to an end. as soon as they were missed, others would fill their places. i had to destroy _all_ spicers and _all_ bartletts. i had to destroy the residents of washington, of london, of new york, of earth! my mission was to destroy so that we could live. that was what the technicians in the psych-labs had told me. that was what the physicians behind the electro-surgical knives had told me. it had been drummed into me over and over, through every phase of the mental and physical preparation that i had been put through. so i sat in bartlett's office, looking like bartlett, waiting. i knew almost to the exact time point when the buzzer on the desk in front of me would sound. i expected it, but when the strident tone filled the room, i jumped. i thumbed the switch on the desk video-com and the features of the redheaded secretary looked out at me from the recessed screen. i deepened my voice to mimic bartlett's. "yes, meta?" the video-com was a two-way security system and i knew that she could see me, too. she continued to stare, and i felt the scar tissue tighten around the electrodes in my neck. through some flaw in transmission, for a brief moment, i thought i saw the twinkle of an expression deep in her eyes. but that was impossible. her lips twitched and the transmission flaw, or whatever it might have been, was corrected. her eyes were as inscrutable as ever. she said, "it's , sir. the inspection group will be here in two minutes. shall i bring them in?" i nodded my head to one side slightly, in a manner peculiar to bartlett. "thank you, meta. yes, of course. bring them in as soon as they arrive." i switched the video-com off and let my fingers lightly play with the button on the desk that activated the lock on bartlett's private door into the inner corridor. it was a temptation to open the door and attempt to go the rest of the way on my own. but i wouldn't make it. not even disguised as defense secretary bartlett. i had been warned not to try. * * * * * my only hope lay in the routine set up by earth's scientists more than years ago--the daily inspection of the unit. as a member of the inspection party, i could pass through the security guards. more important, as a member of the group, i would arrive at the protective force sphere at the hub of the pentagon at the only time and at the only place the force sphere could be breached. i waited. precisely at the end of meta's two minutes, the lock buzzed on the door to the reception room. i touched the control which opened the door and stood as the group filed into the room. my briefings on each of them had been exhaustive, but i examined their faces for some sign that one or more might penetrate my disguise as bartlett. the redheaded meta nodded. she had been with bartlett as his security secretary for years. senator chambers, as a representative of the electorate, darted rapid glances around the room as soon as the door had closed, counting noses. general whit marshall, chairman of the joint chiefs of staff of the police systems, nodded with the cold reserve of the high-ranking military to the higher-ranking civilian. the fourth member of the group, chet meyers, chief master machine technician, was the only one to speak. the lanky meyers looked around the room. "where's general spicer, sir? senator chambers was telling us you were going to invite him because of this scare today." the invisible scars which cobwebbed across my body from the electro-surgical knives tensed so suddenly that i almost screamed. i made myself reach for my cane casually. i had come so close! no, wait--there was the bitter rivalry between chambers and spicer. chambers was too complete a politician to pass up an opportunity to discredit general spicer. his black pin-prick eyes darted up toward the time unit on the wall. "there's no time to wait, meyers," he said eagerly. "spicer knows the schedule. we must go without him." conscious of the stares of meta and meyers, i pushed the button which opened the door into the inner corridor. i looked directly at the master machine technician. "i asked spicer to get a late report on the incident for us. but you know that chambers is right--we cannot afford to wait any longer. perhaps he'll catch up." we followed the corridor toward the hub of the pentagon. senator chambers led the way, almost at a trot, as though he were afraid that spicer would catch up. general marshall and meyers, hard put to keep up, were strung out behind him, with meta and me bringing up the rear. that was the way we went through the check points manned by the security guards. twice i caught meta looking at me. at one of the check points, i thought she was going to say something. i lifted the tip of my cane and put my finger near the stud, but she remained silent. * * * * * the tension began to mount inside me as we approached the door opening on the invisible force wall. through the wall, i could see the squat, ugly building in the center of the hub of the pentagon, which was our destination. i held my cane ready. but even a ct-bomb wouldn't break through the force field. as we drew near the final guard point, a scrubwoman who had been working on the floor of the corridor picked up her bucket and fell in with our party. chambers was already gesturing at the guard to set the combination, which would open the force wall at precisely . i looked at the time unit on my wrist and saw that we had twenty seconds to wait. i resisted the betraying impulse to rub the irritated area around the electrodes set in my neck. when i looked up from the time unit, everything was too quiet. senator chambers was no longer dancing around impatiently. he was staring at the bucket carried by the scrubwoman. the inside of the bucket was not even damp. and the mop she had been using was dry. the implication must have hit both chambers and me at the same moment. i wanted to shout a warning. chambers jumped back against the wall, yelling at the guard, "shoot her! shoot! she is an alien!" the scrubwoman did the wrong thing. she turned and tried to run, her legs lifting awkwardly against the pull of the unaccustomed gravity. but the guard's weapon was already at his shoulder. the low-velocity missile thudded into the body of the scrubwoman, flipping her up into the air in a graceless somersault. she landed on the concrete floor with a second thud, which echoed softly down the long hall. a pool slowly widened around her body and she lay still. i looked at my wrist time unit again. it was . the door through the force wall was open. i went past the huddled heap lying on the floor, careful not to step in the pool of moisture. _too hideous to put into words in a public fac-report! that's what the facsimile sheet had hinted about the broken body of the other "alien." two from four left only two. but the door through the force wall was open. i had to get through the door and into the building._ senator chambers stepped out from behind the guard and blocked the doorway. his little eyes flashed from one expressionless face to another as he tried to come to some inner decision. his shoulders slumped. "i--i don't like it," he said. "the door is open now. i think perhaps we had better wait for general spicer, after all." but meta shook her head and pushed past chambers. she said, "no. you know the routine as well as we, senator. we are required to inspect the unit. leave the guard on duty here." * * * * * i took advantage of the indecision of the others and pushed through the door after her toward the squat, ugly little building that was my goal. meta was almost to the door of the building when i heard chambers yell. "stop her, secretary bartlett! she's malfunctioning. we've all been ordered to wait outside for an id check." i ignored him and he yelled again. "guard, open fire on the girl. don't let her get inside that door!" but he was too late. meta disappeared through the door into the black building. i stepped inside just as it slammed shut and the first missile smashed against the door from the guard's weapon. the building was not large. the master machine squatted like a huge, thick-bodied black spider in the center of the building. a cobweb of power lines and control cables criss-crossed the floor and fed into the base of the unit. a myriad of tiny moving parts, levers and cams and elbowed arms and gears pulsed and shifted and moved to give the impression that the master machine was breathing, that it was alive. tiny multicolored lights twinkled on and off. giant vacuum tubes hummed and glowed. and all the while, it munched on endless tapes. the black monster was the heart of earth's civilization, and it was the means of it. as i started toward the machine, a grid at the top turned slowly and ogled me. almost immediately, a red tube blinked on, and the moving parts on one section of the machine plunged into a frenzied rhythm of action. i ran forward, breathing heavily under the strain of the unaccustomed gravity. i had only seconds in which to act. at any moment, senator chambers and the guards would be coming through the door behind me. i raised the cane and touched the stud. the finger of lavender light knifed toward the machine, searching for its heart and memory unit. the ray fused and melted and burned, cutting deeper and deeper into the maze of wires and tubes and relays. there was a blinding flash and one section of the machine ground to a stop. other sections immediately increased their tempo of movement. behind me the door slammed open, and senator chambers and two guards stumbled into the building. chambers yelled, "he's over there in front of the master machine. hurry up ... and ... shoot! before it's ... too late! _shoot!_" his face almost a cherry red, chambers danced out of the way. the guards raised their weapons and sighted. then the ray from my cane cut deeply into the very innermost section of the master unit and the machine died. a dial on the front of the blackened, twisted mess spun slowly to a stop. there was no more noise and no more movement. it was done. * * * * * as i released the stud on the cane, the weapons of the guards were pointed directly at my back. chambers' eyes were like two black marbles, staring at me, his head strained forward to watch the results of the missiles. i took a careful step to the left. and another. and then another. they didn't move. the guards' weapons remained trained on the spot where i had been standing. senator chambers continued staring at the place where i had been. none of them moved. they remained there, pointing at nothing. the electrodes at the bases of their necks reflecting the molten glow from the wrecked master machine. i relaxed. i rubbed the tender skin around the dummy electrodes set in my neck. it was finally over. then a shadow moved against the wall where there should have been no movement. it lengthened and took on the shapely form of the redheaded meta. only now her eyes were no longer dead and expressionless. they were alive with feeling. i said, "so you are the other one. i should have guessed when you ran into the building ahead of me. but i was too busy thinking of those guards and of chambers." she nodded. her lips relaxed into a smile. _two from four leaves two! but we had accomplished our mission. and outside the building, in washington, london, new york--in every earth city--figures on the streets, in office buildings, and at home had become motionless, poised like mechanical toys with their springs run down. housewives, cab drivers, copter pilots, passengers, shoppers, policemen, government workers had ceased to move, had stopped functioning with the destruction of the master machine._ the redhead said, "it's really over, isn't it? they're stopped." she looked at the still figures, the dummy electrodes in her neck quivering in a shiver. "they can't kill any more?" i said, "it's over." "they can't destroy or move?" "without the master machine, they have no power supply--nothing. and they can't kill or destroy." she walked over to look at the figures. "what went wrong? what happened to them?" i shrugged. "you can't blame them any more than you can blame a boiler that explodes or a dam that breaks. it was the human race itself that was responsible for what happened. we became lazy, careless. we built too many time saving gimmicks to do too many jobs for us." * * * * * "but the machines were designed to help us," she said. "to make life better and more pleasant." "at the beginning," i agreed, "but we didn't know where to stop. we started with labor-saving devices. we replaced ourselves in factories, offices, restaurants, stores. still it wasn't enough. we designed robots to serve as traffic policemen, to drive cars, and to handle thinking tasks. then we designed humanoid robots, mechanical replicas of man and woman, controlled by the computing sections of the master machine, activated by its power supply, able to move and talk and think. we used them as servants. we had the means to replace ourselves completely--everywhere." "why did they turn on the human race?" she asked. i pointed to the smoldering wreck of the master machine in the center of the room. "perhaps there was a weak circuit, or a tape was garbled, or a relay didn't close properly. the scientific colony on the moon helped some of us to escape. the rest of mankind was destroyed by the robots--systematically and ruthlessly." the redhead shivered again and walked over to the door leading from the building. she stood there, looking up at the thin curve of the moon showing in the blue of the afternoon sky. finally she said, "up there, by now, they will know that we have accomplished our mission. in a few hours, they will be filing out of the underground caverns and loading onto the giant rockets. they'll be coming back. but only the very oldest will have been on earth before. like us, thousands of them will be coming to a new world for the first time. a world of beauty and opportunity--if they want it that way. what will they decide?" what _would_ they decide? i looked down at the redhead. deep in her eyes, i saw the emotions which no humanoid robot could ever know. i saw them, and suddenly the tension eased out of my muscles. the answer to her question was in her own eyes. minutes to live! joe kenmore heard the airlock close with a sickening wheeze and then a clank. in desperation he turned toward haney. "my god, we've been locked out!" through the transparent domes of their space helmets, joe could see a look of horror and disbelief pass across haney's face. but it was true! joe and his crew were locked out of the space platform. four thousand miles below circled the earth. under joe's feet rested the solid steel hull of his home in outer space. but without tools there was no hope of getting back inside. joe looked at his oxygen meter. it registered thirty minutes to live. _space tug_ by murray leinster is an independent sequel to the author's popular _space platform_, which is also available in a pocket book edition. both books were published originally by shasta publishers. _of other books by murray leinster, the following are science-fiction:_ [a]space platform sidewise in time murder madness the last space ship the laws of chance (_anthology_) great stories of science fiction (_editor_) [a] published in a pocket book edition. _murray leinster_ space tug _pocket books, inc._ _new york, n. y._ this pocket book includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition. it is printed from brand-new plates made from completely reset, clear, easy-to-read type. * * * * * space tug shasta edition published november, pocket book edition published january, st printing november, all rights reserved. this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. for information, address: shasta publishers, south blackstone avenue, chicago , illinois. _copyright, , by will f. jenkins. this_ pocket book _edition is published by arrangement with shasta publishers. library of congress catalog card number: - . printed in the u. s. a._ +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note | | | | no evidence has been found that the copyright of this book | | has been renewed. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * [illustration: pocket book] _notice_: pocket book editions are published in the united states by pocket books, inc., in canada by pocket books of canada, ltd. trade marks registered in the united states and british patent offices by pocket books, inc., and registered in canada by pocket books of canada, ltd. _to joan patricia jenkins_ to the world at large, of course, it was just another day. a different sort entirely at different places on the great, round, rolling earth, but nothing out of the ordinary. it was tuesday on one side of the date line and monday on the other. it was so-and-so's wedding anniversary and so-and-so's birthday and another so-and-so would get out of jail today. it was warm, it was cool, it was fair, it was cloudy. one looked forward to the future with confidence, with hope, with uneasiness or with terror according to one's temperament and one's geographical location and past history. to most of the human race this was nothing whatever but just another day. but to joe kenmore it was a most particular day indeed. here, it was the gray hour just before sunrise and already there were hints of reddish colorings in the sky. it was chilly, and somehow the world seemed still and breathless. to joe, the feeling of tensity marked this morning off from all the other mornings of his experience. he got up and began to dress, in major holt's quarters back of that giant steel half-globe called the shed, near the town of bootstrap. he felt queer because he felt so much as usual. by all the rules, he should have experienced a splendid, noble resolution and a fiery exaltation, and perhaps even an admirable sensation of humility and unworthiness to accomplish what was expected of him today. and, deep enough inside, he felt suitable emotion. but it happened that he couldn't take time to feel things adequately today. he was much more aware that he wanted some coffee rather badly, and that he hoped everything would go all right. he looked out of the windows at empty, dreary desert under the dawn sky. today was the day he'd be leaving on a rather important journey. he hoped that haney and the chief and mike weren't nervous. he also hoped that nobody had gotten at the fuel for the pushpots, and that the slide-rule crew that had calculated everything hadn't made any mistakes. he was also bothered about the steering-rocket fuel, and he was uncomfortable about the business of releasing the spaceship from the launching cage. there was, too, cause for worry in the take-off rockets--if the tube linings had shrunk there would be some rather gruesome consequences--and there could always be last-minute orders from washington to delay or even cancel everything. in short, his mind was full of strictly practical details. he didn't have time to feel noble aspirations or sensations of high destiny. he had a very tricky and exacting job ahead of him. the sky was growing lighter outside. stars faded in a paling blue and the desert showed faint colorings. he tied his necktie. a deep-toned keening set up off to the southward, over the sere and dreary landscape. it was a faraway noise, something like the lament of a mountain-sized calf bleating for its mother. joe took a deep breath. he looked, but saw nothing. the noise, though, told him that there'd been no cancellation of orders so far. he mentally uncrossed one pair of fingers. he couldn't possibly cross fingers against all foreseeable disasters. there weren't enough fingers--or toes either. but it was good that so far the schedule held. he went downstairs. major holt was pacing up and down the living room of his quarters. electric lights burned, but already the windows were brightening. joe straightened up and tried to look casual. strictly speaking, major holt was a family friend who happened also to be security officer here, in charge of protecting what went on in the giant construction shed. he'd had a sufficiently difficult time of it in the past, and the difficulties might keep on in the future. he was also the ranking officer here and consequently the immediate boss of joe's enterprise. today's affair was still highly precarious. the whole thing was controversial and uncertain and might spoil the career of somebody with stars on his collar if it should fail. so nobody in the high brass wanted the responsibility. if everything went well, somebody suitable would take the credit and the bows. meanwhile major holt was boss by default. he looked sharply at joe. "morning." "good morning, sir," said joe. major holt's daughter sally had a sort of understanding with joe, but the major hadn't the knack of cordiality, and nobody felt too much at ease with him. besides, joe was wearing a uniform for the first time this morning. there were only eight such uniforms in the world, so far. it was black whipcord, with an eisenhower jacket, narrow silver braid on the collar and cuffs, and a silver rocket for a badge where a plane pilot wears his wings. it was strictly practical. against accidental catchings in machinery, the trousers were narrow and tucked into ten-inch soft leather boots, and the wide leather belt had flat loops for the attachment of special equipment. its width was a brace against the strains of acceleration. sally had had much to do with its design. but it hadn't yet been decided by the pentagon whether the space exploration project would be taken over by the army or the navy or the air corps, so joe wore no insignia of rank. technically he was still a civilian. the deep-toned noise to the south had become a howl, sweeping closer and trailed by other howlings. "the pushpots are on the way over, as you can hear," said the major detachedly, in the curious light of daybreak and electric bulbs together. "your crew is up and about. so far there seems to be no hitch. you're feeling all right for the attempt today?" "if you want the truth, sir, i'd feel better with about ten years' practical experience behind me. but my gang and myself--we've had all the training we can get without an actual take-off. we're the best-trained crew to try it. i think we'll manage." "i see," said the major. "you'll do your best." "we may have to do better than that," admitted joe wrily. "true enough. you may." the major paused. "you're well aware that there are--ah--people who do not altogether like the idea of the united states possessing an artificial satellite of earth." "i ought to know it," admitted joe. the earth's second, man-constructed moon--out in space for just six weeks now--didn't seem nowadays like the bitterly contested achievement it actually was. from earth it was merely a tiny speck of light in the sky, identifiable for what it was only because it moved so swiftly and serenely from the sunset toward the east, or from night's darkness into the dawn-light. but it had been fought bitterly before it was launched. it was first proposed to the united nations, but even discussion in the council was vetoed. so the united states had built it alone. yet the nations which objected to it as an international project liked it even less as a national one, and they'd done what they could to wreck it. the building of the great steel hull now out there in emptiness had been fought more bitterly, by more ruthless and more highly trained saboteurs, than any other enterprise in history. there'd been two attempts to blast it with atomic bombs. but it was high aloft, rolling grandly around the earth, so close to its primary that its period was little more than four hours; and it rose in the west and set in the east six times a day. today joe would try to get a supply ship up to it, a very small rocket-driven cargo ship named pelican one. the crew of the platform needed food and air and water--and especially the means of self-defense. today's take-off would be the first attempt at a rocket-lift to space. "the enemies of the platform haven't given up," said the major formidably. "and they used spectroscopes on the platform's rocket fumes. apparently they've been able to duplicate our fuel." joe nodded. major holt went on: "for more than a month military intelligence has been aware that rockets were under construction behind the iron curtain. they will be guided missiles, and they will carry atom bomb heads. one or more may be finished any day. when they're finished, you can bet that they'll be used against the platform. and you will carry up the first arms for the platform. your ship carries half a dozen long-range interceptor rockets to handle any attack from earth. it's vitally important for them to be delivered." "they'll attack the platform?" demanded joe angrily. "that's war!" "not if they deny guilt," said the major ironically, "and if we have nothing to gain by war. the platform is intended to defend the peace of the world. if it is destroyed, we won't defend the peace of the world by going to war over it. but while the platform can defend itself, it is not likely that anyone will dare to make war. so you have a very worthwhile mission. i suggest that you have breakfast and report to the shed. i'm on my way there now." joe said, "yes, sir." the major started for the door. then he stopped. he hesitated, and said abruptly, "if my security measures have failed, joe, you'll be killed. if there has been sabotage or carelessness, it will be my fault." "i'm sure, sir, that everything anybody could do--" "everything anybody can do to destroy you has been done," said the major grimly. "not only sabotage, joe, but blunders and mistakes and stupidities. that always happens. but--i've done my best. i suspect i'm asking your forgiveness if my best hasn't been good enough." then, before joe could reply, the major went hurriedly away. joe frowned for a moment. it occurred to him that it must be pretty tough to be responsible for the things that other men's lives depend on--when you can't share their danger. but just then the smell of coffee reached his nostrils. he trailed the scent. there was a coffeepot steaming on the table in the dining-room. there was a note on a plate. _good luck. i'll see you in the shed. sally_ joe was relieved. sally holt had been somewhere around underfoot all his life. she was a swell girl, but he was grateful that he didn't have to talk to her just now. he poured coffee and looked at his watch. he went to the window. the faraway howling was much nearer, and dawn had definitely arrived. small cloudlets in a pale blue sky were tinted pinkish by the rising sun. patches of yucca and mesquite and sage out beyond the officers' quarters area stretched away to a far-off horizon. they were now visibly different in color from the red-yellow earth between them, and cast long, streaky shadows. the cause of the howling was still invisible. but joe cared nothing for that. he stared skyward, searching. and he saw what he looked for. there was a small bright sliver of sunlight high aloft. it moved slowly toward the east. it showed the unmistakable glint of sunshine upon polished steel. it was the artificial satellite--a huge steel hull--which had been built in the gigantic shed from whose shadow joe looked upward. it was the size of an ocean liner, and six weeks since some hundreds of pushpots, all straining at once, had gotten it out of the shed and panted toward the sky with it. they'd gotten it twelve miles high and speeding eastward at the ultimate speed they could manage. they'd fired jato rockets, all at once, and so pushed its speed up to the preposterous. then they'd dropped away and the giant steel thing had fired its own rockets--which made mile-long flames--and swept on out to emptiness. before its rockets were consumed it was in an orbit , miles above the earth's surface, and it hurtled through space at something over , miles an hour. it circled the earth in exactly four hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds. and it would continue its circling forever, needing no fuel and never descending. it was a second moon for the planet earth. but it could be destroyed. joe watched hungrily as it went on to meet the sun. smoothly, unhurriedly, serenely, the remote and twinkling speck floated on out of sight. and then joe went back to the table and ate his breakfast quickly. he wolfed it. he had an appointment to meet that minute speck some , miles out in space. his appointment was for a very few hours hence. he'd been training for just this morning's effort since before the platform's launching. there was a great box swinging in twenty-foot gimbal rings over in the shed. there were motors and projectors and over two thousand vacuum tubes, relays and electronic units. it was a space flight simulator--a descendant of the link trainer which once taught plane pilots how to fly. but this offered the problems and the sensations of rocketship control, and for many hours every day joe and the three members of his crew had labored in it. the simulator duplicated every sight and sound and feeling--all but heavy acceleration--to be experienced in the take-off of a rocketship to space. the similitude of flight was utterly convincing. sometimes it was appallingly so when emergencies and catastrophes and calamities were staged in horrifying detail for them to learn to respond to. in six weeks they'd learned how to handle a spaceship so far as anybody could learn on solid ground--if the simulator was correctly built. nobody could be sure about that. but it was the best training that could be devised. in minutes joe had finished the coffee and was out of major holt's quarters and headed for the shed's nearest entrance. the shed was a gigantic metal structure rising out of sheer flat desert. there were hills to the westward, but only arid plain to the east and south and north. there was but one town in hundreds of miles and that was bootstrap, built to house the workmen who'd built the platform and the still invisible, ferociously howling pushpots and now the small supply ships, the first of which was to make its first trip today. the shed seemed very near because of its monstrous size. when he was actually at the base of its wall, it seemed to fill half the firmament and more than half the horizon. he went in, and felt self-conscious when the guard's eyes fell on his uniform. there was a tiny vestibule. then he was in the shed itself, and it was enormous. there were acres of wood-block flooring. there was a vast, steel-girdered arching roof which was fifty stories high in the center. all this size had been needed when the space platform was being built. men on the far side were merely specks, and the rows of windows to admit light usually did no more than make a gray twilight inside. but there was light enough today. to the east the shed's wall was split from top to bottom. a colossal triangular gore had been loosened and thrust out and rolled aside, and a doorway a hundred and fifty feet wide let in the sunshine. through it, joe could see the fiery red ball which was the sun just leaving the horizon. but there was something more urgent for him to look at. pelican one had been moved into its launching cage. only joe, perhaps, would really have recognized it. actually it was a streamlined hull of steel, eighty feet long by twenty in diameter. there were stubby metal fins--useless in space, and even on take-off, but essential for the planned method of landing on its return. there were thick quartz ports in the bow-section. but its form was completely concealed now by the attached, exterior take-off rockets. it had been shifted into the huge cradle of steel beams from which it was to be launched. men swarmed about it and over it, in and out of the launching cage, checking and rechecking every possible thing that could make for the success of its flight to space. the other three crew-members were ready--haney and chief bender and mike scandia. they were especially entitled to be the crew of this first supply ship. when the platform was being built, its pilot-gyros had been built by a precision tool firm owned by joe's father. he'd gone by plane with the infinitely precise apparatus to bootstrap, to deliver and install it in the platform. and the plane was sabotaged, and the gyros were ruined. they'd consumed four months in the building, and four months more for balancing with absolute no-tolerance accuracy. the platform couldn't wait so long for duplicates. so joe had improvised a method of repair. and with haney to devise special machine-tool setups and the chief to use fanatically fine workmanship, and mike and joe aiding according to their gifts, they'd rebuilt the apparatus in an impossibly short time. the original notion was joe's, but he couldn't have done the job without the others. and there had been other, incidental triumphs by the team of four. they were not the only ones who worked feverishly for the glory of having helped to build the earth's first artificial moon, but they had accomplished more than most. joe had even been appointed to be an alternate member of the platform's crew. but the man he was to have substituted for recovered from an illness, and joe was left behind at the platform's launching. but all of them had rated some reward, and it was to serve in the small ships that would supply the man-made satellite. now they were ready to begin. the chief grinned exuberantly as joe ducked through the bars of the launching cage and approached the ship. he was a mohawk indian--one of that tribe which for two generations had supplied steel workers to every bridge and dam and skyscraper job on the continent. he was brown and bulky and explosive. haney looked tense and strained. he was tall and lean and spare, and a good man in any sort of trouble. mike blazed excitement. mike was forty-one inches high and he was full-grown. he had worked on the platform, bucking rivets and making welds and inspections in places too small for a normal-sized man to reach. he frantically resented any concessions to his size and he was as good a man as any. he simply was the small, economy size. "hiya, joe," boomed the chief. "all set? had breakfast?" joe nodded. he began to ask anxious questions. about steering-rocket fuel and the launching cage release and the take-off rockets and the reduction valve from the air tanks--he'd thought of that on the way over--and the short wave and loran and radar. haney nodded to some questions. mike said briskly, "i checked" to others. the chief grunted amiably, "look, joe! we checked everything last night. we checked it again this morning. i even caught mike polishing the ejection seats, because there wasn't anything else to make sure of!" joe managed a smile. the ejection seats were assuredly the most unlikely of all devices to be useful today. they were supposedly life-saving devices. if the ship came a cropper on take-off, the four of them were supposed to use ejection-seats like those supplied to jet pilots. they would be thrown clear of the ship and ribbon-parachutes might open and might let them land alive. but it wasn't likely. joe had objected to their presence. if a feather dropped to earth from a height of miles, it would be falling so fast when it hit the atmosphere that it would heat up and burn to ashes from pure air-friction. it wasn't likely that they could get out of the ship if anything went wrong. somebody marched stiffly toward the four of them. joe's expression grew rueful. the space project was neither army nor navy nor air corps, but something that so far was its own individual self. but the man marching toward joe was lieutenant commander brown, strictly navy, assigned to the shed as an observer. and there were some times when he baffled joe. like now. he halted, and looked as if he expected joe to salute. joe didn't. lieutenant commander brown said, formally: "i would like to offer my best wishes for your trip, mr. kenmore." "thanks," said joe. brown smiled distantly. "you understand, of course, that i consider navigation essentially a naval function, and it does seem to me that any ship, including a spaceship, should be manned by naval personnel. but i assuredly wish you good fortune." "thanks," said joe again. brown shook hands, then stalked off. haney rumbled in his throat. "how come, joe, he doesn't wish all of us good luck?" "he does," said joe. "but his mind's in uniform too. he's been trained that way. i'd like to make a bet that we have him as a passenger out to the platform some day." "heaven forbid!" growled haney. there was an outrageous tumult outside the wide-open gap in the shed's wall. something went shrieking by the doorway. it looked like the magnified top half of a loaf of baker's bread, painted gray and equipped with an air-scoop in front and a plastic bubble for a pilot. it howled like a lost baby dragon, its flat underside tilted up and up until it was almost vertical. it had no wings, but a blue-white flame spurted out of its rear, wobbling from side to side for reasons best known to itself. it was a pushpot, which could not possibly be called a jet plane because it could not possibly fly. only it did. it settled down on its flame-spouting tail, and the sparse vegetation burst into smoky flame and shriveled, and the thing--still shrieking like a fog-horn in a tunnel--flopped flat forward with a resounding _clank!_ it was abruptly silent. but the total noise was not lessened. another pushpot came soaring wildly into view, making hysterical outcries. it touched and banged violently to earth. others appeared in the air beyond the construction shed. one flopped so hard on landing that its tail rose in the air and it attempted a somersault. it made ten times more noise than before--the flame from its tail making wild gyrations--and flopped back again with a crash. two others rolled over on their sides after touching ground. one ended up on its back like a tumble-bug, wriggling. they seemed to land by hundreds, but their number was actually in dozens. it was not until the last one was down that joe could make himself heard. the pushpots were jet motors in frames and metal skin, with built-in jato rocket tubes besides their engines. on the ground they were quite helpless. in the air they were unbelievably clumsy. they were actually balanced and steered by vanes in the blasts of their jets, and they combined the absolute maximum of sheer thrust with the irreducible minimum of flyability. crane-trucks went out to pick them up. joe said anxiously, "we'd better check our flight plan again. we have to know it absolutely!" he headed across the floor to the flight data board. he passed the hull of another ship like his own, which was near completion, and the bare skeletons of two others which needed a lot of work yet. they'd been begun at distant plants and then hauled here on monstrous trailers for completion. the wooden mockup of the design for all the ships--in which every possible arrangement of instruments and machinery had been tested out--lay neglected by the shed wall. the four stood before the flight data board. it listed the readings every instrument should show during every instant of the flight. the readings had been calculated with infinite care, and joe and the others needed to know them rather better than they knew their multiplication tables. once they started out, they wouldn't have time to wonder if everything was right for the time and place. they needed to know. they stood there, soaking up the information the board contained, forming mental pictures of it, making as sure as possible that any one of them would spot anything wrong the instant it showed up, and would instantly know what had to be done about it. a gigantic crane-truck came in through the wide doorway. it dangled a pushpot. it rolled over to the launching cage in which the spaceship lay and set the unwieldy metal object against that cage. there was a _clank_ as the pushpot caught hold of the magnetic grapples. the crane went out again, passing a second crane carrying a second pushpot. the second beetle-like thing was presented to the cage. it stuck fast. the crane went out for more. major holt came across the floor of the shed. it took him a long time to walk the distance from the security offices to the launching cage. when he got there, he looked impatiently around. his daughter sally came out of nowhere and blew her nose as if she'd been crying, and pointed to the data board. the major shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasily at her. she regarded him with some defiance. the major spoke to her sternly. they waited. the cranes brought in more pushpots and set them up against the steel launching cage. the ship had been nearly hidden before by the rocket tubes fastened outside its hull. it went completely out of sight behind the metal monsters banked about it. the major looked at his watch and the group about the data board. they moved away from it and back toward the ship. joe saw the major and swerved over to him. "i have brought you," said the major in an official voice, "the invoice of your cargo. you will deliver the invoice with the cargo and bring back proper receipts." "i hope," said joe. "_we_ hope!" said sally in a strained tone. "good luck, joe!" "thanks." "there is not much to say to you," said the major without visible emotion. "of course the next crew will start its training immediately, but it may be a month before another ship can take off. it is extremely desirable that you reach the platform today." "yes, sir," said joe wrily. "i have even a personal motive to get there. if i don't, i break my neck." the major ignored the comment. he shook hands formally and marched away. sally smiled up at joe, but her eyes were suddenly full of tears. "i--do hope everything goes all right, joe," she said unsteadily. "i--i'll be praying for you." "i can use some of that, too," admitted joe. she looked at her hand. joe's ring was on her finger--wrapped with string on the inside of the band to make it fit. then she looked up again and was crying unashamedly. "i--will," she repeated. then she said fiercely, "i don't care if somebody's looking, joe. it's time for you to go in the ship." he kissed her, and turned and went quickly to the peculiar mass of clustered pushpots, touching and almost overlapping each other. he ducked under and looked back. sally waved. he waved back. then he climbed up the ladder into pelican one's cabin. somebody pulled the ladder away and scuttled out of the cage. the others were in their places. joe slowly closed the door from the cabin to the outer world. there was suddenly a cushioned silence about him. out the quartz-glass ports he could see ahead, out the end of the cage through the monstrous doorway to the desert beyond. overhead he could see the dark, girder-lined roof of the shed. on either side, though, he could see only the scratched, dented, flat undersides of the pushpots ready to lift the ship upward. "you can start on the pushpot motors, haney," he said curtly. joe moved to his own, the pilot's seat. haney pushed a button. through the fabric of the ship came the muted uproar of a pushpot engine starting. haney pushed another button. another. another. more jet engines bellowed. the tumult in the shed would be past endurance, now. joe strapped himself into his seat. he made sure that the chief at the steering-rocket manual controls was fastened properly, and mike at the radio panel was firmly belted past the chance of injury. haney said with enormous calm, "all pushpot motors running, joe." "steering rockets ready," the chief reported. "radio operating," came from mike. "communications room all set." joe reached to the maneuver controls. he should have been sweating. his hands, perhaps, should have quivered with tension. but he was too much worried about too many things. nobody can strike an attitude or go into a blue funk while they are worrying about things to be done. joe heard the small gyro motors as their speed went up. a hum and a whine and then a shrill whistle which went up in pitch until it wasn't anything at all. he frowned anxiously and said to haney, "i'm taking over the pushpots." haney nodded. joe took the over-all control. the roar of engines outside grew loud on the right-hand side, and died down. it grew thunderous to the left, and dwindled. the ones ahead pushed. then the ones behind. joe nodded and wet his lips. he said: "here we go." there was no more ceremony than that. the noise of the jet motors outside rose to a thunderous volume which came even through the little ship's insulated hull. then it grew louder, and louder still, and joe stirred the controls by ever so tiny a movement. suddenly the ship did not feel solid. it stirred a little. joe held his breath and cracked the over-all control of the pushpots' speed a tiny trace further. the ship wobbled a little. out the quartz-glass windows, the great door seemed to descend. in reality the clustered pushpots and the launching cage rose some thirty feet from the shed floor and hovered there uncertainly. joe shifted the lever that governed the vanes in the jet motor blasts. ship and cage and pushpots, all together, wavered toward the doorway. they passed out of it, rocking a little and pitching a little and wallowing a little. as a flying device, the combination was a howling tumult and a horror. it was an aviation designer's nightmare. it was a bad dream by any standard. but it wasn't meant as a way to fly from one place to another on earth. it was the first booster stage of a three-stage rocket aimed at outer space. it looked rather like--well--if a swarm of bumblebees clung fiercely to a wire-gauze cage in which lay a silver minnow wrapped in match-sticks; and if the bees buzzed furiously and lifted it in a straining, clumsy, and altogether unreasonable manner; and if the appearance and the noise together were multiplied a good many thousands of times--why--it would present a great similarity to the take-off of the spaceship under joe's command. nothing like it could be graceful or neatly controllable or even very speedy in the thick atmosphere near the ground. but higher, it would be another matter. it _was_ another matter. once clear of the shed, and with flat, sere desert ahead to the very horizon, joe threw on full power to the pushpot motors. the clumsy-seeming aggregation of grotesque objects began to climb. ungainly it was, and clumsy it was, but it went upward at a rate a jet-fighter might have trouble matching. it wobbled, and it swung around and around, and it tipped crazily, the whole aggregation of jet motors and cage and burden of spaceship as a unit. but it rose! the ground dropped so swiftly that even the shed seemed to shrivel like a pricked balloon. the horizon retreated as if a carpet were hastily unrolled by magic. the barometric pressure needles turned. "communications says our rate-of-climb is , feet a minute and going up fast," mike announced. "it's five.... we're at , feet ... , . we should get some eastward velocity at , feet. our height is now , feet...." there was no change in the feel of things inside the ship, of course. sealed against the vacuum of space, barometric pressure outside made no difference. height had no effect on the air inside the ship. at , feet the chief said suddenly: "we're pointed due east, joe. freeze it?" "right," said joe. "freeze it." the chief threw a lever. the gyros were running at full operating speed. by engaging them, the chief had all their stored-up kinetic energy available to resist any change of direction the pushpots might produce by minor variations in their thrusts. haney brooded over the reports from the individual engines outside. he made minute adjustments to keep them balanced. mike uttered curt comments into the communicator from time to time. at , feet there was a momentary sensation as if the ship were tilted sharply. it wasn't. the instruments denied any change from level rise. the upward-soaring complex of flying things had simply risen into a jet-stream, one of those wildly rushing wind-floods of the upper atmosphere. "eastern velocity four hundred," said mike from the communicator. "now four-twenty-five.... four-forty." there was a -mile-an-hour wind behind them. a tail-wind, west to east. the pushpots struggled now to get the maximum possible forward thrust before they rose out of that east-bound hurricane. they added a fierce push to eastward to their upward thrust. mike's cracked voice reported miles an hour. presently it was . at , feet they were moving eastward at miles an hour. a jet-motor cannot be rated except indirectly, but there was over , horsepower at work to raise the spacecraft and build up the highest possible forward speed. it couldn't be kept up, of course. the pushpots couldn't carry enough fuel. but they reached , feet, which is where space begins for humankind. a man exposed to emptiness at that height will die just as quickly as anywhere between the stars. but it wasn't quite empty space for the pushpots. there was still a very, very little air. the pushpots could still thrust upward. feebly, now, but they still thrust. mike said: "communications says get set to fire jatos, joe." "right!" he replied. "set yourselves." mike flung a switch, and a voice began to chatter behind joe's head. it was the voice from the communications-room atop the shed, now far below and far behind. mike settled himself in the tiny acceleration-chair built for him. the chief squirmed to comfort in his seat. haney took his hands from the equalizing adjustments he had to make so that joe's use of the controls would be exact, regardless of moment-to-moment differences in the thrust of the various jets. "we've got a yaw right," said the chief sharply. "hold it, joe!" joe waited for small quivering needles to return to their proper registrations. "back and steady," said the chief a moment later. "okay!" the tinny voice behind joe now spoke precisely. mike had listened to it while the work of take-off could be divided, so that joe would not be distracted. now joe had to control everything at once. the roar of the pushpots outside the ship had long since lost the volume and timbre of normal atmosphere. not much sound could be transmitted by the near-vacuum outside. but the jet motors did roar, and the sound which was not sound at such a height was transmitted by the metal cage as so much pure vibration. the walls and hull of the spaceship picked up a crawling, quivering pulsation and turned it into sound. standing waves set up and dissolved and moved erratically in the air of the cabin. joe's eardrums were strangely affected. now one ear seemed muted by a temporary difference of air pressure where a standing wave lingered for a second or two. then the other eardrum itched. there were creeping sensations as of things touching one and quickly moving away. joe swung a microphone into place before his mouth. "all set," he said evenly. "brief me." the tinny voice said: "_you are at , feet. your curve of rate-of-climb is flattening out. you are now rising at near-maximum speed, and not much more forward velocity can be anticipated. you have an air-speed relative to surface of six-nine-two miles per hour. the rotational speed of earth at this latitude is seven-seven-eight. you have, then, a total orbital speed of one-four-seven-oh miles per hour, or nearly twelve per cent of your needed final velocity. since you will take off laterally and practically without air resistance, a margin of safety remains. you are authorized to blast._" joe said: "ten seconds. nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one...." he stabbed the master jato switch. and a monstrous jato rocket, built into each and every one of the pushpots outside, flared chemical fumes in a simultaneous, gigantic thrust. a small wire-wound jato for jet-assisted-take-off will weigh a hundred and forty pounds and deliver a thousand pounds of thrust for fourteen seconds. and that is for rockets using nonpoisonous compounds. the jatos of the pushpots used the beryllium-fluorine fuel that had lifted the platform and that filled the take-off rockets of joe's ship. these jatos gave the pushpots themselves an acceleration of ten gravities, but it had to be shared with the cage and the ship. still.... joe felt himself slammed back into his seat with irresistible, overwhelming force. the vibration from the jets had been bad. now he didn't notice it. he didn't notice much of anything but the horrible sensations of six-gravity acceleration. it was not exactly pain. it was a feeling as if a completely intolerable and unbearable pressure pushed at him. not only on the outside, like a blow, but inside too, like nothing else imaginable. not only his chest pressed upon his lungs, but his lungs strained toward his backbone. not only the flesh of his thighs tugged to flatten itself against his acceleration-chair, but the blood in his legs tried to flow into and burst the blood-vessels in the back of his legs. the six-gravity acceleration seemed to endure for centuries. actually, it lasted for fourteen seconds. in that time it increased the speed of the little ship by rather more than half a mile per second, something over , miles per hour. before, the ship had possessed an orbital speed of a shade over , miles an hour. after the jato thrust, it was traveling nearly , miles per hour. it needed to travel something over , miles per hour to reach the artificial satellite of earth. the intolerable thrust ended abruptly. joe gasped. but he could allow himself only a shake of the head to clear his brain. he jammed down the take-off rocket firing button. there was a monstrous noise and a mighty surging, and haney panted, "clear of cage...." and then they were pressed fiercely against their acceleration chairs again. the ship was no longer in its launching cage. it was no longer upheld by pushpots. it was free, with its take-off rockets flaming. it plunged on up and out. but the acceleration was less. nobody can stand six gravities for long. anybody can take three--for a while. joe's body resisted movement with a weight of four hundred and fifty pounds, instead of a third as much for normal. his heart had to pump against three times the normal resistance of gravity. his chest felt as if it had a leaden weight on it. his tongue tried to crowd the back of his mouth and strangle him. the sensation was that of a nightmare of impossible duration. it was possible to move and possible to see. one could breathe, with difficulty, and with titanic effort one could speak. but there was the same feeling of stifling resistance to every movement that comes in nightmares. but joe managed to keep his eyes focused. the dials of the instruments said that everything was right. the tinny voice behind his head, its timbre changed by the weighting of its diaphragm, said: "_all readings check within accuracy of instruments. good work!_" joe moved his eyes to a quartz window. the sky was black. but there were stars. bright stars against a black background. at the same instant he saw the bright white disks of sunshine that came in the cabin portholes. stars and sunshine together. and the sunshine was the sunshine of space. even with the polarizers cutting off some of the glare it was unbearably bright and hot beyond conception. he smelled overheated paint, where the sunlight smote on a metal bulkhead. stars and super-hot sunshine together.... it was necessary to pant for breath, and his heart pounded horribly and his eyes tried to go out of focus, but joe kenmore strained in his acceleration-chair and managed to laugh a little. "we did it!" he panted. "in case you didn't notice, we're out of--the atmosphere and--out in space! we're--headed to join the space platform!" the pressure of three gravities continued. joe's chest muscles ached with the exertion of breathing over so long a period. six gravities for fourteen seconds had been a ghastly ordeal. three gravities for minutes built up to something nearly as bad. joe's heart began to feel fatigue, and a man's heart normally simply doesn't ever feel tired. it became more and more difficult to see clearly. but he had work to do. important work. the take-off rockets were solid-fuel jobs, like those which launched the platform. they were wire-wound steel tubes lined with a very special refractory, with unstable beryllium and fluorine compounds in them. the solid fuel burned at so many inches per second. the refractory crumbled away and was hurled astern at a corresponding rate--save for one small point. the refractory was not all exactly alike. some parts of it crumbled away faster, leaving a pattern of baffles which acted like a maxim silencer on a rifle, or like an automobile muffler. the baffles set up eddies in the gas stream and produced exactly the effect of a rocket motor's throat. but the baffles themselves crumbled and were flung astern, so that the solid-fuel rockets had always the efficiency of gas-throated rocket motors; and yet every bit of refractory was reaction-mass to be hurled astern, and even the steel tubes melted and were hurled away with a gain in acceleration to the ship. every fraction of every ounce of rocket mass was used for drive. no tanks or pumps or burners rode deadhead after they ceased to be useful. but solid-fuel rockets simply can't be made to burn with absolute evenness as a team. minute differences in burning-rates do tend to cancel out. but now and again they reinforce each other and if uncorrected will throw a ship off course. gyros can't handle such effects. so joe had to watch his instruments and listen to the tinny voice behind him and steer the ship against accidental wobblings as the earth fell away behind him. he battled against the fatigue of continuing to live, and struggled with gyros and steering jets to keep the ship on its hair-line course. he panted heavily. the beating of his heart became such a heavy pounding that it seemed that his whole body shook with it. he had to do infinitely fine precision steering with hands that weighed pounds and arms that weighed scores of pounds and a body that had an effective weight of almost a quarter of a ton. and this went on and went on and on for what seemed several centuries. then the voice in the speaker said thickly: "_everything is in the clear. in ten seconds you can release your rockets. shall i count?_" joe panted, "count!" the mechanical voice said, "_seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... cut!_" joe pressed the release. the small, unburnt stubs of the take-off rockets went hurtling off toward emptiness. they consumed themselves as they went, and they attained an acceleration of fifty gravities once they were relieved of all load but their own substance. they had to be released lest one burn longer than another. it was also the only way to stop acceleration by solid-fuel rockets. they couldn't be extinguished. they had to be released. from intolerably burdensome heaviness, there was abruptly no weight at all in the ship. joe's laboring heart beat twice with the violence the weight had called for, though weight had ended. it seemed to him that his skull would crack open during those two heart-beats. then he lay limply, resting. there was a completely incredible stillness, for a time. the four of them panted. haney was better off than joe, but the chief was harder hit. mike's small body had taken the strain best of all, and he would use the fact later in shrill argument that midgets were designed by nature to be the explorers of space for their bulkier and less spaceworthy kindred. the ending of the steady, punishing drag was infinitely good, but the new sensation was hardly pleasant. they had no weight. it felt as if they and the ship about them were falling together down an abyss which must have a bottom. actually, they were falling up. but they felt a physical, crawling apprehension--a cringing from an imaginary imminent impact. they had expected the sensation, but it was not the better for being understood. joe flexed and unflexed his fingers slowly. he stirred and swallowed hastily. but the feeling persisted. he unstrapped himself from his seat. he stood up--and floated to the ceiling of the cabin. but there was of course no ceiling. every way was up and every way was down. his stomach cramped itself in a hard knot, in the instinctive tensity of somebody in free fall. he fended himself from the ceiling and caught at a hand-line placed there for just this necessity to grip something. in his absorption, he did not notice which way his heels went. he suddenly noticed that his companions, with regard to him, were upside down and staring at him with wooden, dazed expressions on their faces. he tried to laugh, and gulped instead. he pulled over to the quartz-glass ports. he did not put his hand into the sunlight, but shifted the glare shutters over those ports which admitted direct sunshine. some ports remained clear. through one of them he saw the earth seemingly at arm's length somewhere off. not up, not down. simply out from where he was. it filled all the space that the porthole showed. it was a gigantic mass of white, fleecy specks and spots which would be clouds, and between the whiteness there was a muddy dark greenish color which would be the ocean. yet it seemed to slide very, very slowly past the window. he saw a tanness between the clouds, and it moved inward from the edge of his field of view. he suddenly realized what it was. "we've just about crossed the atlantic," he said in a peculiar astonishment. but it was true the ship had not been aloft nearly as much as half an hour. "africa's just coming into sight below. we ought to be about , miles high and still rising fast. that was the calculation." he looked again, and then drew himself across to the opposite porthole. he saw the blackness of space, which was not blackness because it was a carpet of jewels. they were infinite in number and variations in brightness, and somehow of vastly more colorings than one noticed from earth. he heard the chief grunt, and haney gulp. he was suddenly conscious that his legs were floating rather ridiculously in mid-air with no particular relationship to anything. he saw the chief rise very cautiously, holding on to the arms of his seat. "better not look at the sun," said joe, "even though i've put on the glare-shields." the chief nodded. the glare-shields would keep out most of the heat and a very great deal of the ultraviolet the sun gave off. but even so, to look at the sun directly might easily result in a retinal sunburn which could result in blindness. the loudspeaker behind joe's chair clattered. it had seemed muted by the weight of its diaphragm at three gravities. now it blasted unintelligibly, with no weight at all. mike threw a switch and took the message. "communications says radar says we're right on course, joe," he reported nonchalantly, "and our speed's okay. we'll reach maximum altitude in an hour and thirty-six minutes. we ought to be within calculated distance of the platform then." "good," said joe abstractedly. he strained his eyes at the earth. they were moving at an extraordinary speed and height. it had been reached by just four human beings before them. the tannishness which was the coast of africa crept with astonishing slowness toward the center of what he could see. joe headed back to his seat. he could not walk, of course. he floated. he launched himself with a fine air of confidence. he misjudged. he was floating past his chair when he reached down--and that turned his body--and fumbled wildly. he caught hold of the back as he went by, then held on and found himself turning a grandly dignified somersault. he wound up in a remarkably foolish position with the back of his neck on the back of the chair, his arms in a highly strained position to hold him there, and his feet touching the deck of the cabin a good five feet away. haney looked greenish, but he said hoarsely: "joe, don't make me laugh--not when my stomach feels like this!" the feeling of weightlessness was unexpectedly daunting. joe turned himself about very slowly, with his legs floating indecorously in entirely unintended kicks. he was breathing hard when he pulled himself into the chair and strapped in once more. "i'll take communications," he told mike as he settled his headphones. reluctantly, mike switched over. "kenmore reporting to communications," he said briefly. "we have ended our take-off acceleration. you have our course and velocity. our instruments read--" he went over the bank of instruments before him, giving the indication of each. in a sense, this first trip of a ship out to the platform had some of the aspects of defusing a bomb. calculations were useful, but observations were necessary. he had to report every detail of the condition of his ship and every instrument-reading because anything might go wrong, and at any instant. anything that went wrong could be fatal. so every bit of data and every intended action needed to be on record. then, if something happened, the next ship to attempt this journey might avoid the same catastrophe. time passed. a lot of time. the feeling of unending fall continued. they knew what it was, but they had to keep thinking of its cause to endure it. joe found that if his mind concentrated fully on something else, it jerked back to panic and the feel of falling. but the crew of the space platform--now out in space for more weeks than joe had been quarter-hours--reported that one got partly used to it, in time. when awake, at least. asleep was another matter. they were , miles high and still going out and up. the earth as seen through the ports was still an utterly monstrous, bulging mass, specked with clouds above vast mottlings which were its seas and land. they might have looked for cities, but they would be mere patches in a telescope. their task now was to wait until their orbit curved into accordance with that of the platform and they kept their rendezvous. the artificial satellite was swinging up behind them, and was only a quarter-circle about earth behind them. their speed in miles per second was, at the moment, greater than that of the platform. but they were climbing. they slowed as they climbed. when their path intersected that of the platform, the two velocities should be exactly equal. major holt's voice came on the communicator. "_joe_," he said harshly, "_i have very bad news. a message came from central intelligence within minutes of your take-off. i--ah--with sally i had been following your progress. i did not decode the message until now. but central intelligence has definite information that more than ten days ago the--ah--enemies of our space exploration project_--" even on a tight beam to the small spaceship, major holt did not name the nation everybody knew was most desperately resolved to smash space exploration by anybody but itself--"_completed at least one rocket capable of reaching the platform's orbit with a pay-load that could be an atomic bomb. it is believed that more than one rocket was completed. all were shipped to an unknown launching station._" "not so good," said joe. mike had left his post when joe took over. now he made a swooping dart through the air of the cabin. the midget showed no signs of the fumbling uncertainty the others had displayed--but he'd been a member of a midget acrobatic team before he went to work at the shed. he brought himself to a stop precisely at a hand-hold, grinning triumphantly at the nearly helpless chief and haney. major holt said in the headphones: "_it's worse than that. radar may have told the country in question that you are on the way up. in that case, if it's even faintly possible to blast the platform before your arrival with weapons for its defense, they'll blast._" "i don't like that idea," said joe dourly. "anything we can do?" major holt laughed bitterly. "_hardly!_" he said. "_and do you realize that if you can't unload your cargo you can't get back to earth?_" "yes," said joe. "naturally!" it was true. the purpose of the pushpots and the jatos and the ship's own take-off rockets had been to give it a speed at which it would inevitably rise to a height of , miles--the orbit of the space platform--and stay there. it would need no power to remain , miles out from earth. but it would take power to come down. the take-off rockets had been built to drive the ship with all its contents until it attained that needed orbital velocity. there were landing rockets fastened to the hull now to slow it so that it could land. but just as the take-off rockets had been designed to lift a loaded ship, the landing-rockets had been designed to land an empty one. the more weight the ship carried, the more power it needed to get out to the platform. and the more power it needed to come down again. if joe and his companions couldn't get rid of their cargo--and they could only unload in the ship-lock of the platform--they'd stay out in emptiness. the major said bitterly: "_this is all most irregular, but--here's sally._" then sally's voice sounded in the headphones joe wore. he was relieved that mike wasn't acting as communications officer at the moment to overhear. but mike was zestfully spinning like a pin-wheel in the middle of the air of the control cabin. he was showing the others that even in the intramural pastimes a spaceship crew will indulge in, a midget was better than a full-sized man. joe said: "yes, sally?" she said unsteadily. "_i'm not going to waste your time talking to you, joe. i think you've got to figure out something. i haven't the faintest idea what it is, but i think you can do it. try, will you?_" "i'm afraid we're going to have to trust to luck," admitted joe ruefully. "we weren't equipped for anything like this." "_no!_" said sally fiercely. "_if i were with you, you wouldn't think of trusting to luck!_" "i wouldn't want to," admitted joe. "i'd feel responsible. but just the same--" "_you're responsible now!_" said sally, as fiercely as before. "_if the platform's smashed, the rockets that can reach it will be duplicated to smash our cities in war! but if you can reach the platform and arm it for defense, there won't be any war! half the world would be praying for you, joe, if it knew! i can't do anything else, so i'm going to start on that right now. but you try, joe! you hear me?_" "i'll try," said joe humbly. "thanks, sally." he heard a sound like a sob, and the headphones were silent. joe himself swallowed very carefully. it can be alarming to be the object of an intended murder, but it can also be very thrilling. one can play up splendidly to a dramatic picture of doom. it is possible to be one's own audience and admire one's own fine disregard of danger. but when other lives depend on one, one has the irritating obligation not to strike poses but to do something practical. joe said somberly: "mike, how long before we ought to contact the platform?" mike reached out a small hand, caught a hand-hold, and flicked his eyes to the master chronometer. "forty minutes, fifty seconds. why?" joe said wrily, "there are some rockets in enemy hands which can reach the platform. they were shipped to launchers ten days ago. you figure what comes next." mike's wizened face became tense and angry. haney growled, "they smash the platform before we get to it." "uh-uh!" said mike instantly. "they smash the platform _when_ we get to it! they smash us both up together. where'll we be at contact-time, joe?" "over the indian ocean, south of the bay of bengal, to be exact," said joe. "but we'll be moving fast. the worst of it is that it's going to take time to get in the airlock and unload our guided missiles and get them in the platform's launching-tubes. i'd guess an hour. one bomb should get both of us above the bay of bengal, but we won't be set to launch a guided missile in defense until we're nearly over america again." the chief said sourly, "yeah. sitting ducks all the way across the pacific!" "we'll check with the platform," said joe. "see if you can get them direct, mike, will you?" then something occurred to him. mike scrambled back to his communication board. he began feverishly to work the computer which in turn would swing the tight-beam transmitter to the target the computer worked out, he threw a switch and said sharply, "calling space platform! pelican one calling space platform! come in, space platform!..." he paused. "calling space platform...." joe had a slide-rule going on another problem. he looked up, his expression peculiar. "a solid-fuel rocket can start off at ten gravities acceleration," he said quietly, "and as its rockets burn away it can go up a lot higher than that. but , miles is a long way to go straight up. if it isn't launched yet--" mike snapped into a microphone: "right!" to joe he said, "space platform on the wire." joe heard an acknowledgment in his headphones. "i've just had word from the shed," he explained carefully, "that there may be some guided missiles coming up from earth to smash us as we meet. you're still higher than we are, and they ought to be starting. can you pick up anything with your radar?" the voice from the platform said: "_we have picked something up. there are four rockets headed out from near the sunset-line in the pacific. assuming solid-fuel rockets like we used and you used, they are on a collision course._" "are you doing anything about them?" asked joe absurdly. the voice said caustically: "_unfortunately, we've nothing to do anything with._" it paused. "_you, of course, can use the landing-rockets you still possess. if you fire them immediately, you will pass our scheduled meeting-place some hundreds of miles ahead of us. you will go on out to space. you may set up an orbit forty-five hundred or even five thousand miles out, and wait there for rescue._" joe said briefly: "we've air for only four days. that's no good. it'll be a month before the next ship can be finished and take off. there are four rockets coming up, you say?" "_yes._" the voice changed. it spoke away from the microphone. "_what's that?_" then it returned to joe. "_the four rockets were sent up at the same instant from four separate launching sites. probably as many submarines at the corners of a hundred-mile square, so an accident to one wouldn't set off the others. they'll undoubtedly converge as they get nearer to us._" "i think," said joe, "that we need some luck." "_i think_," said the caustic voice, "_that we've run out of it._" there was a click. joe swallowed again. the three members of his crew were looking at him. "somebody's fired rockets out from earth," said joe carefully. "they'll curve together where we meet the platform, and get there just when we do." the chief rumbled. haney clamped his jaws together. mike's expression became one of blazing hatred. joe's mind went rather absurdly to the major's curious, almost despairing talk in his quarters that morning, when he'd spoken of a conspiracy to destroy all the hopes of men. the firing of rockets at the platform was, of course, the work of men acting deliberately. but they were--unconsciously--trying to destroy their own best hopes. for freedom, certainly, whether or not they could imagine being free. but the platform and the space exploration project in general meant benefits past computing for everybody, in time. to send ships into space for necessary but dangerous experiments with atomic energy was a purpose every man should want to help forward. to bring peace on earth was surely an objective no man could willingly or sanely combat. and the ultimate goal of space travel was millions of other planets, circling other suns, thrown open to colonization by humanity. that prospect should surely fire every human being with enthusiasm. but something--and the more one thought about it the more specific and deliberate it seemed to be--made it necessary to fight desperately against men in order to benefit them. joe swallowed again. it would have been comforting to be dramatic in this war against stupidity and malice and blindness. especially since this particular battle seemed to be lost. one could send back an eloquent, defiant message to earth saying that the four of them did not regret their journey into space, though they were doomed to be killed by the enemies of their country. it could have been a very pretty gesture. but joe happened to have a job to do. pretty gestures were not a part of it. he had no idea how to do it. so he said rather sickishly: "the platform told me we could fire our landing-rockets as additional take-off rockets and get out of the way. of course we've got missiles of our own on board, but we can't launch or control them. absolutely the only thing we can choose to do or not do is fire those rockets. i'm open to suggestions if anybody can think of a way to make them useful." there was silence. joe's reasoning was good enough. when one can't do what he wants, one tries to make what he can do produce the results he wants. but it didn't look too promising here. they could fire the rockets now, or later, or-- an idea came out of the blue. it wasn't a good idea, but it was the only one possible under the circumstances. there was just one distinctly remote possibility. he told the others what it was. mike's eyes flamed. the chief nodded profoundly. haney said with some skepticism, "it's all we've got. we've got to use it." "i need some calculations. spread. best time of firing. that sort of thing. but i'm worried about calling back in the clear. a beam to the platform will bounce and might be picked up by the enemy." the chief grinned suddenly. "i've got a trick for that, joe. there's a tribesman of mine in the shed. get charley red fox to the phone, guy, and we'll talk privately!" the small spaceship floated on upward. it pointed steadfastly in the direction of its motion. the glaring sunshine which at its take-off had shone squarely in its bow-ports, now poured down slantingly from behind. the steel plates of the ship gleamed brightly. below it lay the sunlit earth. above and about it on every hand were a multitude of stars. even the moon was visible as the thinnest of crescents against the night of space. the ship climbed steeply. it was meeting the platform after only half a circuit of earth, while the platform had climbed upward for three full revolutions. earth was now , miles below and appeared as the most gigantic of possible solid objects. it curved away and away to mistiness at its horizons, and it moved visibly as the spaceship floated on. invisible microwaves flung arrowlike through emptiness. they traveled for thousands of miles, spreading as they traveled, and then struck the strange shape of the platform. they splashed from it. some of them rebounded to earth, where spies and agents of foreign powers tried desperately to make sense of the incredible syllables. they failed. there was a relay system in operation now, from spaceship to platform to earth and back again. in the ship chief bender, mohawk and steelman extraordinary, talked to the shed and to one charley red fox. they talked in mohawk, which is an algonquin indian language, agglutinative, complicated, and not to be learned in ten easy lessons. it was not a language which eavesdroppers were likely to know as a matter of course. but it was a language by which computations could be asked for, so that a very forlorn hope might be attempted with the best possible chances of success. naturally, none of this appeared in the look of things. the small ship floated on and on. it reached an altitude of , miles. the earth was visibly farther away. behind the ship the atlantic with its stately cloud-formations was sunlit to the very edge of its being. ahead, the edge of night appeared beyond india. and above, the platform appeared as a speck of molten light, quarter-illuminated by the sun above it. spaceship and platform moved on toward a meeting place. the ship moved a trifle faster, because it was climbing. the speeds would match exactly when they met. the small torpedo-shaped shining ship and the bulging glowing metal satellite floated with a seeming vast deliberation in emptiness, while the most gigantic of possible round objects filled all the firmament beneath them. they were miles apart. it seemed that the huge platform overtook the shining ship. it did. they were only miles apart and still closing in. by that time the twilight band of earth's surface was nearly at the center of the planet, and night filled more than a quarter of its disk. by that time, too, even to the naked eye through the ports of the supply-ship the enemy rockets had become visible. they were a thin skein of threads of white vapor which seemed to unravel in nothingness. the vapor curled and expanded preposterously. it could just be seen to be jetting into existence from four separate points, two a little ahead of the others. they came out from earth at a rate which seemed remarkably deliberate until one saw with what fury the rocket-fumes spat out to form the whitish threads. then one could guess at a three-or even four-stage launching series, so that what appeared to be mere pinpoints would really be rockets carrying half-ton atomic warheads with an attained velocity of , miles per hour and more straight up. the threads unraveled in a straight line aimed at the two metal things floating in emptiness. one was small and streamlined, with inadequate landing-rockets clamped to its body and with stubby fins that had no possible utility out of air. the other was large and clumsy to look at, but very, very stately indeed in its progress through the heavens. they floated smoothly toward a rendezvous. the rockets from earth came ravening to destroy them at the instant of their intersection. the little spaceship turned slowly. its rounded bow had pointed longingly at the stars. now it tilted downward. its direction of movement did not change, of course. in the absence of air, it could tumble indefinitely without any ill effect. it was in a trajectory instead of on a course, though presently the trajectory would become an orbit. but it pointed nose-down toward the earth even as it continued to hurtle onward. the great steel hull and the small spaceship were miles apart. an infinitesimal radar-bowl moved on the little ship. tight-beam waves flickered invisibly between the two craft. the rockets raged toward them. the ship and the platform were miles apart. the rockets were now glinting missiles leaping ahead of the fumes that propelled them. the ship and the platform were two miles apart. the rockets rushed upward.... there were minute corrections in their courses. they converged.... flames leaped from the tiny ship. its landing-rockets spouted white-hot flame and fumes more thick and coiling than even the smoke of the bombs. the little ship surged momentarily toward the racing monsters. and then---- the rockets which were supposed to let the ship down to earth flew free--flung themselves unburdened at the rockets which came with deadly intent to the meeting of the two earth spacecraft. the landing-rockets plunged down at forty gravities or better. they were a dwindling group of infinitely bright sparks which seemed to group themselves more closely as they dwindled. they charged upon the attacking robot things. they were unguided, of necessity, but the robot bombs had to be equipped with proximity fuses. no remote control could be so accurate as to determine the best moment for detonation at , miles' distance. so the war rockets had to be devised to explode when near anything which reflected their probing radar waves. they had to be designed to be triggered by anything in space. and the loosed landing-rockets plunged among them. they did not detonate all at once. that was mathematically impossible. but no human eye could detect the delay. four close-packed flares of pure atomic fire sprang into being between the platform and earth. each was brighter than the sun. for the fraction of an instant there was no night where night had fallen on the earth. for thousands of miles the earth glowed brightly. then there was a twisting, coiling tumult of incandescent gases, which were snatched away by nothingness and ceased to be. then there were just two things remaining in the void. one was the great, clumsy, shining platform, gigantic in size to anything close by. the other was the small spaceship which had climbed to it and fought for it and defended it against the bombs from earth. the little ship now had a slight motion away from the platform, due to the instant's tugging by its rockets before they were released. it turned about in emptiness. its steering-rockets spouted smoke. it began to cancel out its velocity away from the platform, and to swim slowly and very carefully toward it. making actual contact with the platform was not a matter for instruments and calculations. it had to be done directly--by hand, as it were. joe watched out the ports and played the controls of the steering jets with a nerve-racked precision. his task was not easy. before he could return to the point of rendezvous, the blinding sunlight on the platform took on a tinge of red. it was the twilight-zone of the satellite's orbit, when for a time the sunlight that reached it was light which had passed through earth's atmosphere and been bent by it and colored crimson by the dust in earth's air. it glowed a fiery red, and the color deepened, and then there was darkness. they were in earth's shadow. there were stars to be seen, but no sun. the moon was hidden, too. and the earth was a monstrous, incredible, abysmal blackness which at this first experience of its appearance produced an almost superstitious terror. formerly it had seemed a distant but sunlit world, flecked with white clouds and with sprawling differentiations of color beneath them. now it did not look like a solid thing at all. it looked like a hole in creation. one could see ten thousand million stars of every imaginable tint and shade. but where the earth should be there seemed a vast nothingness. it looked like an opening to annihilation. it looked like the veritable pit of darkness which is the greatest horror men have ever imagined, and since those in the ship were without weight it seemed that they were falling into it. joe knew better, of course. so did the others. but that was the look of things, and that was the feeling. one did not feel in danger of death, but of extinction--which, in cold fact, is very much worse. lights glowed on the outside of the platform to guide the supply ship to it. there were red and green and blue and harsh blue-white electric bulbs. they were bright and distinct, but the feeling of loneliness above that awful appearance of the pit was appalling. no small child alone at night had ever so desolate a sensation of isolation as the four in the small ship. but joe painstakingly played the buttons of the steering-rocket control board. the ship surged, and turned, and surged forward again. mike, at the communicator, said, "they say slow up, joe." joe obeyed, but he was tense. haney and the chief were at other portholes, looking out. the chief said heavily, "fellas, i'm going to admit i never felt so lonesome in my life!" "i'm glad i've got you fellows with me!" haney admitted guiltily. "the job's almost over," said joe. the ship's own hull, outside the ports, glowed suddenly in a light-beam from the platform. the small, brief surges of acceleration which sent the ship on produced tremendous emotional effects. when the platform was only one mile away, haney switched on the ship's searchlights. they stabbed through emptiness with absolutely no sign of their existence until they touched the steel hull of the satellite. mike said sharply: "slow up some more, joe." he obeyed again. it would not be a good idea to ram the platform after they had come so far to reach it. they drifted slowly, slowly, slowly toward it. the monstrous pit of darkness which was the night side of earth seemed almost about to engulf the platform. they were a few hundred feet higher than the great metal globe, and the blackness was behind it. they were a quarter of a mile away. the distance diminished. a thin straight line seemed to grow out toward them. there was a small, bulb-like object at its end. it reached out farther than was at all plausible. nothing so slender should conceivably reach so far without bending of its own weight. but of course it had no weight here. it was a plastic flexible hose with air pressure in it. it groped for the spaceship. the four in the ship held their breaths. there was a loud, metallic _clank!_ then it was possible to feel the ship being pulled toward the platform by the magnetic grapple. it was a landing-line. it was the means by which the ship would be docked in the giant lock which had been built to receive it. as they drew near, they saw the joints of the plating of the platform. they saw rivets. there was the huge, -foot doorway with its valves swung wide. their searchlight beam glared into it. they saw the metal floor, and the bulging plastic sidewalls, restrained by nets. they saw the inner lock-door. it seemed that men should be visible to welcome them. there were none. the airlock swallowed them. they touched against something solid. there were more clankings. they seemed to crunch against the metal floor--magnetic flooring-grapples. then, in solid contact with the substance of the platform, they heard the sounds of the great outer doors swinging shut. they were within the artificial satellite of earth. it was bright in the lock, and joe stared out the cabin ports at the quilted sides. there was a hissing of air, and he saw a swirling mist, and then the bulges of the sidewall sagged. the air pressure gauge was spinning up toward normal sea-level air pressure. joe threw the ready lever of the steering rockets to _off_. "we're landed." there was silence. joe looked about him. the other three looked queer. it would have seemed natural for them to rejoice on arriving at their destination. but somehow they didn't feel that they had. joe said wrily, "it seems that we ought to weigh something, now we've got here. so we feel queer that we don't. shoes, mike?" mike peeled off the magnetic-soled slippers from their place on the cabin wall. he handed them out and opened the door. a biting chill came in it. joe slipped on the shoe-soles with their elastic bands to hold them. he stepped out the door. he didn't land. he floated until he reached the sidewall. then he pulled himself down by the netting. once he touched the floor, his shoes seemed to be sticky. the net and the plastic sidewalls were, of course, the method by which a really large airlock was made practical. when this ship was about to take off again, pumps would not labor for hours to pump the air out. the sidewalls would inflate and closely enclose the ship's hull, and so force the air in the lock back into the ship. then the pumps would work on the air behind the inflated walls--with nets to help them draw the wall-stuff back to let the ship go free. the lock could be used with only fifteen minutes for pumping instead of four hours. the door in the back of the lock clanked open. joe tried to walk toward it. he discovered his astounding clumsiness. to walk in magnetic-soled shoes in weightlessness requires a knack. when joe lifted one foot and tried to swing the other forward, his body tried to pivot. when he lifted his right foot, he had to turn his left slightly inward. his arms tried to float absurdly upward. when he was in motion and essayed to pause, his whole body tended to continue forward with a sedate toppling motion that brought him down flat on his face. he had to put one foot forward to check himself. he seemed to have no sense of balance. when he stood still--his stomach queasy because of weightlessness--he found himself tilting undignifiedly forward or back--or, with equal unpredictability, sidewise. he would have to learn an entirely new method of walking. a man came in the lock, and joe knew who it was. sanford, the senior scientist of the platform's crew. joe had seen him often enough on the television screen in the communications room at the shed. now sanford looked nerve-racked, but his eyes were bright and his expression sardonic. "my compliments," he said, his voice tight with irony, "for a splendidly futile job well done! you've got your cargo invoice?" joe nodded. sanford held out his hand. joe fumbled in his pocket and brought out the yellow sheet. "i'd like to introduce my crew," said joe. "this is haney, and chief bender, and mike scandia." he waved his hand, and his whole body wobbled unexpectedly. "we'll know each other!" said sanford sardonically. "our first job is more futility--to get the guided missiles you've brought us into the launching tubes. a lot of good they'll do!" a huge plate in the roof of the lock--but it was not up or down or in any particular direction--withdrew itself. a man floated through the opening and landed on the ship's hull; another man followed him. "chief," said joe, "and haney. will you open the cargo doors?" the two swaying figures moved to obey, though with erratic clumsiness. sanford called sharply: "don't touch the hull without gloves! if it isn't nearly red-hot from the sunlight, it'll be below zero from shadow!" joe realized, then, the temperature effects the skin on his face noticed. a part of the spaceship's hull gave off heat like that of a panel heating installation. another part imparted a chill. sanford said unpleasantly, "you want to report your heroism, eh? come along!" he clanked to the doorway by which he had entered. joe followed, and mike after him. they went out of the lock. sanford suddenly peeled off his metal-soled slippers, put them in his pocket, and dived casually into a four-foot metal tube. he drifted smoothly away along the lighted bore, not touching the sidewalls. he moved in the manner of a dream, when one floats with infinite ease and precision in any direction one chooses. joe and mike did not share his talent. joe launched himself after sanford, and for perhaps or feet the lighted aluminum sidewall of the tube sped past him. then his shoulder rubbed, and he found himself skidding to an undignified stop, choking the bore. mike thudded into him. "i haven't got the hang of this yet," said joe apologetically. he untangled himself and went on. mike followed him, his expression that of pure bliss. he was a tiny man, was mike, but he had the longings and the ambitions of half a dozen ordinary-sized men in his small body. and he had known frustration. he could prove by mathematics that space exploration could be carried on by midgets at a fraction of the cost and risk of the same job done by normal-sized men. he was, of course, quite right. the cabins and air and food supplies for a spaceship's crew of midgets would cost and weigh a fraction of similar equipment for six-footers. but people simply weren't interested in sending midgets out into space. but mike had gotten here. he was in the space platform. there were full-sized men who would joyfully have changed places with him, forty-one inch height and all. so mike was blissful. the tube ended and joe bounced off the wall that faced its end. sanford was waiting. he grinned with more than a hint of spite. "here's our communications room," he said. "now you can talk down to earth. it'll be relayed, now, but in half an hour you can reach the shed direct." he floated inside. joe followed cautiously. there was another crew member on duty there. he sat before a group of radar screens, with thigh grips across his legs to hold him in his chair. he turned his head and nodded cheerfully enough. "here!" snapped sanford. joe clambered awkwardly to the seat the senior crew member pointed out. he made his way to it by handholds on the walls. he fumbled into the chair and threw over the curved thigh grips that would hold him in place. suddenly he was oriented. he had seen this room before--before the platform was launched. true, the man at the radar screens was upside-down with reference to himself, and sanford had hooked a knee negligently around the arm of a firmly anchored chair with his body at right angles to joe's own, but at least joe knew where he was and what he was to do. "go ahead and report," said sanford sardonically. "you might tell them that you heroically destroyed the rockets that attacked us, and that your crew behaved splendidly, and that you have landed in the space platform and the situation is well in hand. it isn't, but it will make nice headlines." joe said evenly, "our arrival's been reported?" "no," said sanford, grinning. "obviously the radar down on earth--shipboard ones on this hemisphere, of course--have reported that the platform still exists. but we haven't communicated since the bombs went off. they probably think we had so many punctures that we lost all our air and are all wiped out. they'll be glad to hear from you that we aren't." joe threw a switch, frowning. this wasn't right. sanford was the senior scientist on board and hence in command, because he was best-qualified to direct the scientific observations the platform was making. but there was something specifically wrong. the communicator hummed. a faint voice sounded. it swelled to loudness. "calling space platform! _calling space platform!_ calling space platform!" joe turned down the volume. he said into the microphone: "space platform calling earth. joe kenmore reporting. we have made contact with the platform and completed our landing. our cargo is now being unloaded. our landing rockets had to be expended against presumably hostile bombs, and we are now unable to return to earth. the ship and the platform, however, are unharmed. i am now waiting for orders. report ends." he turned away from the microphone. sanford said sharply, "go on! tell them what a hero you are!" "i'm going to help unload my ship," joe said shortly. "you report what you please." "get back at that transmitter!" shouted sanford furiously. "tell 'em you're a hero! tell 'em you're wonderful! i'll tell 'em how useless it is!" joe saw the other man in the room, the man at the radar screens, shake his head. he got up and fumbled his way along the wall to the door. sanford shouted after him angrily. joe went out, found the four-foot tunnel, and floated not down but along it back to the unloading lock. wordlessly, he set to work to get the cargo out of the cargo hold of the spaceship. handling objects in weightlessness which on earth would be heavy was an art in itself. two men could move tons. it needed only one man to start a massive crate in motion. however, one had either to lift or push an object in the exact line it was to follow. to thrust hard for a short time produced exactly the same effect as to push gently for a longer period. anything floated tranquilly in the line along which it was moved. the man who had to stop it, though, needed to use exactly as much energy as the man who sent it floating. he needed to check the floating thing in exactly the same line. if one tried to stop a massive shipment from one side, he would topple into it and he and the crate together would go floundering helplessly over each other. the chief had gone off to help maneuver two-ton guided missiles into launching tubes. one crew member remained with haney, unloading things that would have had to be handled with cranes on earth. joe found himself needed most in the storage chamber. a crate floated from the ship to the crewman. standing head downward, he stopped its original movement, braced himself, and sent it floating to joe. he braced himself, stopped its flight, and very slowly--to move fast with anything heavy in his hands would pull his feet from the floor--set it on a stack of similar objects which would presently be fastened in place. everything had to be done in slow motion, or one would lose his footing. joe worked painstakingly. he gradually began to understand the process. but the muscles of his stomach ached because of their continuous, instinctive cramp due to the sensation of unending fall. mike floated through the hatchway from the lock. he twisted about as he floated, and his magnetized soles clanked to a deft contact with the wall. he said calmly: "that guy sanford has cracked up. he's potty. if this were jail he'd be stir-crazy. he's yelling into the communicator now that we'll all be dead in a matter of days, and the rocket missiles we brought up won't help. he's nasty about it, too!" haney called from the cargo space of the ship in the lock: "all empty here! we're unloaded." there were sounds as he closed the cargo doors. haney, followed by the chief, came into view, floating as mike had done. but he didn't land as skillfully. he touched the wall on his hands and knees and bounced away and tried helplessly to swim to a hand-hold. it would have been funny except that joe was in no mood for humor. mike whipped off his belt and flipped the end of it to haney. he caught it and was drawn gently to the wall. haney's shoes clicked to a hold. the chief landed more expertly. "we need wings here," he said ruefully. "you reported, joe?" joe nodded. he turned to brent, the crew member who'd been unloading. he knew him too, from their two-way video conversations. "sanford does act oddly," he said uncomfortably. "when he met me in the lock he said our coming was useless. he talked about the futility of everything while i reported. he sounds like he sneers at every possible action as useless." "most likely it is," brent said mildly. "here, anyhow. it does look as if we're going to be knocked off. but sanford's taking it badly. the rest of us have let him act as he pleased because it didn't seem to matter. it probably doesn't, except that he's annoying." mike said truculently, "we won't be knocked off! we've got rockets of our own up here now! we can fight back if there's another attack!" brent shrugged. his face was young enough, but deeply lined. he said as mildly as before: "your landing rockets set off four bombs on the way from earth. you brought us six more rocket missiles. how many bombs can we knock down with them?" joe blinked. it was a shock to realize the facts of life in an artificial satellite. if it could be reached by bombs from earth, the bombs could be reached by guided missiles from the satellite. but it would take one guided missile to knock down one bomb--with luck. "i see," said joe slowly. "we can handle just six more bombs from earth." "six in the next month," agreed brent wrily. "it'll be that long before we get more. somebody sent up four bombs today. suppose they send eight next time? or simply one a day for a week?" mike made an angry noise. "the seventh bomb shot at us knocks us out! we're sitting ducks here too!" brent nodded. he said mildly: "yes. the platform can't be defended against an indefinite number of bombs from earth. of course the united states could go to war because we've been shot at. but would that do us any good? we'd be shot down in the war." joe said distastefully, "and sanford's cracked up because he knows he's going to be killed?" brent said earnestly. "oh, no! he's a good scientist! but he's always had a brilliant mind. poor devil, he's never failed at anything in all his life until now! now he _has_ failed. he's going to be killed, and he can't think of any way to stop it. his brains are the only things he's ever believed in, and now they're no good. he can't accept the idea that he's stupid, so he has to believe that everything else is. it's a necessity for him. haven't you known people who had to think everybody else was stupid to keep from knowing that they were themselves?" joe nodded. he waited. "sanford," said brent earnestly, "simply can't adjust to the discovery that he's no better than anybody else. that's all. he was a nice guy, but he's not used to frustration and he can't take it. therefore he scorns everything that frustrates him--and everything else, by necessity. he'll be scornful about getting killed when it happens. but waiting for it is becoming intolerable to him." he looked at his watch. he said apologetically, "i'm the crew psychologist. that's why i speak so firmly. in five minutes we're due to come out of the earth's shadow into sunshine again. i'd suggest that you come to watch. it's good to look at." he did not wait for an answer. he led the way. and the others followed in a strange procession. somehow, automatically, they fell into single file, and they moved on their magnetic-soled slippers toward a passage tube in one wall. their slipper soles clanked and clicked in an erratic rhythm. brent walked with the mincing steps necessary for movement in weightlessness. the others imitated him. their hands no longer hung naturally by their sides, but tended to make extravagant gestures with the slightest muscular impulse. they swayed extraordinarily as they walked. brent was a slender figure, and joe was more thick-set, and haney was taller, and lean. the burly chief and the forty-one inch figure of mike the midget followed after them. they made a queer procession indeed. minutes later they were in a blister on the skin of the platform. there were quartz glass ports in the sidewall. outside the glass were metal shutters. brent served out dense goggles, almost black, and touched the buttons that opened the steel port coverings. they looked into space. the dimmer stars were extinguished by the goggles they wore. the brighter ones seemed faint and widely spaced. beneath their feet as they held to handrails lay the featureless darkness of earth. but before them and very far away there was a vast, dim arch of deepest red. it was sunlight filtered through the thickest layers of earth's air. it barely outlined the curve of that gigantic globe. as they stared, it grew brighter. the artificial satellite required little more than four hours for one revolution about its primary, the earth. to those aboard it, the earth would go through all its phases in no longer a time. they saw now the thinnest possible crescent of the new earth. but in minutes--almost in seconds--the deep red sunshine brightened to gold. the hair-thin line of light widened to a narrow ribbon which described an eight-thousand-mile half-circle. it brightened markedly at the middle. it remained red at its ends, but in the very center it glowed with splendid flame. then a golden ball appeared, and swam up and detached itself from the earth, and the on-lookers saw the breath-taking spectacle of all of earth's surface seemingly being born of the night. as if new-created before their eyes, seas and lands unfolded in the sunlight. they watched flecks of cloud and the long shadows of mountains, and the strangely different colorings of its fields and forests. as brent had told them, it was good to watch. it was half an hour later when they gathered in the kitchen of the platform. the man who had been loading launching tubes now briskly worked to prepare a meal on the extremely unusual cooking-devices of a human outpost in interplanetary space. the food smelled good. but joe noticed that he could smell growing things. green stuff. it was absurd--until he remembered that there was a hydroponic garden here. plants grew in it under sunlamps which were turned on for a certain number of hours every day. the plants purified the platform's air, and of course provided some fresh and nourishing food for the crew. they ate. the food was served in plastic bowls, with elastic thread covers through which they could see and choose the particular morsels they fancied next. the threads stretched to let through the forks they ate with. but brent used a rather more practical pair of tongs in a businesslike manner. they drank coffee from cups which looked very much like ordinary cups on earth. joe remembered suddenly that sally holt had had much to do with the design of domestic science arrangements here. he regarded his cup with interest. it stayed in its saucer because of magnets in both plastic articles. the saucer stayed on the table because the table was magnetic, too. and the coffee did not float out to mid-air in a hot, round brownish ball, because there was a transparent cover over the cup. when one put his lips to the proper edge, a part of the cover yielded as the cup was squeezed. the far side of the cup was flexible. one pressed, and the coffee came into one's lips without the spilling of a drop. at that moment joe really thought of sally for the first time in a good two hours. she'd been anxious that living in the platform should be as normal and earth-like as possible. the total absence of weight would be bad enough. she believed it needed to be countered, as a psychological factor in staying sane, by the effect of normal-seeming chairs and normal-tasting food, and not too exotic systems for eating. joe asked brent about it. "oh, yes," said brent mildly. "it's likely we'd all have gone off the deep end if there weren't some familiar things about. to have to drink from a cup that one squeezes is tolerable. but we'd have felt hysterical at times if we had to drink everything from the equivalent of baby bottles." "sally holt," said joe, "is a friend of mine. she helped design this stuff." "that girl has every ounce of brains that any woman can be trusted with!" brent said warmly. "she thought of things that would never have occurred to me! as a psychologist, i could see how good her ideas were when she brought them up, but as a male i'd never have dreamed of them." then he grinned. "she fell down on just one point. so did everybody else. nobody happened to think of a garbage-disposal system for the platform." it came into joe's mind that garbage-disposal was hardly a subject one would expect to be discussing in interplanetary space. but the platform wasn't the same thing as a spaceship. a ship could jettison refuse and leave it behind, or store it during a voyage and dump it at either end. but the space platform would never land. it could roll on forever. and if it heaved out its refuse from airlocks--why--the stuff would still have the platform's orbital speed and would follow it tirelessly around the earth until the end of time. "we dry and store it now," said brent. "if we were going to live, we'd figure out some way to turn it to fertilizer for the hydroponic gardens. it's hardly worth while as things are. even then, though, the problem of tin cans could be hopeless." the chief wiped his mouth deliberately. he had helped load four guided-missile launching tubes, and he had been brought up to date on the state of things in the platform. he growled in a preliminary fashion and said, "joe." joe looked at him. "we brought up six two-ton guided missiles," said the chief dourly. "we'll have warning of other bombs coming up. we can send these missiles out to intercept 'em. six of 'em. they can get close enough to set off their proximity fuses, anyhow. but what are we going to do, joe, if somebody flings seven bombs at us? we can manage six--maybe. but what'll we do with the one that's left over?" "have you any ideas?" asked joe. the chief shook his head. brent said mildly. "we've worked on that here in the platform, i assure you. and as sanford puts it quite soundly, about the only thing we can really do is throw our empty tin cans at them." joe nodded. then he tensed. brent had meant it as a rather mirthless joke. but joe was astonished at what his own brain made of it. he thought it over. then he said, "why not? it ought to be a very good trick." brent stared at him incredulously. haney looked solemnly at him. the chief regarded joe thoughtfully out of the corner of his eye. then mike shouted gleefully. the chief blinked, and a moment later grunted wrathful unintelligible syllables of mohawk, and then tried to pound joe on the back and because of his want of weight went head over heels into the air between the six walls of the kitchen. haney said disgustedly, "joe, there are times when a guy wants to murder you! why didn't i think of that?" but brent was looking at the four of them with a lively, helpless curiosity. "will you guys let me in on this?" they told him. joe began to explain it carefully, but the chief broke in with a barked and impatient description, and then mike interrupted to snap a correction. but by that time brent's expression had changed with astonishing suddenness. "i see! i see!" he said excitedly. "all right! have you got space suits in your ship? we have them. so we'll go out and pelt the stars with garbage. i think we'd better get at it right now, too. in under two hours we'll be a fine target for more bombs, and it would be good to start ahead of time." mike made a gesture and went floating out of the kitchen, air-swimming to go get space suits from the ship. the grin on his small face threatened to cut his throat. joe asked, "sanford's in command. how'll he like this idea?" brent hesitated. "i'm afraid," he said regretfully, "he won't like it. if you solve a problem he gave up, it will tear his present adjustment to bits. he's gone psychotic. i think, though, that he'll allow it to be tried while he swears at us for fools. he's most likely to react that way if you suggest it." "then," agreed joe, "i suggest it. chief----" the chief raised a large brown hand. "i got the program, joe," he said. "we'll all get set." and joe went floating unhappily through passage-tubes to the control room. he heard sanford's voice, sardonic and mocking, as he reached the communications room door. "what do you expect?" sanford was saying derisively. "we're clay pigeons. we're a perfect target. we've just so much ammunition now. you say you may send us more in three weeks instead of a month. i admire your persistence, but it's really no use! this is all a very stupid business...." he felt joe's presence. he turned, and then sharply struck the communicator switch with the heel of his hand. the image on the television screen died. the voice cut off. he said blandly: "well?" "i want," said joe, "to take a garbage-disposal party out on the outside of the platform. i came to ask for authority." sanford looked at him in mocking surprise. "to be sure it seems as intelligent as anything else the human race has ever done," he observed. "but why does it appeal to you as something you want to do?" "i think," joe told him, "that we can make a defense against bombs from earth with our empty tin cans." sanford raised his eyebrows. "if you happen to have a four-leaf clover with you," he said in fine irony, "i'm told they're good, too." his eyes were bright and scornful. his manner was feverishly derisive. joe would have done well to let it go at that. but he was nettled. "we set off the last bombs," he said doggedly, "by shooting our landing rockets at them. they didn't collide with the bombs. they simply touched off the bombs' proximity fuses. if we surround the platform with a cluster of tin cans and such things, they may do as well. things we throw away won't drop to earth. ultimately, they'll actually circle us, like satellites themselves. but if we can get enough of them between us and earth, any bombs that come up will have their proximity fuses detonated by the floating trash we throw out." sanford laughed. "we might ask for aluminum-foil ribbon to come up in the next supply ship," said joe. "we could have masses of that, or maybe metallic dust floating around us." "i much prefer used tin cans," said sanford humorously. "i'll take the watch here and let everybody go out with you. by all means we must defend ourselves. forward with the garbage! go ahead!" his eyes were almost hysterically scornful as he waited for joe to leave. joe did not like it at all, but there was nothing to do but get out. he found the chief with a net bag filled with emptied tin cans. haney had another. there were two more, carried by members of the platform's four-man crew. they were donning their space suits when joe came upon them. mike was grotesque in the cut-down outfit built for him. actually, the only difference was in the size of the fabric suit and the length of the arms and legs. he could carry a talkie outfit with its batteries, and the oxygen tank for breathing as well as anybody, since out here weight did not count at all. there were plastic ropes, resistant to extremes of temperature. joe got into his own space suit. it was no such self-contained space craft in itself as the fantastic story tellers dreamed of. it was not much more than an altitude suit, aluminized to withstand the blazing heat of sunshine in emptiness, and with extravagantly insulated soles to the magnetic boots. in theory, there simply is no temperature in space. in practice, a metal hull heats up in sunshine to very much more than any record-hot-day temperature on earth. in shadow, too, a metal hull will drop very close to minus degrees centigrade, which is something like degrees fahrenheit below zero. but mainly the space boots were insulated against the almost dull-red-heat temperatures of long-continued sunshine. a crewman named corey moved into an airlock with one of the bags of empty tin cans. brent watched in a routine fashion through a glass in the lock-door. the pumps began to exhaust the air from the airlock. corey's space suit inflated visibly. presently the pump stopped. corey opened the outer door. he went out, paying plastic rope behind him. an instant later he reappeared and removed the rope. he'd made his line fast outside. he closed the outer lock-door. air surged into the lock and haney crowded in. again the pumping. then haney went out, and was anchored to the platform not only by his magnetic boots but by a rope fastened to a hand-hold. brent went out. mike. joe came next. they stood on the hull of the space platform, waiting in the incredible harsh sunshine of emptiness. the bright steel plates of the hull swelled and curved away on every hand. there were myriads of stars and the vast round bulk of earth seemed farther away to a man in a space suit than to a man looking out a port. where shadows cut across the platform's irregular surface, there was utter blackness. also there was horrible frigidity. elsewhere it was blindingly bright. the men were specks of humanity standing on a shining metal hull, and all about them there was the desolation of nothingness. but joe felt strangely proud. the seventh man came out of the lock-door. they tied their plastic ropes together and spread out in a long line which went almost around the platform. the man next to the lock was anchored to a steel hand-hold. the third man of the line also anchored himself. the fifth. the seventh. they were a straggling line of figures with impossibly elongated shadows, held together by ropes. they were peculiarly like a party of weirdly costumed mountaineers on a glacier of gleaming silver. but no mountain climbers ever had a background of ten thousand million stars, peering up from below them as well as from overhead. nor did any ever have a mottled greenish planet rolling by , miles beneath them, nor a blazing sun glaring down at them from a sky such as this. in particular, perhaps, no other explorers ever set out upon an expedition whose purpose was to throw tin cans and dried refuse at all the shining cosmos. they set to work. the space suits were inevitably clumsy. it was not easy to throw hard with only magnetism to hold one to his feet. it was actually more practical to throw straight up with an underhand gesture. but even that would send the tin cans an enormous distance, in time. there was no air to slow them. the tin cans twinkled as they left the platform's steel expanse. they moved away at a speed of possibly to miles an hour. they floated off in all possible directions. they would never reach earth, of course. they shared the platform's orbital speed, and they would circle the earth with it forever. but when they were thrown away, their orbits were displaced a little. each can thrown downward just now, for example, would always be between the platform and the earth on this side of its orbit. but on the other side of earth it would be above the platform. the platform, in fact, became the center of a swarm, a cluster, a cloud of infinitesimal objects which would always accompany it and always be in motion with regard to it. together, they should make up a screen no proximity fuse bomb could pierce without exploding. joe heard clankings, transmitted to his body through his feet. "what's that?" he demanded sharply. "it sounds like the airlock!" voices mingled in his ears. the other walkie-talkies allowed everybody to speak at once. most of them did. then joe heard someone laugh. it was sanford's voice. sandford's aluminized, space-suited figure came clanking around the curve of the small metal world. the antenna of his walkie-talkie glittered above his head. he seemed to swagger against the background of many-colored stars. brent spoke quickly, before anyone else could question sanford. his tone was mild and matter of fact, but joe somehow knew the tension behind it. "hello, sanford. you came out? was it wise? shouldn't there be someone inside the platform?" sanford laughed again. "it was very wise. we're going to be killed, as you fellows know perfectly well. it's futile to try to avoid it. so very sensibly i've decided to spare myself the nuisance of waiting to be killed. i came out." there was silence in the ear-phones of joe's space suit radio. he heard his own heart beating loudly and steadily in the absolute stillness. "incidentally," said sanford with almost hysterical amusement, "i fixed it so that none of us can get back in. it would be useless, anyhow. everything's futility. so i've put an end to our troubles for good. i've locked us all out." he laughed yet again. and joe knew that in sanford's madness it was perfectly possible for him to have done exactly what he said. there were eight human beings on the platform. all were now outside it, on its outer skin. they wore space suits with from half an hour to an hour's oxygen supply. they had no tools with which to break back into the satellite. and no help could possibly reach them in less than three weeks. if they couldn't get back inside the platform, sanford, laughing proudly, had killed them all. there was a babbling of angry, strained, tense voices in joe's headphones. then the chief roared for silence. it fell, save for sanford's quiet, hysterical chuckling. joe found himself rather absurdly thinking that sanford was not actually insane, except as any man may be who believes only in his own cleverness. sooner or later it is bound to fail him. on earth, sanford's pride in his own intellect had been useful. he had been brilliant because he accepted every problem and every difficulty as a challenge. but with the platform's situation seemingly hopeless, he'd been starkly unable to face the fact that he wasn't clever or brilliant or intelligent enough. if joe's solution to the proximity fuse bombs had been offered before his emotional collapse, he could have accepted it grandly, and in so doing have made it his own. but it was too late for that now. he'd given up and worked up a frantic scorn for the universe he could not cope with. for joe's trick to work would have made him inferior even to joe in his own view. and he couldn't have that! even to die, with the prospect that others would survive him, was an intolerable prospect. he had to be smarter than anybody else. so he chuckled. the chief roared wrathfully into his transmitter: "quiet! this crazy fool's tried to commit suicide for all of us! how about it? why can't we get back in? how many locks----" joe found himself thinking hard. he could be angry later. now there wasn't time. thirty or forty minutes of breathing. no tools. a steel hull. the airlocks were naturally arranged for the greatest possible safety under normal conditions. in every airlock it had naturally been arranged so that the door to space and the door to the interior could not be open at the same time. that was to save lives. to save air, it would naturally be arranged that the door to space couldn't be opened until the lock was pumped empty. that in itself could be an answer. joe said sharply, "hold it, chief! somebody watch sanford! all we've got to do is find which lock he came out of. he couldn't get out until he pumped it empty--and that unlocks the outer door!" but sanford laughed once more. he sounded like someone in the highest of high good humor. "heroic again, eh? but i took a compressed air bottle in the lock with me. when the outer door was open, i opened the stopcock and shut the door. the air bottle filled the lock behind me. naturally i'd fasten the door after i came out! one must be intelligent!" joe heard brent muttering, "yes, he'd do that!" "somebody check it!" snapped joe. "make sure! it might amuse him to watch us die while he knew we could get back in if we were as smart as he is." there were clankings on the hull. men moved, unfastening the lines which held them to the hull to get freedom of movement, but not breaking the links which bound them to each other. joe saw haney go grimly back to the task of throwing away the stuff that they had brought out for the purpose. then mike's voice, brittle and cagey: "haney! quit it!" sanford's voice again, horribly amused. "by all means! don't throw away our garbage! we may need it!" a voice snapped, "this lock's fastened." another voice: "and this...." other voices, with increasing desperation, verified that every airlock was implacably sealed fast by the presence of air pressure inside the lock itself. time was passing. joe had never noticed, before, the minute noises of the air pressure apparatus strapped to his back. his exhaled breath went to a tiny pump that forced it through a hygroscopic filter which at once extracted excess moisture and removed carbon dioxide. the same pump carefully measured a volume of oxygen equal to the removed co_ and added it to the air it released. the pump made very small sounds indeed, and the valves were almost noiseless, but joe could hear their clickings. something burned him. he had been standing perfectly still while trying to concentrate on a way out. sunshine had shone uninterruptedly on one side of his space suit for as long as five minutes. despite the insulation inside, that was too long. he turned quickly to expose another part of himself to the sunlight. he knew abstractedly that the metal underfoot would sear bare flesh that touched it. a few yards away, in the shadow, the metal of the hull would be cold enough to freeze hydrogen. but here it was fiercely hot. it would melt solder. it might-- mike was fumbling tin cans out of the net bag from which haney had been throwing them away. he was a singular small figure, standing on shining steel, looking at one tin can after another and impatiently putting them aside. he found one that seemed to suit him. it was a large can. he knelt with it, pressing a part of it to the hot metal of the satellite's hull. a moment later he was ripping it apart. the solder had softened. he unrolled a sort of cylinder, then bent again, using the curved inner surface to concentrate the intolerable sunshine. joe caught his breath at the implication. concentrated sunshine can be incredibly hot. starting with unshielded, empty-space sunshine, practically any imaginable temperature is possible with a large enough mirror. mike didn't have a concave mirror. he had only a cylindrical one. he couldn't reflect light to a point, but only to a line. mike couldn't hope to do more than double or triple the temperature of a given spot. but considering what he wore on his back--! joe made his way clumsily to the spot where mike now gesticulated to haney, trying to convey his meaning by gestures since sanford would overhear any spoken word. "i get it, mike," said joe. "i'll help." he added: "chief! you watch sanford. the rest of you try to flatten out some tin cans or find some with flat round ends!" he reached the spot where mike bent over the plating. his hand moved to cast a shadow where the light had played. "i need more reflectors," mike said brusquely, "but we can do it!" joe beckoned. there were more, hurried clankings. space-suited figures gathered about. the platform rolled on through space. where it was bright it was very, very bright, and where it was dark it was blackness. off in emptiness the many-colored mass of earth shone hugely, rolling past. innumerable incurious stars looked on. the sun flamed malevolently. the moon floated abstractedly far away. mike was bent above a small round airlock door. he had a distorted half-cylinder of sheet tin between his space-gloved hands. it reflected a line of intensified sunlight to the edge of the airlock seal. haney ripped fiercely at other tin cans. joe held another strip of polished metal. it focused crudely--very crudely--on top of mike's line of reflected sunshine. someone else held the end of a tin can to reflect more sunshine. someone else had a larger disk of tin. they stood carefully still. it looked completely foolish. there were six men in frozen attitudes, trying to reflect sunshine down to a single blindingly-bright spot on an airlock door. they seemed breathlessly tense. they ignored the glories of the firmament. they were utterly absorbed in trying to make a spot of unbearable brightness glow more brightly still. mike moved his hand to cast a shadow. the steel was a little more than red-hot for the space of an inch. it would not melt, of course. it could not. and they had no tools to bend or pierce the presumably softened metal. but mike said fiercely: "keep it hot!" he squirmed. his space suit was fabric, like the rest, but it had been cut down to permit him to use it. it was bulkier on him than the suits of the others. he shifted his shoulder pack. the brass valve-nipple by which the oxygen tank was filled.... he jammed a ragged fragment of tin in place. he pressed down fiercely. a blazing jet of fierce, scintillating, streaking sparks leaped up from the spot where the metal glowed brightly. a hollow in the metal plate appeared. the metal disintegrated in gushing flecks of light.... white-hot iron in pure oxygen happens to be inflammable. iron is not incombustible at all. powdered steel, ground fine enough, will burn if simply exposed to air. really fine steel wool will make an excellent blaze if a match is touched to it. white-hot iron, with a jet of oxygen played upon it, explodes to steaming sparks. technically, mike had used the perfectly well-known trick of an oxygen lance to pierce the airlock door, let the air out of the lock, and so allow the outer door to be opened. there was a rush of vapor. the door was drilled through. haney picked mike up bodily, joe heaved the door open, and haney climbed into it, practically carrying mike by the scruff of the neck. joe panted, "plug the hole from the inside. sit on it if you have to!" and slammed the door shut. they waited. sanford's voice came in the ear-phones. it was higher in pitch than it had been. "you fools!" he raged. "it's useless! it's stupid to do useless things! it's stupid to do anything at all--" there were sudden scuffling clankings. joe swung about. the chief and sanford were struggling. sanford flailed his arms about, trying to break the chief's faceplate while he screamed furious things about futility. the chief got exactly the hold he wanted. he lifted sanford from the metal deck. he could have thrown him away to emptiness, then, but he did not. he set sanford in mid-space as if upon a shelf. the raging man hung in the void an exact man-height above the platform's surface. the chief drew back and left him there, sanford could writhe there for a century before the platform's infinitesimal gravity brought him down. "huh!" said the chief wrathfully. "how's haney and mike making out?" almost on the instant, twenty yards away, a tiny airlock door thrust out from the surface of glittering metal, and helmet and antenna appeared. "you guys can come in now," said haney's voice in joe's headphones. "it's all okay. mike's pumping out the other locks too, so you can come in at any of 'em." the space-suited figures clumped loudly to airlock doors. there were a dozen or more small airlocks in various parts of the hull, besides the great door to admit supply ships. the chief growled and moved toward sanford now raging like the madman his helplessness made him. "no," said joe shortly. "he'd fight again. go inside. that's an order, chief." the chief grunted and obeyed. joe went to the nearest airlock and entered the great steel hull. sanford floated in emptiness, two yards from the space platform he would have turned into a derelict. he did not move farther away. he did not fall toward it. there was nobody to listen to him. he cried out in blood-curdling fury because other men were smarter than he was. other men had solved problems he could not solve. other men were his superiors. he screamed his rage. presently the platform revolved slowly beneath him. it was turned, of course, by the monster gyros which in turn were controlled by the pilot gyros joe and haney and the chief and mike had repaired when saboteurs smashed them. the platform rotated sedately. a great gap appeared in it. the door of the supply ship lock moved until sanford, floating helplessly, was opposite its mouth. a rod with a rounded object at its end appeared past the docked supply ship. it reached out and touched sanford's helmet. it was the magnetic grapple which drew space ships into their dock. it drew sanford, squirming and streaming, into the great lock. the outer doors closed. before air was admitted to the inside, sanford went suddenly still. when they took him out of his suit he was apparently unconscious. he could not be roused. freed, he drew his knees up to his chin in the position in which primitive peoples bury their dead. he seemed to sleep. brent examined him carefully. "catatonia," he said distastefully. "he spent his life thinking he was smarter than anybody else--smarter, probably, than all the universe. he believed it. he couldn't face the fact that he was wrong. he couldn't stay conscious and not know it. so he's blacked out. he refuses to be anything unless he can be smartest. we'll have to do artificial feeding and all that until we can get him down to earth to a hospital." he shrugged. "we'd better report this down to earth," joe said. "by the way, better not describe our screen of tin cans on radio waves. not even microwaves. it might leak. and we want to see if it works." just forty-two hours later they found out that it did work. a single rocket came climbing furiously out from earth. it came from the night-side, and they could not see where it was launched, though they could make excellent guesses. they got a single guided missile ready to crash it if necessary. it wasn't necessary. the bomb from earth detonated miles below the artificial satellite. its proximity fuse, sending out small radar-type waves, had them reflected back by an empty sardine can thrown away from the platform by mike scandia forty-some hours ago. the sardine can had been traveling in its own private orbit ever since. the effect of mike's muscles had not been to send it back to earth, but to change the center of the circular orbit in which it floated. sometimes it floated above the platform--that was on one side of earth--and sometimes below it. it was about miles under the platform when it reflected urgent, squealing radar frequency waves to a complex proximity fuse in the climbing rocket. the rocket couldn't tell the difference between a sardine can and a space platform. it exploded with a blast of pure brightness like that of the sun. the platform went on its monotonous round about the planet from which it had risen only weeks before. sanford was strapped in a bunk and fed through a tube, and on occasion massaged and variously tended to keep him alive. the men on the platform worked. they made telephoto maps of earth. they took highly magnified, long-exposure photographs of mars, pictures that could not possibly be made with such distinctness from the bottom of earth's turbulent ocean of air. there was a great deal of official business to be done. weather observations of the form and distribution of cloud masses were an important matter. the platform could make much more precise measurements of the solar constant than could be obtained below. the flickering radar was gathering information for studies of the frequency and size of meteoric particles outside the atmosphere. there was the extremely important project for securing and sealing in really good vacua in various electronic devices brought up by joe and his crew in the supply ship. but sometimes joe managed to talk to sally. it was very satisfying to see her on the television screen in personal conversation. their talk couldn't be exactly private, because it could be picked up elsewhere. it probably was. but she told joe how she felt, and she wanted to read him the newspaper stories based on the reports brent had sent down. brent was in command of the platform now that sanford lay in a resolute coma in his bunk. but joe discouraged such waste of time. "how's the food?" asked sally. "are you people getting any fresh vegetables from the hydroponic garden?" they were, and joe told her so. the huge chamber in which sun-lamps glowed for a measured number of hours in each twenty-four produced incredibly luxuriant vegetation. it kept the air of the ship breathable. it even changed the smell of it from time to time, so that there was no feeling of staleness. "and the cooking system's really good?" she wanted to know. sally was partly responsible for that, too. "and how about the bunks?" "i sleep now," joe admitted. that had been difficult. it was possible to get used to weightlessness while awake. one would slip, sometimes, and find himself suddenly tense and panicky because he'd abruptly noticed all over again that he was falling. but--and yet again sally was partly responsible--the bunks were designed to help in that difficulty. each bunk had an inflatable top blanket. one crawled in and settled down, and turned the petcock that inflated the cover. then it held one quite gently but reassuringly in place. it was possible to stir and to turn over, but the feeling of being held fast was very comforting. with a little care about what one thought of before going to sleep, one could get a refreshing eight hours' rest. the bunks were luxury. sally said: "the date and time's a secret, of course, because it might be overheard, but there'll be another ship up before too long. it's bringing landing rockets for you to come back with." "that's good!" said joe. it would feel good to set foot on solid ground again. he looked at sally and said eagerly, "we've got a date the evening i get back?" "we've got a date," she said, nodding. but it couldn't very well be a definite date. there were people with ideas that ran counter to plans for joe to get back to earth and a date with sally holt. the space platform was not admired uniformly by all the nations of earth. the united states had built it because the united nations couldn't, and one of the attractions of the idea had been that once it got out to space and was armed, peace must reign upon earth because it could smack down anybody who made war. the trouble was that it wasn't armed well enough. six guided missiles couldn't defend it indefinitely. it looked as helpless as isolated berlin did before the first airlift proved what men and planes could do in the way of transport. and the platform's enemies didn't intend for it to be saved by a rocketlift. they would try to smash it before such a lift could get started. a week after joe got to it with the guided missiles, three rockets attacked. they went up from somewhere in the middle of the pacific. one blew up miles below the platform. another detonated miles away. for safety's sake the third was crashed--at the cost of one guided missile--when it had come within miles. the screen of tin cans worked, but it wasn't thick enough. the occupants of the platform went about hunting for sheet metal that could be spared. they pulled out minor partitions here and there, and went out on the surface and threw away thousands of small glittering scraps of metal in all directions. two weeks later, there was another attack. it could be calculated that joe couldn't have carried up more than six guided missiles. there might be as few as two of them left. so eight rockets came up together--and the first of them went off miles from the platform. only one got as close as miles. no guided missiles were expended in defense. the platform's enemies tried once more. this time the rockets arched up above the platform's orbit and dived on the satellite from above. there were two of them. they went off at and miles from the platform. joe's trash screen would not work on earth, but in space it was an adequate defense against anything equipped with proximity fuses. it could be assumed that in a full-scale space-war nuts, bolts, rusty nails and beer bottle caps would become essential military equipment. three days after this last attack, a second supply ship took off from earth. lieutenant commander brown was a passenger. its start was just like the one joe's ship had made. pushpots lifted it, jatos hurled it on, and then the furious, flaming take-off rockets drove it valiantly out toward the stars. joe's ship had been moved out of the landing lock and was moored against the platform's hull. the second ship made contact in two hours and seventeen minutes from take-off. it arrived with its own landing rockets intact, and it brought a set of forty-foot metal tubes for joe's ship to get back to earth with. but those landing rockets and lieutenant commander brown constituted all its payload. it couldn't bring up anything else. and lieutenant commander brown called a very formal meeting in the huge living space at the platform's center. he stood up grandly in full uniform--and had to hook his feet around a chair leg to keep from floating absurdly in mid-air. this detracted slightly from the dignity of his stance, but not from the official voice with which he read two documents aloud. the first paper detached lieutenant commander brown from his regular naval duties and assigned him pro tem to service with the space exploration project. the second was an order directing him to take command and assume direction of the space platform. having read his orders, he cleared his throat and said cordially, "i am honored to serve here with you. frankly, i expect to learn much from you and to have very few orders to give. i expect merely to exercise such authority as experience at sea has taught me is necessary for a tight and happy ship. i trust this will be one." he beamed. nobody was impressed. it was perfectly obvious that he'd simply been sent up to acquire experience in space for later naval use, and that he'd been placed in command because it was unthinkable that he serve under anyone without official rank and authority. and he quite honestly believed that his coming, with experience in command, was a blessing to the platform. in fact, there was no danger that this commander of the platform would crack up under stress as sanford had. but it was too bad that he hadn't brought some long-range guided missiles with him. joe's ship had brought up twenty tons of cargo and twenty tons of landing rockets. the second ship brought up twenty tons of landing rockets for joe, and twenty tons of landing rockets for itself. that was all. the second trip out to the space platform was a rescue mission and nothing else. arithmetic wouldn't let it be anything else. and there couldn't be any idea of noble self-sacrifice and staying out at the platform, either, because only four ships like joe's had been begun, and only two were even near completion. joe's had taken off the instant it was finished. the second had done the same. the second pair of spaceships wouldn't be ready for two months or more. the ships that could be used had to be used. so, only thirty-six hours after the arrival of the second rocketship at the platform, the two of them took off together to return to earth. joe's ship left the airlock first. sanford was loaded in the cabin of the other ship as cargo. lieutenant commander brown stayed out at the platform to replace him. obviously, in order to get back to earth they headed away from it in fleet formation. they pointed their rounded noses toward the milky way. the upward course was an application of the principle that made the screen of tin cans and oddments remain about the platform. each of those small objects had had the platform's own velocity and orbit. thrown away from it, the centers of their orbits changed. in theory, the center of the platform's orbit was the center of earth. but the centers of the orbits of the thrown-away objects were pushed a few miles--twenty--fifty--a hundred--away from the center of earth. the returning space ships also had the orbit and speed of the platform. they wanted to shift the centers of their orbits by very nearly , miles, so that at one point they would just barely graze earth's atmosphere, lose some speed to it, and then bounce out to empty space again before they melted. cooled off, they'd make another grazing bounce. after eight such bounces they'd stay in the air, and the stubby fins would give them a sort of gliding angle and controllability, while the landing rockets would let them down to solid ground. or so it was hoped. meanwhile they headed out instead of in toward earth. they went out on their steering-rockets only, using the liquid fuel that had not been needed for course correction on the way out. at , miles up, the force of gravity is just one-fourth of that at the earth's surface. it still exists; it is merely canceled out in an orbit. the ships could move outward at less cost in fuel than they could move in. so they went out and out on parallel courses, and the platform dwindled behind them. night flowed below until the hull of the artificial satellite shone brightly against a background of seeming sheer nothingness. the twilight zone of earth's shadow reached the platform. it glowed redly, glowed crimson, glowed the deepest possible color that could be seen, and winked out. the ships climbed on, using their tiny steering rockets. nothing happened. the ships drew away from each other for safety. they were , then miles apart. one glowed red and vanished in the shadow of the earth. the other was extinguished in the same way. then they went hurtling through the blackness of the night side of earth. microwaves from the ground played upon them--radar used by friend and foe alike--and the friendly radar guided tight-beam communicator waves to them with comforting assurance that their joint course and height and speed were exactly the calculated optimum. but they could not be seen at all. when they appeared again they were still farther out from earth than the platform's orbit, but no farther from each other. and they were descending. the centers of their orbits had been displaced very, very far indeed. going out, naturally, the ships had lost angular speed as they gained in height. descending, they gained in angular velocity as they lost height. they were not quite miles apart as they sped with increasing, headlong speed and rushed toward the edge of the world's disk. when they were only , miles high, the earth's surface under them moved much faster than it had on the way up. when they were only , miles high, the seas and continents seemed to flow past like a rushing river. at miles, mountains and plains were just distinguishable as they raced past underneath. at miles there was merely a churning, hurtling surface on which one could not focus one's eyes because of the speed of its movement. they missed the solid surface of earth by barely miles. they were moving at a completely impossible speed. the energy of their position , miles high had been transformed into kinetic energy of motion. and at miles there is something very close to a vacuum, compared to sea-level. but compared to true emptiness, and at the speed of meteors, the thin air had a violent effect. a thin humming sound began. it grew louder. the substance of the ship was responding to the impact of the thin air upon it. the sound rose to a roar, to a bellow, to a thunderous tumult. the ship quivered and trembled. it shook. a violent vibration set up and grew more and more savage. the whole ship shook with a dreadful persistence, each vibration more monstrous, more straining, more ominous than before. the four in the space ship cabin knew torture. weight returned to them, weight more violent than the six gravities they had known for a bare fourteen seconds at take-off. but that, at least, had been smoothly applied. this was deceleration at a higher figure yet, and accompanied by the shaking of bodies which weighed seven times as much as ever before--and bodies, too, which for weeks past had been subject to no weight at all. they endured. nothing at all could be done. at so many miles per second no possible human action could be determined upon and attempted in time to have any effect upon the course of the ship. joe could see out a quartzite port. the ground miles below was merely a blur. there was a black sky overhead, which did not seem to stir. but cloud-masses rushed at express-train speed below him, and his body weighed more than half a ton, and the ship made the sound of innumerable thunders and shook, and shook and shook.... and then, when it seemed that it must fly utterly to pieces, the thunder diminished gradually to a bellow, and the bellow to a roar, and the roaring.... and the unthinkable weight oppressing him grew less. the earth was farther away and moving farther still. they were miles high. they were miles high.... there was no longer any sound at all, except their gaspings for breath. their muscles had refused to lift their chests at all during the most brutal of the deceleration period. presently joe croaked a question. he looked at the hull-temperature indicators. they were very, very high. he found that he was bruised where he had strapped himself in. the places where each strap had held his heavy body against the ship's vibrations were deeply black-and-blue. the chief said thickly: "joe, somehow i don't think this is going to work. when do we hit again?" "three hours plus or minus something," said joe, dry-throated. "we'll hear from the ground." mike said in a cracked voice: "radar reports we went a little bit too low. they think we weren't tilted up far enough. we didn't bounce as soon as we should." joe unstrapped himself. "how about the other ship?" "it did better than we did," said mike. "it's a good miles ahead. down at the shed, they're recalculating for us. we'll have to land with six grazes instead of eight. we lost too much speed." joe went staggering, again weightless, to look out a port for the other ship. he should have known better. one does not spot an eighty-foot space ship with the naked eye when it is miles away. but he saw something, though for seconds he didn't know what it was. now the little ship was miles high and still rising. joe was dazed and battered by the vibration of the ship in the graze just past. the sister space ship hadn't lost speed so fast. it would be traveling faster. it would be leaving him farther behind every second. it was rising more sharply. it would rise higher. joe stared numbly out of a port, thinking confusedly that his hull would be dull red on its outer surface, though the heating had been so fast that the inner surfaces of the plating might still be cold. he saw the vast area which was the curve of the edge of the world. he saw the sunlight upon clouds below and glimpses of the surface of the earth itself. and he saw something rising out of the mists at the far horizon. it was a thread of white vapor. the other rocketship was a speck, a mote, invisible because of its size and distance. this thread of vapor was already miles long, and it expanded to a column of whiteness half a mile across before it seemed to dissipate. it rose and rose, as if following something which sped upward. it was a rocket trail. the violence of its writhings proved the fury with which the rocket climbed. it was on its way to meet the other space ship. it did. joe saw the thread of vapor extend and grow until it was higher than he was. he never saw the other ship, which was too small. but he saw the burst of flame, bright as the sun itself, which was the explosion of a proximity fuse bomb. he knew, then, that nothing but incandescent, radioactive gas remained of the other ship and its crew. then he saw the trail of the second rocket. it was rising to meet him. the four of them watched through the ports as the thread of vapor sped upward. they hated the rocket and the people who had built it. joe said between his teeth, "we could spend our landing-rockets and make it chase us, but it'll have fuel for that!" the chief muttered in mohawk. the words sounded as if they ought to have blue fire at their edges and smell of sulphur. mike the midget said crackling things in his small voice. haney stared, his eyes burning. their ship was a little over miles up, now. the rocket was or better. the rendezvous would be probably miles ahead and correspondingly higher. the rocket was accelerating furiously. it had farther to travel, but its rate of climb was already enormous and it increased every second. the ship could swing to right or left on steering rockets, but the war rocket could swerve also. it was controlled from the ground. it did not need to crash the small ship from space. within a limited number of miles the blast of its atomic warhead would vaporize any substance that could exist. and of course the ship could not turn back. even the expenditure of all its landing-rockets could not bring twenty tons of ship to a halt. they could speed it up, so it would pass the calculated meeting place ahead of the war rocket. but the bomb would simply follow in a stern chase. in any case, the ship could not stop. but neither could the rocket. joe never knew how he saw the significance of that fact. on land or sea, of course, an automobile or a ship moves in the direction in which it is pointed. even an airplane needs to make only minor corrections for air currents which affect it. but an object in space moves on a course which is the sum of all its previous speeds and courses. joe's ship was moving eastward above the earth at so many miles per second. if he drove north--at a right angle to his present course--the ship would not cease to move to the east. it would simply move northward in addition to moving east. if the rocket from earth turned north or east it would continue to move up and merely add the other motion to its vertical rise. joe stared at the uncoiling thread of vapor which was the murder rocket's trail. he hated it so fiercely that he wanted to escape it even at the cost of destruction, merely to foil its makers. at one moment, he was hardly aware of anything but his own fury and the frantic desire to frustrate the rocket at any cost. the next instant, somehow, he was not angry at all. because somehow his brain had dredged up the fact that the war rocket could no more turn back than he could--and he saw its meaning. "mike!" he snapped sharply. "get set! report what we do! everybody set for acceleration! steering rockets ready, chief! get set to help, haney! i don't know whether we'll get out of this alive, but we'd better get into our space suits." then he literally dived back to his acceleration chair and strapped in in feverish haste. the ship was then a quarter of the way to the meeting place and the rocket had very much farther to go. but it was rising faster. the ship's gyros whined and squealed as joe jammed on their controls. the little ship spun in emptiness. its bow turned and pointed down. the steering rockets made their roarings. joe found himself panting. "the--rocket's rising faster--than we are. it's been gaining--altitude maybe--two minutes. it's lighter than when--it started but--it can't stop--less than a minute, anyhow so we duck under it----" he did not make computations. there was no time. the war rocket might have started at four or five gravities acceleration, but it would speed up as its fuel burned. it might be accelerating at fifteen gravities now, and have an attained velocity of four miles a second and still increasing. if the little ship ducked under it, it could not kill that rate-of-climb in time to follow in a stern chase. "haney!" panted joe. "watch out the port! are we going to make it?" haney crawled forward. joe had forgotten the radar because he'd seen the rocket with his own eyes. it seemed to need eyes to watch it. mike spoke curtly into the microphone broadcasting to ground. he was reporting each action and order as it took place and was given. there was no time to explain anything. but mike thought of the radar. he watched it. it showed the vast curve of earth's surface, miles down. it showed a moving pip, much too much nearer, which was the war rocket. mike made a dot on the screen with a grease pencil where the pip showed. it moved. he made another dot. the pip continued to move. he made other dots. they formed a curving line--curved because the rocket was accelerating--which moved inexorably toward the center of the radar screen. the curve would cut the screen's exact center. that meant collision. "too close, joe!" said mike shrilly. "we may miss it, but not enough!" "then hold fast," yelled joe. "landing rockets firing, three--two--one!" the bellowing of the landing-rockets smote their ears. weight seized upon them, three gravities of acceleration toward the rushing flood of clouds and solidity which was the earth. the ship plunged downward with all its power. it was intolerable--and ten times worse because they had been weightless so long and were still shaken and sore and bruised from the air-graze only minutes back. mike took acceleration better than the others, but his voice was thin when he gasped, "looks--like this does it, joe!" seconds later he gasped again, "right! the rocket's above us and still going away!" the gyros squealed again. the ship plunged into vapor which was the trail of the enemy rocket. for an instant the flowing confusion which was earth was blotted out. then it was visible again. the ship was plunging downward, but its sidewise speed was undiminished and much greater than its rate of fall. "mike," panted joe. "get the news out. what we did--and why. i'm--going to turn the ship's head back on our--course. we can't slow enough but--i'd rather crash on earth than let them blast us----" the ship turned again. it pointed back in the direction from which it had come. with the brutal sternward pressure produced by the landing-rockets, it felt as if it were speeding madly back where it had come from. it was the sensation they'd felt when the ship took off from earth, so long before. but then the cloud masses and the earth beneath had flowed toward the ship and under it. now they flowed away. the appearance was that of an unthinkably swift wake left behind by a ship at sea. the earth's surface fled away and fled away from them. "crazy, this!" joe muttered thickly. "if the ship were lighter--or we had more power--we could land! i'm sorry, but i'd rather----" haney turned his head from where he clung near the bow-ports. his features changed slowly as he talked because of acceleration-driven blood engorging his lips and bloating his cheeks. after one instant he closed his eyes fiercely. they felt as if they would pop out of his head. he gasped, "yes! get down to air-resistance. a chance--not good but a chance--ejection seats--with space suits--might make it...." he began to let himself back toward his acceleration chair. he could not possibly have climbed forward. it was a horrible task to let himself down, with triple his normal weight pulling at him and after the beating taken a little while ago. sweat stood out on his skin as he lowered himself sternward. once his grip on a hand-line slipped and he had to sustain the drag of nearly six hundred pounds by a single hand and arm. it would not be a good idea to fall at three gravities. the landing rockets roared and roared, and joe tilted the bow down a little farther, so that the streaming flood of clouds drew nearer. haney got to his acceleration chair. he let himself into it and his eyes closed. mike's sharp voice barked: "what's the chance, haney?" haney's mouth opened, and closed, and opened again. "rocket flames," he gasped, "pushed back--wind--splash on hull--may melt--lighten weight--hundred to one against----" the odds were worse than that. the ship couldn't land because its momentum was too great for the landing rockets to cancel out. if it had weighed five tons instead of twenty, landing might have been possible. haney was saying that if the ship were to be lowered into air while rushing irresistibly sternward despite its rockets, that the rocket flames might be splashed out by the wind. instead of streaking astern in a lance-like shape, they might be pushed out like a rocket blast when it hits the earth in a guided missile take-off. such a blast spreads out flat in all directions. here the rocket flames might be spread by wind until they played upon the hull of the ship. if they did, they might melt it as they melted their own steel cases in firing. and three-fourths or more of the hull might be torn loose from the cabin bow section. so much was unlikely, but it was possible. the impossible odds were that the four could survive even if the cabin were detached. they were decelerating at three gravities now. if part of the ship burned or melted or was torn away, the rocket thrust might speed the cabin up to almost any figure. and there is a limit to the number of gravities a man can take, even in an acceleration chair. nevertheless, that was what haney proposed. they were due to be killed anyhow. joe tried it. he dived into atmosphere. at miles altitude a thin wailing seemed to develop without reason. at miles, the ship had lost more than two miles per second of its speed since the landing-rockets were ignited, and there was a shuddering in all its fabric--though because of the loss of speed it was not as bad as the atmosphere-graze. at it began to shake and tremble. at miles high there was as horrible a vibration and as deadly a deceleration as at the air-graze. at miles above the surface of the earth the hull temperature indicators showed the hind part of the hull at red heat. the ship happened to be traveling backward at several times the speed of sound, and air could not move away from before it. it was compressed to white heat at the entering surface, and the metal plating went to bright red heat at that point. but the hull just aft of the rocket mouths was hotter still. there the splashing rocket flames bathed it in intolerable incandescence. hull plates, braces and beams glared white---- the tip of the tail caved in. the ship's empty cargo space was instantly filled with air at intolerable pressure and heat. the hull exploded outward where the rocket flames played. there was a monstrous, incredible jerking of the cabin that remained. that fraction of the ship received the full force of the rocket thrust. they could decelerate it at a rate of fifteen gravities or more. they did. joe lost consciousness as instantly and as peacefully as if he had been hit on the jaw. an unknown but brief time later, he found himself listening with a peculiar astonishment. the rockets had burned out. they had lasted only seconds after the separation of the ship into two fragments. radars on the ground are authority for this. those few seconds were extremely important. the cabin lost an additional half-mile per second of velocity, which was enough to make the difference between the cabin heating up too, and the cabin being not quite destroyed. the cabin remnant was heavy, of course, but it was an irregular object, some twenty feet across. it was below orbital velocity, and wind-resistance slowed it. even so, it traveled miles to the east in falling the last miles to earth. it hit a hillside and dug itself a -foot crater in the ground. but there was nobody in it, then. a little over a month before, it had seemed to joe that ejection seats were the most useless of all possible pieces of equipment to have in a space ship. he'd been as much mistaken as anybody could be. with an ejection seat, a jet pilot can be shot out of a plane traveling over mach one, and live to tell about it. this crumpling cabin fell fast, but joe stuffed mike in an ejection seat and shot him out. he and the chief dragged haney to a seat, and then the chief shoved joe off--and the four of them, one by one, were flung out into a screaming stream of air. but the ribbon-parachutes did not burst. they nearly broke the necks of their passengers, but they let them down almost gently. and it was quite preposterous, but all four landed intact. mike, being lightest and first to be ejected, came down by himself in a fury because he'd been treated with special favor. the chief and joe landed almost together. after a long time, joe staggered out of his space suit and harness and tried to help the chief, and they held each other up as they stumbled off together in search of haney. when they found him he was sleeping heavily, exhausted, in a canebrake. he hadn't even bothered to disengage his parachute harness or take off his suit. a good deal of that landing remained confused in joe's mind. while it was going on he was much too busy to be absorbing impressions. when he landed, he was as completely exhausted as anybody wants to be. it was only during the next day that he even tried to sort out his recollections. then he woke up suddenly, with a muffled roaring going on all about him. he blinked his eyes open and listened. presently he realized what the noise was, and wondered that he hadn't realized before. it was the roaring of the motors of a multi-engined plane. he knew, without remembering the details at the moment, that he and the other three were on a plane bound across the pacific for america. he was in a bunk--and he felt extraordinarily heavy. he tried to move, and it was an enormous effort to move his arm. he struggled to turn over, and found straps holding his body down. he fumbled at them. they had readily releasable clasps, and he loosened them easily. after a bit he struggled to sit upright. he was horribly heavy or horribly weak. he couldn't tell which. and each separate muscle in his whole body ached. twinges of pain accompanied every movement. he sat up, swaying a little with the slow movements of the plane, and gradually, things came back. the landing in the ribbon-chute. they'd come down somewhere on the west coast of india, not too far from the sea. he remembered crashing into the edge of a thin jungle and finding the chief, and the two of them searching out haney and stumbling to open ground. after laying out a signal for air searchers, they went off into worn-out slumber while they waited. he remembered that there'd been a patrol of american destroyers in the arabian sea, as everywhere under the orbit of the platform. their radar had reported the destruction of one space ship and the frantic diving of the other, its division into two parts, and then the tiny objects, which flew out from the smaller cabin section, which had descended as only ejection-seat parachutes could possibly have done. two destroyers steamed onward underneath those drifting specks, to pick them up when they should come down. but the other nearby destroyers had other business in hand. the two trailing destroyers reached goa harbor within hours of the landing of the four from space. a helicopter found the first three of them within hours after that. they were twenty miles inland and thirty south from goa. mike wasn't located until the next day. he'd been shot out of the ship's cabin earlier and higher; he was lighter, and he'd floated farther. but things--satisfying things--had happened in the interval. sitting almost dizzily on the bunk in the swiftly roaring plane while blood began sluggishly to flow through his body, joe remembered the gleeful, unofficial news passed around on the destroyers. they waited for mike to be brought in. but they rejoiced vengefully. the report was quite true, but it never reached the newspapers. nobody would ever admit it, but the rockets aimed at the returning space ships had been spotted by navy radar as they went up from the arabian sea. and the ships of the radar patrol couldn't do anything about the rockets, but they could and did converge savagely upon the places from which they had been launched. planes sped out to spot and bomb. destroyers arrived. somewhere there was a navy department that could write off two modern submarines with rocket-launching equipment, last heard from west of india. american naval men would profess bland ignorance of any such event, but there were acres of dead fish floating on the ocean where depth-bombs had hunted down and killed two shapes much too big to be fish, which didn't float when they were killed and which would never report back how they'd destroyed two space ships. there'd be seagulls feasting over that area, and there'd be vague tales about the happening in the bazaars of hadhramaut. but nobody would ever admit knowing anything for certain. but joe knew. he got to his feet, wobbling a little bit in the soaring plane. he ached everywhere. his muscles protested the strain of holding him erect. he held fast, summoning strength. before his little ship broke up he'd been shaken intolerably, and his body had weighed half a ton. where his safety-belt had held him, his body was one wide bruise. there'd been that killing acceleration when the ship split in two. the others--except mike--were in as bad a case or worse. haney and the chief were like men who'd been rolled down mount everest in a barrel. all of them had slept for fourteen hours straight before they even woke up for food. even now, joe didn't remember boarding this plane or getting into the bunk. he'd probably been carried in. joe stood up, doggedly, until enough strength came to him to justify his sitting down again. he began to dress. it was astonishing how many places about his body were sore to the touch. it was startling how heavy his arms and legs felt, and how much of an effort even sitting erect was. but he began to remember mike's adventure, and managed to grin feebly. it was the only thing worth a smile in all the things that had happened. because mike's landing had been quite unlike the others. joe and the chief landed near the edge of a jungle. haney landed in a canebrake. but mike came floating down from the sky, swaying splendidly, into the estate of a minor godling. he was relatively unharmed by the shaking-up he'd had. the strength of muscles depends on their cross-section, but their weight depends on their volume. the strength of a man depends on the square of his size, but his weight on the cube. so mike had taken the deceleration and the murderous vibration almost in his stride. he floated longer and landed more gently than the rest. joe grinned painfully at the memory of mike's tale. he'd come on board the rescue destroyer in a towering, explosive rage. when his ribbon-parachute let him down out of the sky, it deposited him gently on ploughed fields not far from a small and primitive hindu village. he'd been seen to descend from the heavens. he was a midget--not as other men--and he was dressed in a space suit with glittering metal harness. the pagan villagers greeted him with rapture. when the searching-party found mike, they were just in time to prevent a massacre--by mike. adoring natives had seized upon him, conveyed him in high state to a red mud temple, seemingly tried to suffocate him with evidences of their pride and joy at his arrival, and dark-skinned maidens were trying hopefully to win his approval of their dancing. but the rescue-party found him with a club in his hand and blood in his eye, setting out furiously to change the tone of his reception. joe still didn't know all the details, but he tried to concentrate on what he did know as he put his uniform on again. he didn't want to think how little it meant, now. the silver space ship badge didn't mean a thing, any more. there weren't any more space ships. the platform wasn't a ship, but a satellite. there'd never been but two ships. both had ceased to exist. joe walked painfully forward in the huge, roaring plane. the motors made a constant, humming thunder in his ears. it was not easy to walk. he held on to handholds as he moved. but he progressed past the bunk space. and there was mike, sitting at a table and stuffing himself with good honest food. there was a glass port beside him, and joe caught a glimpse of illimitable distances filled with cloud and sky and sea. mike nodded. he didn't offer to help joe walk. that wouldn't have been practical. he waited until joe sank into a seat opposite. "good sleep?" asked mike. "i guess so," said joe. he added ruefully, "it hurts to nod, and i think it would hurt worse to shake my head. what's the matter with me, mike? i didn't get banged up in the landing!" "you got banged up before you landed," said mike. "worse than that, you spent better than six weeks out of gravity, where in an average day you took less actual exercise than a guy in bed with two broken legs!" joe eased himself back into his chair. he felt about years old. somebody poked a head into view and withdrew it. joe lifted his arm and regarded it. "weighty! i guess you're right, mike." "i know i'm right!" said mike. "if you spent six weeks in bed you'd expect to feel wobbly when you tried to walk. up on the platform you didn't even use energy to stand up! we didn't realize it, but we were living like invalids! we'll get our strength back, but next time we'll take measures. huh! take a trip to mars in free fall, and by the time a guy got there his muscles'd be so flabby he couldn't stand up in half-gravity! something's got to be done about that, joe!" joe said sombrely, "something's got to be done about space ships before that comes up again!" somebody appeared with a tray. there was food on it. smoking hot food. joe looked at it and knew that his appetite, anyhow, was back to earth normal. "thanks!" he mumbled appreciatively, and attacked the food. mike drank his coffee. then he said, "joe, do you know anything about powder metallurgy?" joe shrugged. it hurt. "powder metallurgy? yes, i've seen it used, at my father's plant. they've made small precision parts with it. why?" "d'you know if anybody ever made a weld with it?" asked mike. joe chewed. then he said: "i think so. yes. at the plant they did. they had trouble getting the surfaces properly cleaned for welding. but they managed it. why?" "one more question," said mike tensely. "how much portland cement is used to make a cubic yard of concrete?" "i wouldn't know," admitted joe. "why? what's all this about?" "haney and the chief. those two big apes have been kidding me--as long as they could stay awake--for what happened to me when i landed. those infernal savages--" mike seethed. "they got my clothes off and they had me smeared all over with butter and forty-'leven necklaces around my neck and flowers in my hair! they thought i was some kind of heathen god! hanuman, somebody told me. the hindu monkey-god!" he raged. "and those two big apes think it's funny! joe, i never knew i _knew_ all the words for the cussings i gave those heathen before our fellas found me! and haney and the chief will drive me crazy if i can't slap 'em down! powder metallurgy does the trick, from what you told me. that's okay, then." he stood up and stalked toward the front of the plane. joe roused himself with an effort. he turned to look about him. haney lay slumped in a reclining chair, on the other side of the plane cabin. his eyes were closed. the chief lay limply in another chair. he smiled faintly at joe, but he didn't try to talk. he was too tired. the return to normal gravity bothered him, as it did joe. joe looked out the window. in neat, geometric spacing on either side of the transport there were fighter jets. there was another flight above and farther away. joe saw, suddenly, a peeling-off of planes from the farther formation. they dived down through the clouds. he never knew what they went to look for or what they found. he went groggily back to his bunk in a strange and embarrassing weakness. he woke when the plane landed. he didn't know where it might be. it was, he knew, an island. he could see the wide, sun-baked white of the runways. he could see sea-birds in clouds over at the edge. the plane trundled and lurched slowly to a stop. a service-truck came growling up, and somebody led cables from it up into the engines. somebody watched dials, and waved a hand. there was silence. there was stillness. joe heard voices and footsteps. presently he heard the dull booming of surf. the plane seemed to wait for a very long time. then there was a faint, faint distant whine of jets, and a plane came from the east. it was first a dot and then a vague shape, and then an infinitely graceful dark object which swooped down and landed at the other end of the strip. it came taxiing up alongside the transport ship and stopped. an officer in uniform climbed out, waved his hand, and walked over to the transport. he climbed up the ladder and the pilot and co-pilot followed him. they took their places. the door closed. one by one, the jets chugged, then roared to life. the officer talked to the pilot and co-pilot for a moment. he came down the aisle toward joe. mike the midget regarded him suspiciously. the plane stirred. the newly arrived officer said pleasantly, "the navy department's sent me out here, kenmore, to be briefed on what you know and to do a little briefing in turn." the transport plane turned clumsily and began to taxi down the runway. it jolted and bumped over the tarmac, then lifted, and joe saw that the island was nearly all airfield. there were a few small buildings and distance-dwarfed hangars. beyond the field proper there was a ring of white surf. that was all. the rest was ocean. "i haven't much briefing to do," admitted joe. then he looked at the briefcase the other man opened. it had sheets and sheets of paper in it--hundreds, it seemed. they were filled with questions. he'd be called on to find answers for most of them, and to admit he didn't know the answers to the rest. when he was through with this questioning, every possible useful fact he knew would be on file for future use. and now he wrily recognized that this was part payment for the efficiency and speed with which the navy had trailed them on their landing, and for the use of a transport plane to take them back to the united states. "i'll try to answer what i can," he said cautiously. "but what're you to brief me about?" "that you're not back on earth yet," said the officer curtly, pulling out the first sheaf of questions. "officially you haven't even started back. ostensibly you're still on the platform." joe blinked at him. "if your return were known," continued the lieutenant, "the public would want to make heroes of you. first space travelers, and so on. they'd want you on television--all of you--telling about your adventures and your return. inevitably, what happened to your ship would leak out. and if the public knew you'd been waylaid and shot down there'd be demands that the government take violent action to avenge the attack. it'd be something like the tumult over the sinking of the _maine_, or the _lusitania_--or even pearl harbor. it's much better for your return to be a secret for now." joe said wrily: "i don't think any of us want to be ridden around to have ticker-tape dumped on us. that part's all right. i'm sure the others will agree." "good! one more difficulty. we had two space ships. now we have none. our most likely enemies haven't only been building rockets, they've got a space fleet coming along. intelligence just found out they're nearly ready for trial trips. they've been yelling to high heaven that we were building a space fleet to conquer the world. we weren't. they were. and it looks very much as if they may have beaten us." the lieutenant got out the dreary mass of papers, intended to call for every conscious or unconscious observation joe might have made in space. it was the equivalent of the interviews extracted from fliers after a bombing raid, and it was necessary, but joe was very tired. wearily, he said, "start your questions. i'll try to answer them." they arrived in bootstrap some forty-six hours after the crashing of their ship. joe, at least, had slept nearly thirty of those hours. so while he was still wobbly on his feet and would be for days to come, his disposition was vastly improved. there was nobody waiting on the airfield by the town of bootstrap, but as they landed a black car came smoothly out and stopped close by the transport. joe got down and climbed into it. sally holt was inside. she took both his hands and cried, and he was horribly embarrassed when the chief came blundering into the car after him. but the chief growled, "if he didn't kiss you, sally, i'm going to kick his pants for him." "he--he did," said sally, gulping. "and i'm glad you're back, chief. and haney. and mike." mike grinned as he climbed in the back too. haney crowded in after him. they filled the rear of the car entirely. it started off swiftly across the field, swerving to the roadway that led to the highway out of bootstrap to the shed. it sped out that long white concrete ribbon, and the desert was abruptly all around them. far ahead, the great round half-dome of the shed looked like a cherry-pit on the horizon. "it's good to be back!" said the chief warmly. "i feel like i weigh a ton, but it's good to be back! mike's the only one who was happier out yonder. he figures he belongs there. i got a story to tell you, sally----" "chief!" said mike fiercely. "shut up!" "won't," said the chief amiably. "sally, this guy mike----" mike went pale. "you're too big to kill," he said bitterly, "but i'll try it!" the chief grunted at him. "quit being modest. sally----" mike flung himself at the chief, literally snarling. his small fist hit the chief's face--and mike was small but he was not puny. the "crack" of the impact was loud in the car. haney grabbed. there was a moment's frenzied struggling. then mike was helplessly wrapped in haney's arms, incoherent with fury and shame. "crazy fool!" grunted the chief, feeling his jaw. "what's the matter with you? don't you feel good?" he was angry, but he was more concerned. mike was white and raging. "you tell that," he panted shrilly, "and so help me----" "what's got into you?" demanded haney anxiously. "i'd be bragging, i would, if i'd got a brainstorm like you did! that guy sanford woulda wiped us all out----" the chief said angrily, between unease and puzzlement: "i never knew you to go off your nut like this before! what's got into you, anyway?" mike gulped suddenly. haney still held him firmly, but both haney and the chief were looking at him with worried eyes. and mike said desperately: "you were going to tell sally----" the chief snorted. "huh! you fool little runt! no! i was going to tell her about you opening up that airlock when sanford locked us out! sure i kidded you about what you're talking about! sure! i'm going to do it again! but that's amongst us! i don't tell that outside!" haney made an inarticulate exclamation. he understood, and he was relieved. but he looked disgusted. he released mike abruptly, rumbling to himself. he stared out the window. and mike stood upright, an absurd small figure. his face worked a little. "okay," said mike, with a little difficulty. "i was dumb. only, chief, you owe me a sock on the jaw when you feel like it. i'll take it." he swallowed. sally was watching wide-eyed. "sally," said mike bitterly, "i'm a bigger fool than i look. i thought the chief was going to tell you what happened when i landed. i--i floated down in a village over there in india, and those crazy savages'd never seen a parachute, and they began to yell and make gestures, and first thing i knew they had a sort of litter and were piling me in it, and throwing flowers all over me, and there was a procession----" sally listened blankly. mike told the tale of his shame with the very quintessence of bitter resentment. when he got to his installation in a red-painted mud temple, and the reverent and forcible removal of his clothes so he could be greased with butter, sally's lips began to twitch. at the picture of mike in a red loincloth, squirming furiously while brown-skinned admirers zestfully sang his praises, howling his rage while they celebrated some sort of pious festival in honor of his arrival, sally broke down and laughed helplessly. mike stared at her, aghast. he felt that he'd hated the chief when he thought the chief was going to tell the tale on him as a joke. he'd told it on himself as a penance, in the place of the blow he'd given the chief and which the chief wouldn't return. to mike it was still tragedy. it was still an outrage to his dignity. but sally was laughing. she rocked back and forth next to joe, helpless with mirth. "oh, mike!" she gasped. "it's beautiful! they must have been saying such lovely, respectful things, while you were calling them names and wanting to kill them! they'd have been bragging to each other about how you were--visiting them because they'd been such good people, and--this was the reward of well-spent lives, and you--you----" she leaned against joe and shook. the car went on. the chief chuckled. haney grinned. joe watched mike as this new aspect of his disgrace got into his consciousness. it hadn't occurred to mike, before, that anybody but himself had been ridiculous. it hadn't occurred to him, until he lost his temper, that haney and the chief would ride him mercilessly among themselves, but would not dream of letting anybody outside the gang do so. presently mike managed to grin a little. it was a twisty grin, and not altogether mirthful. "yeah," he said wrily. "i see it. they were crazy too. i should've had more sense than to get mad." then his grin grew a trifle twistier. "i didn't tell you that the thing that made me maddest was when they wanted to put earrings on me. i grabbed a club then and--uh--persuaded them i didn't like the idea." sally chortled. the picture of the small, truculent mike in frenzied revolt with a club against the idea of being decked with jewelry.... mike turned to the two big men and shoved at them imperiously. "move over!" he growled. "if you two big lummoxes had dropped in on those crazy goofs instead of me, they'd've thought you were elephants and set you to work hauling logs!" he squirmed to a seat between them. he still looked ashamed, but it was shame of a different sort. now he looked as if he wished he hadn't mistrusted his friends for even a moment. and he included sally. "anyhow," he said suddenly in a different tone, "maybe it did do some good for me to get all worked up! i got kind of frantic. i figured somebody'd made a fool of me, and i was going to put something over on you." "mike!" said sally reproachfully. "not like you think, sally," said mike, grinning a little. "i made up my mind to beat these lummoxes at their own game. i asked joe about my brainstorm in the plane. he didn't know what i was driving at, but he said what i hoped was so. so i'm telling you--and," he added fiercely, "if it's any good everybody gets credit for it, because all of us four--even two big apes who try kidding--are responsible for it!" he glared at them. joe asked. "what is it, mike?" "i think," said mike, "i think i've got a trick to make space ships quicker than anybody ever dreamed of. joe says you can make a weld with powder metallurgy. and i think we can use that trick to make one-piece ships--lighter and stronger and tighter--and fast enough to make your head swim! and you guys are in on it!" the black car braked by the entrance to the security offices outside the shed. it looked completely deserted. there was only a skeleton force here since the platform had been launched three months before. there was almost nobody to be seen, but mike pressed his lips pugnaciously together as they got out of the car and went inside. the four of them, with sally, went along the empty corridors to the major's office. he was waiting for them. he shook hands all around. but it was not possible for major holt to give an impression of cordiality. "i'm very glad to see all of you back," he said curtly. "it didn't look like you'd make it. joe, you will be able to reach your father by long-distance telephone as soon as you finish here. i--ah--thought it would not be indiscreet to tell him you had landed safely, though i did ask him to keep the fact to himself." "thank you, sir," said joe. "you answered most of the questions you needed to answer on the plane," added the major, grimly, "and now you may want to ask some. you know there is no ship for you. you know that the enemies of the platform copied our rocket fuel. you know they've made rockets with it. you've met them! and intelligence says they're building a fleet of space ships--not for space exploration, but simply to smash the platform and get set for an ultimatum to the united states to backwater or be bombarded from space." mike said crisply: "how long before they can do it?" major holt turned uncordial eyes upon him. "it's anybody's guess. why?" "we've been working something out," said mike, firmly but in part untruthfully. he stood sturdily before the major's desk, which he barely topped. "the four of us have been working it out. joe says they've done powder metallurgy welds, back at his father's plant. joe and haney and the chief and me, we've been working out an idea." major holt waited. his hands moved nervously on his desk. joe looked at mike. haney and the chief regarded him warily. the chief cocked his head on one side. "it'll take a minute to get it across," said mike. "you have to think of concrete first. when you want to make a cubic yard of concrete, you take a cubic yard of gravel. then you add some sand--just enough to fill in the cracks between the gravel. then you put in some cement. it goes in the cracks between the grains of sand. a little bit of cement makes a lot of concrete. see?" major holt frowned. but he knew these four. "i see, but i don't understand." "you can weld metals together with powder-metallurgy powder at less than red heat. you can take steel filings for sand and steel turnings for gravel and powdered steel for cement--" joe jolted erect. he looked startledly at haney and the chief. and haney's mouth was dropping open. a great, dreamy light seemed to be bursting upon him. the chief regarded mike with very bright eyes. and mike sturdily, forcefully, coldly, made a sort of speech in his small and brittle voice. things could be made of solid steel, he said sharply, without rolling or milling or die-casting the metal, and without riveting or arc-welding the parts together. the trick was powder metallurgy. very finely powdered metal, packed tightly and heated to a relatively low temperature--"sintered" is the word--becomes a solid mass. even alloys can be made by mixing powdered metals. the process had been used only for small objects, but--there was the analogy to concrete. a very little powder could weld much metal, in the form of turnings and smaller bits. and the result would be solid steel! then mike grew impassioned. there was a wooden mockup of a space ship in the shed, he said. it was an absolutely accurate replica, in wood, of the ships that had been destroyed. but one could take castings of it, and use them for molds, and fill them with powder and filings and turnings, and heat them not even red-hot and there would be steel hulls in one piece. solid steel hulls! needing no riveting nor anything else--and one could do it fast! while the first hull was fitting out a second could be molded---- the chief roared: "you fool little runt!" he bellowed. "tryin' to give us credit for that! you got more sense than any of us! you worked that out in your own head----" haney rubbed his hands together. he said softly, "i like that! i do like that!" major holt turned his eyes to joe. "what's your opinion?" "i think it's the sort of thing, sir, that a professional engineer would say was a good idea but not practical. he'd mean it would be a lot of trouble to get working. but i'd like to ask my father. they have done powder welding at the plant back home, sir." major holt nodded. "call your father. if it looks promising, i'll pull what wires i can." joe went out, with the others. mike was sweating. all unconsciously, he twisted his hands one within the other. he had had many humiliations because he was small, but lately he had humiliated himself by not believing in his friends. now he needed desperately to do something that would reflect credit on them as well as himself. joe made the phone call. as he closed the door of the booth, he heard the chief kidding mike blandly. "hey, einstein," said the chief. "how about putting that brain of yours to work on a faster-than-light drive?" but then he began to struggle with the long distance operator. it took minutes to get the plant, and then it took time to get to the point, because his father insisted on asking anxiously how he was and if he was hurt in any way. personal stuff. but joe finally managed to explain that this call dealt with the desperate need to do something about a space fleet. his father said grimly, "yes. the situation doesn't look too good right now, joe." "try this on for size, sir," said joe. he outlined mike's scheme. his father interrupted only to ask crisp questions about the mockup of the tender, already in existence though made of wood. then he said, "go on, son!" joe finished. he heard his father speaking to someone away from the phone. questions and answers, and then orders. his father spoke to him direct. "it looks promising, joe," said his father. "right here at the plant we've got the gang that can do it if anybody can. i'm getting a plane and coming out there, fast! get major holt to clear things for me. this is no time for red tape! if he has trouble, i'll pull some wires myself!" "then i can tell mike it's good stuff?" "it's not good stuff," said his father. "there are about forty-seven things wrong with it at first glance, but i know how to take care of one or two, and we'll lick the rest. you tell your friend mike i want to shake him by the hand. i hope to do it tonight!" he hung up, and joe went out of the phone booth. mike looked at him with yearning eyes. joe lied a little, because mike rated it. "my father's on the way here to help make it work," he told mike. then he added untruthfully: "he said he thought he knew all the big men in his line, and where've you been that he hasn't heard of you?" he turned away as the chief whooped with glee. he hurried back to major holt as the chief and haney began zestfully to manhandle mike in celebration of his genius. the major held up his hand as joe entered. he was using the desk phone. joe waited. when he hung up, joe reported. the major seemed unsurprised. "yes, i had washington on the wire," he said detachedly. "i talked to a personal friend who's a three-star general. there will be action started at the pentagon. when you came in i was arranging with the largest producers of powder-metallurgy products in the country to send their best men here by plane. they will start at once. now i have to get in touch with some other people." joe gaped at him. the major moved impatiently, waiting for joe to leave. joe gulped. "excuse me, sir, but--my father didn't say it was certain. he just thinks it can be made to work. he's not sure." "i didn't even wait for that, something has to turn up to take care of this situation!" said the major with asperity. "it has to! this particular scheme may not work, but if it doesn't, something will come out of the work on it! you should look at a twenty-five cent piece occasionally, joe!" he moved impatiently, and joe went out. sally was smiling in the outer office. there were whoopings in the corridor beyond. the chief and haney were celebrating mike's brainstorm with salutary indignity, because if they didn't make a joke of it he might cry with joy. "things look better?" "they do," said joe. "if it only works...." then he hunted in his pocket. he found a quarter and examined it curiously. on one side he found nothing the major could have referred to. on the other side, though, just by george washington's chin---- he put the quarter away and took sally's arm. "it'll be all right," he said slowly. but there were times when it seemed in doubt. joe's father arrived by plane at sunset of that same day, and he and three men from the kenmore precision tool company instantly closeted themselves with mike in major holt's quarters. the powder metallurgy men turned up an hour later, and a three-star general from washington. they joined the highly technical discussion. joe waited around outside, feeling left out of things. he sat on the porch with sally while the moon rose over the desert and stars shone down. inside, matters of high importance were being battled over with the informality and heat with which practical men get things settled. but joe wasn't in on it. he said annoyedly, "you'd think my father'd have something to say to me, in all this mess! after all, i have been--well, i have been places! but all he said was, 'how are you, son? where's this mike you talked about?'" sally said calmly, "i know just how you feel. you've made me feel that way." she looked up at the moon. "i thought about you all the time you were gone, and i--prayed for you, joe. and now you're back and not even busy! but you don't---- it would be nice for you to think about me for a while!" "i am thinking about you!" said joe indignantly. "now what," said sally interestedly, "in the world could you be thinking about me?" he wanted to scowl at her. but he grinned instead. time passed. hours, then days. things began to happen. trucks appeared, loaded down with sacks of white powder. the powder was very messily mixed with water and smeared lavishly over the now waterproofed wooden mockup of a space ship. it came off again in sections of white plaster, which were numbered and set to dry in warm chambers that were constructed with almost magical speed. more trucks arrived, bearing such diverse objects as loads of steel turnings, a regenerative helium-cooling plant from a gaswell--it could cool metal down to the point where it crumbled to impalpable powder at a blow--and assorted fuel tanks, dynamos, and electronic machinery. ten days after mike's first proposal of concreted steel as a material for space ship construction, the parts of the first casting of the mockup were assembled. they were a mold for the hull of a space ship. there were more plaster sections for a second mold ready to be dried out now, but meanwhile vehicles like concrete mixers mixed turnings and filings and powder in vast quantities and poured the dry mass here and there in the first completed mold. then men began to wrap the gigantic object with iron wire. presently that iron wire glowed slightly, and the whole huge mold grew hotter and hotter and hotter. and after a time it was allowed to cool. but that did not mean a ceasing of activity. the plaster casts had been made while the concreting process was worked out. the concreting process--including the heating--was in action while fittings were being flown to the shed. but other hulls were being formed by metal-concrete formation even before the first mold was taken down. when the plaster sections came off, there was a long, gleaming, frosty-sheened metal hull waiting for the fittings. it was a replacement of one of the two shot-down space craft, ready for fitting out some six weeks ahead of schedule. next day there was a second metal hull, still too hot to touch. the day after that there was another. then they began to be turned out at the rate of two a day, and all the vast expanse of the shed resounded with the work on them. drills drilled and torches burned and hammers hammered. small diesels rumbled. disk saws cut metal like butter by the seemingly impractical method of spinning at , revolutions per minute. convoys of motor busses rolled out from bootstrap at change-shift time, and there were again security men at every doorway, moving continually about. but it still didn't look too good. there is apparently no way to beat arithmetic, and a definitely grim problem still remained. ten days after the beginning of the new construction program, joe and sally looked down from a gallery high up in the outward-curving wall of the shed. acres of dark flooring lay beneath them. there was a spiral ramp that wound round and round between the twin skins of the fifty-story-high dome. it led finally to the communications room at the very top of the shed itself. where joe and sally looked down, the floor was feet below. welding arcs glittered. rivet guns chattered. trucks came in the doorways with materials, and there was already a gleaming row of eighty-foot hulls. there were eleven of them already uncovered, and small trucks ran up to their sides to feed the fitting-out crews such items as air tanks and gyro assemblies and steering rocket piping and motors, and short wave communicators and control boards. exit doors were being fitted. the last two hulls to be uncovered were being inspected with portable x-ray outfits, in search of flaws. and there were still other ungainly white molds, which were other hulls in process of formation--the metal still pouring into the molds in powder form, or being tamped down, or being sintered to solidity. joe leaned on the gallery-railing and said unhappily, "i can't help worrying, even though the platform hasn't been shot at since we landed." that wasn't an expression of what he was thinking. he was thinking about matters the enemies of the platform would have liked to know about. sally knew these matters too. but top secret information isn't talked about by the people who know it, unless they are actively at work on it. at all other times one pretends even to himself that he doesn't know it. that is the only possible way to avoid leaks. the top secret information was simply that it was still impossible to supply the platform. ships could be made faster than had ever been dreamed of before, but so long as any ship that went up could be destroyed on the way down, the supply of the platform was impractical. but the ships were being built regardless, against the time when a way to get them down again was thought of. as of the moment it hadn't been thought of yet. but building the ships anyhow was unconscious genius, because nobody but americans could imagine anything so foolish. the enemies of the platform and of the united states knew that full-scale production of ships by some fantastic new method was in progress. the fact couldn't be hidden. but nobody in a country where material shortages were chronic could imagine building ships before a way to use them was known. so the platform's enemies were convinced that the united states had something wholly new and very remarkable, and threatened their spies with unspeakable fates if they didn't find out what it was. they didn't find out. the rulers of the enemy nations knew, of course, that if a new--say--space-drive had been invented, they would very soon have to change their tune. so there were no more attacks on the platform. it floated serenely overhead, sending down astronomical observations and solar-constant measurements and weather maps, while about it floated a screen of garbage and discarded tin cans. but joe and sally looked down where the ships were being built while the problem of how to use them was debated. "it's a tough nut to crack," said joe dourly. it haunted him. ships going up had to have crews. crews had to come down again because they had to leave supplies at the platform, not consume them there. getting a ship up to orbit was easier than getting it down again. "the navy's been working on light guided missiles," said sally. "no good," snapped joe. it wasn't. he'd been asked for advice. could a space ship crew control guided missiles and fight its way back to ground with them? the answer was that it could. but guided missiles used to fight one's way down would have to be carried up first. and they would weigh as much as all the cargo a ship could carry. a ship that carried fighting rockets couldn't carry cargo. cargo at the platform was the thing desired. "all that's needed," said sally, watching joe's face, "is a slight touch of genius. there's been genius before now. burning your cabin free with landing-rocket flames----" "haney's idea," growled joe dispiritedly. "and making more ships in a hurry with metal-concrete----" "mike did that," said joe ruefully. "but you made the garbage-screen for the platform," insisted sally. "sanford had made a wisecrack," said joe. "and it just happened that it made sense that he hadn't noticed." he grimaced. "you say something like that, now...." sally looked at him with soft eyes. it wasn't really his job, this worrying. the top-level brains of the armed forces were struggling with it. they were trying everything from redesigned rocket motors to really radical notions. but there wasn't anything promising yet. "what's really needed," said sally regretfully, "is a way for ships to go up to the platform and not have to come back." "sure!" said joe ironically. then he said, "let's go down!" they started down the long, winding ramp which led between the two skins of the shed's wall. it was quite empty, this long, curving, descending corridor. it was remarkably private. in a place like the shed, with frantic activity going on all around, and even at major holt's quarters where sally lived and joe was a guest, there wasn't often a chance for them to talk in any sort of actual privacy. but joe went on, scowling. sally went with him. if she seemed to hang back a little at first, he didn't notice. presently she shrugged her shoulders and ceased to try to make him notice that nobody else happened to be around. they made a complete circuit of the shed within its wall, joe staring ahead without words. then he stopped abruptly. his expression was unbelieving. sally almost bumped into him. "what's the matter?" "you had it, sally!" he said amazedly. "you did it! you said it!" "what?" "the touch of genius!" he almost babbled. "ships that can go up to the platform and not have to come back! sally, you did it! you did it!" she regarded him helplessly. he took her by the shoulders as if to shake her into comprehension. but he kissed her exuberantly instead. "come on!" he said urgently. "i've got to tell the gang!" he grabbed her hand and set off at a run for the bottom of the ramp. and sally, with remarkably mingled emotions showing on her face, was dragged in his wake. he was still pulling her after him when he found the chief and haney and mike in the room at security where they were practically self-confined, lest their return to earth become too publicly known. mike was stalking up and down with his hands clasped behind his back, glum as a miniature napoleon and talking bitterly. the chief was sprawled in a chair. haney sat upright regarding his knuckles with a thoughtful air. joe stepped inside the door. mike continued without a pause: "i tell you, if they'll only use little guys like me, the cabin and supplies and crew can be cut down by tons! even the instruments can be smaller and weigh less! four of us in a smaller cabin, less grub and air and water--we'll save tons in cabin-weight alone! why can't you big lummoxes see it?" "we see it, mike," haney said mildly. "you're right. but people won't do it. it's not fair, but they won't." joe said, beaming, "besides, mike, it'd bust up our gang! and sally's just gotten the real answer! the answer is for ships to go up to the platform and not come back!" he grinned at them. the chief raised his eyebrows. haney turned his head to stare. joe said exuberantly: "they've been talking about arming ships with guided missiles to fight with. too heavy, of course. but--if we could handle guided missiles, why couldn't we handle drones?" the three of them gaped at him. sally said, startled, "but--but, joe, i didn't----" "we've got plenty of hulls!" said joe. somehow he still looked astonished at what he'd made of sally's perfectly obvious comment. "mike's arranged for that! make--say--six of 'em into drones--space barges. remote-controlled ships. control them from one manned ship--the tug! we'll ride that! take 'em up to the platform exactly like a tug tows barges. the tow-line will be radio beams. we'll have a space-tow up, and not bother to bring the barges back! there won't be any landing rockets! they'll carry double cargo! that's the answer! a space tug hauling a tow to the platform!" "but, joe," insisted sally, "i didn't think of----" the chief heaved himself up. haney's voice cut through what the chief was about to say. haney said drily: "sally, if joe hadn't kissed you for thinking that up, i would. makes me feel mighty dumb." mike swallowed. then he said loyally, "yeah. me too. i'd've made a two-ton cargo possible--maybe. but this adds up. what does the major say?" "i--haven't talked to him. i'd better, right away." joe grinned. "i wanted to tell you first." the chief grunted. "good idea. but hold everything!" he fumbled in his pocket. "the arithmetic is easy enough, joe. cut out the crew and air and you save something." he felt in another pocket. "leave off the landing rockets, and you save plenty more. count in the cargo you could take anyhow"---- he searched another pocket still----"and you get forty-two tons of cargo per space barge, delivered at the platform. six drones--that's tons in one tow! here!" he'd found what he wanted. it was a handkerchief. he thrust it upon joe. "wipe that lipstick off, joe, before you go talk to the major. he's sally's father and he might not like it." joe wiped at his face. sally, her eyes shining, took the handkerchief from him and finished the job. she displayed that remarkable insensitivity of females in situations productive of both pride and embarrassment. when a girl or a woman is proud, she is never embarrassed. she and joe went away, and sally rushed right into her father's office. in fifteen minutes technical men began to arrive for conferences, summoned by telephone. within forty-five minutes, messengers carried orders out to the shed floor and stopped the installation of certain types of fittings in all but one of the hulls. in an hour and a half, top technical designers were doing the work of foremen and getting things done without benefit of blueprints. the proposal was beautifully simple to put into practice. guided-missile control systems were already in mass production. they could simply be adjusted to take care of drones. within twelve hours there were truck-loads of new sorts of supplies arriving at the shed. some were air force supplies and some were ordnance, and some were strictly quartermaster. these were not component parts of space ships. they were freight for the platform. and, just forty-eight hours after joe and sally looked dispiritedly down upon the floor of the shed, there were seven gleaming hulls in launching cages and the unholy din of landing pushpots outside the shed. they came with hysterical cries from their airfield to the south, and they flopped flat with extravagant crashings on the desert outside the eastern door. by the time the pushpots had been hauled in, one by one, and had attached themselves to the launching cages, joe and haney and the chief and mike had climbed into the cabin of the one ship which was not a drone. there were now seven cages in all to be hoisted toward the sky. a great double triangular gore had been jacked out and rolled aside to make an exit in the side of the shed. nearly as many pushpots, it seemed, were involved in this launching as in the take-off of the platform itself. the routine test before take-off set the pushpot motors to roaring inside the shed. the noise was the most sustained and ghastly tumult that had been heard on earth since the departure of the platform. but this launching was not so impressive. it was definitely untidy, imprecise, and unmilitary. there were seven eighty-foot hulls in cages surrounded by clustering, bellowing, preposterous groups of howling objects that looked like over-sized black beetles. one of the seven hulls had eyes. the others were blind--but they were equipped with radio antennae. the ship with eyes had several small basket-type radar bowls projecting from its cabin plating. the seven objects rose one by one and went bellowing and blundering out to the open air. at and feet above the ground, they jockeyed into some sort of formation, with much wallowing and pitching and clumsy maneuvering. then, without preliminary, they started up. they rose swiftly. the noise of their going diminished from a bellow to a howl, and from a howl to a moaning noise, and then to a faint, faint, ever-dwindling hum. presently that faded out, too. all the sensations were familiar, the small fleet of improbable objects rose and rose. of all flying objects ever imagined by man, the launching cages supported by pushpots were most irrational. the squadron, though, went bumbling upward. in the manned ship, joe was more tense than on his other take-off--if such a thing was possible. his work was harder this trip. before, he'd had mike at communications and the chief at the steering rockets while haney kept the pushpots balanced for thrust. now joe flew the manned ship alone. headphones and a mike gave him communications with the shed direct, and the pushpots were balanced in groups, which cost efficiency but helped on control. he would have, moreover, to handle his own steering rockets during acceleration and when he could--and dared--he should supervise the others. because each of the other three had two drone-ships to guide. true, they had only to keep their drones in formation, but joe had to navigate for all. the four of them had been assigned this flight because of its importance. they happened to be the only crew alive who had ever flown a space ship designed for maneuvering, and their experience consisted of a single trip. the jet stream was higher this time than on that other journey now two months past. they blundered into it at , feet. joe's headphones buzzed tinnily. radar from the ground told him his rate-of-rise, his ground speed, his orbital speed, and added comments on the handling of the drones. the last was not a precision job. on the way up joe protested, "somebody's ship--number four--is lagging! snap it up!" mike said crisply, "got it, joe. coming up!" "the shed says three separate ships are getting out of formation. and we need due east pointing. check it." the chief muttered, "something whacky here ... come round, you! okay, joe." joe had no time for reflection. he was in charge of the clumsiest operation ever designed for an exact result. the squadron went wallowing toward the sky. the noise was horrible. a tinny voice in his headphones: "_you are at , feet. your rate-of-climb curve is flattening. you should fire your jatos when practical. you have some leeway in rocket power._" joe spoke into the extraordinary maze of noise waves and pressure systems in the air of the cabin. "we should blast. i'm throwing in the series circuit for jatos. try to line up. we want the drones above us and with a spread, remember! go to it!" he watched his direction indicator and the small graphic indicators telling of the drones. the sky outside the ports was dark purple. the launching cage responded sluggishly. its open end came around toward the east. it wobbled and wavered. it touched the due-east point. joe stabbed the firing-button. nothing happened. he hadn't expected it. the seven ships had to keep in formation. they had to start off on one course--with a slight spread as a safety measure--and at one time. so the firing-circuits were keyed to relays in series. only when all seven firing-keys were down at the same time would any of the jatos fire. then all would blast together. the pilots in the cockpit-bubbles of the pushpots had an extraordinary view of the scene. at something over twelve miles height, seven aggregations of clumsy black things clung to frameworks of steel, pushing valorously. far below there were clouds and there was earth. there was a horizon, which wavered and tilted. the pushpots struggled with seeming lack of purpose. one of the seven seemed to drop below the others. they pointed vaguely this way and that--all of them. but gradually they seemed to arrive at an uncertain unanimity. joe pushed the firing-button again as his own ship touched the due-east mark. again nothing happened. out of the corner of his eye he saw haney pressing down both buttons. the chief's finger lifted. mike pushed down one button and held off the other. roarings and howlings of pushpots. wobblings and heart-breaking clumsinesses of the drone-ships. they hung in the sky while the pushpots used up their fuel. "we've got to make it soon," said joe grimly. "we've got forty seconds. or we'll have to go down and try again." there was a clock dial with a red sweep-hand which moved steadily and ominously toward a deadline time for firing. up to that deadline, the pushpots could let the ships back down to earth without crashing them. after it, they'd run out of fuel before a landing could be made. the deadline came closer and closer. joe snapped: "take a degree leeway. we've got ten seconds." he had the manned ship nearly steady. he held down the firing-button, holding aim by infinitesimal movements of the controls. haney pushed both hands down, raised one, pushed again. the chief had one finger down. mike had both firing buttons depressed.... the chief pushed down his second button, quietly. there was a monstrous impact. every jato in every pushpot about every launching cage fired at once. joe felt himself flung back into his acceleration chair. six gravities. he began the horrible fight to stay alive, while the blood tried to drain from the conscious forepart of his brain, and while every button of his garments pressed noticeably against him, and objects in his pockets pushed. the sides of his mouth dragged back, and his cheeks sagged, and his tongue strove to sink back into his throat and strangle him. it was very bad. it seemed to last for centuries. then the jatos burned out. there was that ghastly feeling of lunging forward to weightlessness. one instant, joe's body weighed half a ton. the next instant, it weighed less than a dust grain. his head throbbed twice as if his skull were about to split open and let his brains run out. but these things he had experienced before. there were pantings in the cabin about him. the ship fell. it happened to be going up, but the sensation and the fact was free fall. joe had been through this before, too. he gasped for breath and croaked, "drones?" "right," said haney. mike panted anxiously, "four's off course. i'll fix it." the chief grunted guttural mohawk. his hands stirred on the panel for remote control of the drones he had to handle. "crazy!" he growled. "got it now, joe. fire when ready." "okay, mike?" a half-second pause. "okay!" joe pressed the firing-button for the take-off rockets. and he was slammed back into his acceleration chair again. but this was three gravities only. pressed heavily against the acceleration cushions, he could perform the navigation for the fleet. he did. the mother-ship had to steer a true course, regardless of the vagaries of its rockets. the drones had simply to be kept in formation with it. the second task was simpler. but joe was relieved, this time, of the need to report back instrument-readings. a telemetering device took care of that. the take-off rockets blasted and blasted and blasted. the mere matter of staying alive grew very tedious. the ordeal seemed to last for centuries. actually it could be measured only in minutes. but it seemed millennia before the headphones said, staccato fashion: "_you are on course and will reach speed in fourteen seconds. i will count for you._" "relays for rocket release," panted joe. "throw 'em over!" three hands moved to obey. joe could release the drive rockets on all seven ships at will. the voice counted: "_ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... cut!_" joe pressed the master-key. the remnants of the solid-fuel take-off rockets let go. they flashed off into nothingness at unbelievable speed, consuming themselves as they went. there was again no weight. this time there was no resting. no eager gazing out the cabin ports. now they weren't curious. they'd had over a month in space, and something like sixteen days back on earth, and now they were back in space again. mike and haney and the chief worked doggedly at their control boards. the radar bowls outside the cabin shifted and moved and quivered. the six drone ships showed on the screens. but they also had telemetering apparatus. they faithfully reported their condition and the direction in which their bows pointed. the radars plotted their position with relation to each other and the mother-ship. presently joe cast a glance out of a port and saw that the dark line of sunset was almost below. the take-off had been timed to get the ships into earth's shadow above the area from which war rockets were most likely to rise. it wouldn't prevent bombing, of course. but there was a gadget.... joe spoke into the microphone: "reporting everything all right so far. but you know it." the voice from solid ground said, "_report acknowledged._" the ships went on and on and on. the chief muttered to himself and made very minute adjustments of the movement of one of his drones. mike fussed with his. haney regarded the controls of his drones with a profound calm. nothing happened, except that they seemed to be falling into a bottomless pit and their stomach-muscles knotted and cramped in purely reflex response to the sensation. even that grew tedious. the headphones said, "_you will enter earth's shadow in three minutes. prepare for combat._" joe said drily, "we're to prepare for combat." the chief growled. "i'd like to do just that!" the phrasing, of course, was intentional--in case enemy ears were listening. actually, the small fleet was to use a variant on the tin can shield which protected the platform. it would be most effective if visual observation was impossible. the fleet was seven ships in very ragged formation. most improbably, after the long three-gravity acceleration, they were still within a fifty-mile globe of space. number four loitered behind, but was being brought up by judicious bursts of steering-rocket fire. number two was some distance ahead. the others were simply scattered. they went floating on like a group of meteors. out the ports, two of them were visible. the others might be picked out by the naked eye--but it wasn't likely. drone two, far ahead and clearly visible, turned from a shining steel speck to a reddish pin-point of light. the red color deepened. it winked out. the sunlight in the ports of the mother-ship turned red. then it blacked out. "shoot the ghosts," said joe. the three drone-handlers pushed their buttons. nothing happened that anybody could see. actually, though, a small gadget outside the hull began to cough rhythmically. similar devices on the drones coughed, too. they were small, multiple-barreled guns. rifle shells fired two-pound missiles at random targets in emptiness. they wouldn't damage anything they hit. they'd go varying distances, explode and shoot small lead shot ahead to check their missile-velocity, and then emit dense masses of aluminum foil. there was no air resistance. the shredded foil would continue to move through emptiness at the same rate as the convoy-fleet. the seven ships had fired a total of eighty-four such objects away into the blackness of earth's shadow. there were, then, seven ships and eighty-four masses of aluminum foil moving through emptiness. they could not be seen by telescopes. and radars could not tell ships from masses of aluminum foil. if enemy radars came probing upward, they reported ninety-one space ships in ragged but coherent formation, soaring through emptiness toward the platform. and a fleet like that was too strong to attack. the radar operators had been prepared to forward details of the speed and course of a single ship to waiting rocket-launching submarines half-way across the pacific. but they reported to very high authority instead. he received the report of an armada--an incredible fleet--in space. he didn't believe it. but he didn't dare disbelieve it. so the fleet swam peacefully through the darkness that was earth's shadow, and no attempt at attack was made. they came out into sunlight to look down at the western shore of america itself. with seven ships to get on an exact course, at an exact speed, at an exact moment, time was needed. so the fleet made almost a complete circuit of the earth before reaching the height of the platform's orbit. they joined it. a single man in a space suit, anchored to its outer plates, directed a plastic hose which stretched out impossibly far and clamped to one drone with a magnetic grapple. he maneuvered it to the hull and made it fast. he captured a second, which was worked delicately within reach by coy puffs of steering-rocket vapor. one by one, the drones were made fast. then the manned ship went in the lock and the great outer door closed, and the plastic-fabric walls collapsed behind their nets, and air came in. lieutenant commander brown was the one to come into the lock to greet them. he shook hands all around--and it again seemed strange to all the four from earth to find themselves with their feet more or less firmly planted on a solid floor, but their bodies wavering erratically to right and left and before and back, because there was no up or down. "just had reports from earth," brown told joe comfortably. "the news of your take-off was released to avoid panic in europe. but everybody who doesn't like us is yelling blue murder. somebody--you may guess who--is announcing that a fleet of ninety-one war rockets took off from the united states and now hangs poised in space while the decadent american war-mongers prepare an ultimatum to all the world. everybody's frightened." "if they'll only stay scared until we get unloaded," said joe in some satisfaction, "the government back home can tell them how many we were and what we came up for. but we'll probably make out all right, anyhow." "my crew will unload," said brown, in conscious thoughtfulness. "you must have gotten pretty well exhausted by that acceleration." joe shook his head. "i think we can handle the freight faster. we found out a few things by going back to earth." a section of plating at the top of the lock--at least it had been the top when the platform was built on earth--opened up as on the first journey here. a face grinned down. but from this point on, the procedure was changed. haney and joe went into the cargo-section of the rocketship and heaved its contents smoothly through weightlessness to the storage chamber above. the chief and mike stowed it there. the speed and precision of their work was out of all reason. brown stared incredulously. the fact was simply that on their first trip to the platform, joe and his crew didn't know how to use their strength where there was no weight. by the time they'd learned, their muscles had lost all tone. now they were fresh from earth, with earth-strength muscles--and they knew how to use them. "when we got back," joe told brown, "we were practically invalids. no exercise up here. this time we've brought some harness to wear. we've some for you, too." they moved out of the airlock, and the ship was maneuvered to a mooring outside, and a drone took its place. brown's eyes blinked at the unloading of the drone. but he said, "navy style work, that!" "out here," said joe, "you take no more exercise than an invalid on earth--in fact, not as much. by now the original crew would have trouble standing up on a trip back to earth. you'd feel pretty heavy, yourself." brown frowned. "hm. i--ah--i shall ask for instructions on the matter." he stood erect. he didn't waver on his feet as the others did. but he wore the same magnetic-soled shoes. joe knew, with private amusement, that brown must have worked hard to get a dignified stance in weightlessness. "mr. kenmore," said brown suddenly. "have you been assigned a definite rank as yet?" "not that i know of," said joe without interest. "i skipper the ship i just brought up. but----" "your ship has no rating!" protested brown irritably. "the skipper of a navy ship may be anything from a lieutenant junior grade to a captain, depending on the size and rating of the ship. in certain circumstances even a noncommissioned officer. are you an enlisted man?" "again, not that i know of," joe told him. "nor my crew, either." brown looked at once annoyed and distressed. "it isn't regular!" he objected. "it isn't shipshape! i should know whether you are under my command or not! for discipline! for organization! it should be cleared up! i shall put through an urgent inquiry." joe looked at him incredulously. lieutenant commander brown was a perfectly amiable man, but he had to have things in a certain pattern for him to recognize that they were in a pattern at all. he was more excited over the fact that he didn't know whether he ranked joe, than over the much more important matter of physical deterioration in the absence of gravity. yet he surely understood their relative importance. the fact was, of course, that he could confidently expect exact instructions about the last, while he had to settle matters of discipline and routine for himself. "i shall ask for clarification of your status," he said worriedly. "it shouldn't have been left unclear. i'd better attend to it at once." he looked at joe as if expecting a salute. he didn't get it. he clanked away, his magnetic shoe-soles beating out a singularly martial rhythm. he must have practised that walk, in private. joe got out of the airlock as another of the space barges was warped in. brent, the crew's psychologist, joined him when he went to unload. brent nodded in a friendly fashion to joe. "quite a change, eh?" he said drily. "sanford turned out to be a crackpot with his notions of grandeur. i'm not sure that brown's notions of discipline aren't worse." joe said, "i've something rather important to pass on," and told about the newly discovered physical effects of a long stay where there was no gravity. the doctors now predicted that anybody who spent six months without weight would suffer a deterioration of muscle tone which could make a return to earth impossible without a long preliminary process of retraining. one's heart would adjust to the absence of any need to pump blood against gravity. "which," said joe, "means that you're going to have to be relieved before too long. but we brought up some gravity-simulator harness that may help." brent said desolately: "and i was so pleased! we all had trouble with insomnia, at first, but lately we've all been sleeping well! now i see why! normally one sleeps because he's tired. we had trouble sleeping until our muscles got so weak we tired anyhow!" another drone came in and was unloaded. and another and another. but the last of them wasn't only unloaded. haney took over the platform's control board and--grinning to himself--sent faint, especially-tuned short wave impulses to the steering-rockets of the drone. the liquid-fuel rockets were designed to steer a loaded ship. with the airlock door open, the silvery ship leaped out of the dock like a frightened horse. the liquid-fuel rocket had a nearly empty hull to accelerate. it responded skittishly. joe watched out a port as it went hurtling away. the vast earth rolled beneath it. it sped on and vanished. its fumes ceased to be visible. joe told brent: "another nice job, that! we sent it backward, slowing it a little. it'll have a new orbit, independent of ours and below it. but come sixty hours it will be directly underneath. we'll haul it up and refuel it. and our friends the enemy will hate it. it's a radio repeater. it'll pick up short-wave stuff beamed to it, and repeat it down to earth. and they can try to jam that!" it was a mildly malicious trick to play. behind the iron curtain, broadcasts from the free world couldn't be heard because of stations built to emit pure noise and drown them out. but the jamming stations were on the enemy nations' borders. if radio programs came down from overhead, jamming would be ineffective at least in the center of the nations. populations would hear the truth, even though their governments objected. but that was a minor matter, after all. with space ship hulls coming into being by dozens, and with one convoy of hundreds of tons of equipment gotten aloft, the whole picture of supply for the platform had changed. part of the new picture was two devices that haney and the chief were assembling. they were mostly metal backbone and a series of tanks, with rocket motors mounted on ball and socket joints. they looked like huge red insects, but they were officially rocket recovery vehicles, and joe's crew referred to them as space wagons. they had no cabin, but something like a saddle. before it there was a control-board complete with radar-screens. and there were racks to which solid-fuel rockets of divers sizes could be attached. they were literally short-range tow craft for travel in space. they had the stripped, barren look of farm machinery. so the name "space wagon" fitted. there were two of them. "we're putting the pair together," the chief told joe. "looks kinda peculiar." "it's only for temporary use," said joe. "there's a bigger and better one being built with a regular cabin and hull. but some experience with these two will be useful in running a regular space tug." the chief said with a trace too much of casualness: "i'm kind of looking forward to testing this." "no," said joe doggedly. "i'm responsible. i take the first chance. but we should all be able to handle them. when this is assembled you can stand by with the second one. if the first one works all right, we'll try the second." the chief grimaced, but he went back to the assembly of the spidery device. joe got out the gravity-simulator harnesses. he showed brent how they worked. brown hadn't official instructions to order their use, but joe put one on himself, set for full earth-gravity simulation. he couldn't imitate actual gravity, of course. only the effect of gravity on one's muscles. there were springs and elastic webbing pulling one's shoulders and feet together, so that it was as much effort to stand extended--with one's legs straight out--as to stand upright on earth. joe felt better with a pull on his body. brent was upset when he found that to him more than a tenth of normal gravity was unbearable. but he kept it on at that. if he increased the pull a very little every day, he might be able to return to earth, in time. now it would be a very dangerous business indeed. he went off to put the other members of the crew in the same sort of harness. after ten hours, a second drone broadcaster went off into space. by that time the articulated red frameworks were assembled. they looked more than ever like farm machinery, save that their bulging tanks made them look insectile, too. they were actually something between small tow-boats and crash-wagons. a man in a space suit could climb into the saddle of one of these creations, plug in the air-line of his suit to the crash-wagon's tanks, and travel in space by means of the space wagon's rockets. these weird vehicles had remarkably powerful magnetic grapples. they were equipped with steering rockets as powerful as those of a ship. they had banks of solid-fuel rockets of divers power and length of burning. and they even mounted rocket missiles, small guided rockets which could be used to destroy what could not be recovered. they were intended to handle unmanned rocket shipments of supplies to the platform. there were reasons why the trick should be economical, if it should happen to work at all. when they were ready for testing, they seemed very small in the great space lock. joe and the chief very carefully checked an extremely long list of things that had to work right or nothing would work at all. that part of the job wasn't thrilling, but joe no longer looked for thrills. he painstakingly did the things that produced results. if a sense of adventure seemed to disappear, the sensations of achievement more than made up for it. they got into space suits. they were in an odd position on the platform. lieutenant commander brown had avoided joe as much as possible since his arrival. so far he'd carefully avoided giving him direct orders, because joe was not certainly and officially his subordinate. lacking exact information, the only thing a conscientious rank-conscious naval officer could do was exercise the maximum of tact and insistently ask authority for a ruling on joe's place in the hierarchy of rank. joe flung a leg over his eccentric, red-painted mount. he clipped his safety-belt, plugged in his suit air-supply to the space wagon's tanks, and spoke into his helmet transmitter. "okay to open the lock. chief, you keep watch. if i make out all right, you can join me. if i get in serious trouble, come after me in the ship we rode up. but only if it's practical! not otherwise!" the chief said something in mohawk. he sounded indignant. the plastic walls of the lock swelled inward, burying and overwhelming them. pumps pounded briefly, removing what air was left. then the walls drew back, straining against their netting, and joe waited for the door to open to empty space. instead, there came a sharp voice in his helmet-phones. it was brown. "_radar says there's a rocket on the way up! it's over at what is the edge of the world from here. three gravities only. better not go out!_" joe hesitated. brown still issued no order. but defense against a single rocket would be a matter of guided missiles--brown's business--if the tin can screen didn't handle it. joe would have no part in it. he wouldn't be needed. he couldn't help. and there'd be all the elaborate business of checking to go through again. he said uncomfortably: "it'll be a long time before it gets here--and three gravities is low! maybe it's a defective job. there have been misfires and so on. it won't take long to try this wagon, anyhow. they're anxious to send up a robot ship from the shed and these have to be tested first. give me ten minutes." he heard the chief grumbling to himself. but one tested space wagon was better than none. the airlock doors opened. huge round valves swung wide. bright, remote, swarming stars filled the opening. joe cracked the control of his forward liquid-fuel rockets. the lock filled instantly with swirling fumes. and instantly the tiny space wagon moved. it did not have to lift from the lock floor. once the magnetic clamps were released it was free of the floor. but it did have mass. one brief push of the rockets sent it floating out of the lock. it was in space. it kept on. joe felt a peculiar twinge of panic. nobody who is accustomed only to earth can quite realize at the beginning the conditions of handling vehicles in space. but joe cracked the braking rockets. he stopped. he hung seemingly motionless in space. the platform was a good half-mile away. he tried the gyros, and the space wagon went into swift spinning. he reversed them and straightened out--almost. the vastness of all creation seemed still to revolve slowly about him. the monstrous globe which was earth moved sedately from above his head to under his feet and continued the slow revolution. the platform rotated in a clockwise direction. he was drifting very slowly away. "chief," he said wrily, "you can't do worse than i'm doing, and we're rushed for time. you might come out. but listen! you don't run your rockets! on earth you keep a motor going because when it stops, you do. but out here you have to use your motor to stop, but not to keep on going. get it? when you do come out, don't burn your rockets more than half a second at a time." the chief's voice came booming: "_right, joe! here i come!_" there was a billowing of frantically writhing fumes, which darted madly in every direction until they ceased to be. the chief in his insect-like contraption came bolting out of the hole which was the airlock. he was a good half-mile away. the rocket fumes ceased. he kept on going. joe heard him swear. the chief felt the utterly helpless sensation of a man in a car when his brakes don't work. but a moment later the braking rockets did flare briefly, yet still too long. the chief was not only stopped, but drifting backwards toward the platform. he evidently tried to turn, and he spun as dizzily as joe had done. but after a moment he stopped--almost. there were, then, two red-painted things in space, somewhat like giant water-spiders floating forlornly in emptiness. they seemed very remote from the great bright steel platform and that gigantic ball which was earth, turning very slowly and filling a good fourth of all that could be seen. "suppose you head toward me, chief," said joe absorbedly. "aim to pass, and remember that what you have to estimate is not where i am, but where you have to put on the brakes to stop close by. that's where you use your braking-rockets." the chief tried it. he came to a stop a quarter-mile past joe. "_i'm heavy-handed_," said his voice disgustedly. "i'll try to join you," said joe. he did try. he stopped a little short. the two weird objects drifted almost together. the chief was upside down with regard to joe. presently he was sidewise on. "this takes thinking," said joe ruefully. a voice in his headphones, from the platform, said: "_that rocket from earth is still accelerating. still at three gravities. it looks like it isn't defective. it might be carrying a man. hadn't you better come in?_" the chief growled: "_we won't be any safer there! i want to get the hang of this._" then his voice changed sharply. "_joe! d'you get that?_" joe heard his own voice, very cold. "i didn't. i do now. brown, i'd suggest a guided missile at that rocket coming up. if there's a man in it, he's coming up to take over guided missiles that'll overtake him, and try to smash the platform by direct control, since proximity fuses don't work. i'd smash him as far away as possible." brown's voice came very curt and worried. "_right._" there was an eruption of rocket fumes from the side of the platform. something went foaming away toward earth. it dwindled with incredible rapidity. then joe said: "chief, i think we'd better go down and meet that rocket. we'll learn to handle these wagons on the way. i think we're going to have a fight on our hands. whoever's in that rocket isn't coming up just to shake hands with us." he steadied the small red vehicle and pointed it for earth. he added: "i'm firing a six-two solid-fuel job, chief. counting three. three--two--one." his mount vanished in rocket fumes. but after six seconds at two gravities acceleration the rocket burned out. the chief had fired a matching rocket. they were miles apart, but speeding earthward on very nearly identical courses. the platform grew smaller. that was their only proof of motion. a very, very long time passed. the chief fired his steering rockets to bring him closer to joe. it did not work. he had to aim for joe and fire a blast to move noticeably nearer. presently he would have to blast again to keep from passing. joe made calculations in his head. he worried. he and the chief were speeding earthward--away from the platform--at more than four miles a minute, but it was not enough. the manned rocket was accelerating at a great deal more than that rate. and if the platform's enemies down on earth had sent a manned rocket up to destroy the platform, the man in it would have ways of defending himself. he would expect guided missiles--but he probably wouldn't expect to be attacked by space wagons. joe said suddenly: "chief! i'm going to burn a twelve-two. we've got to match velocities coming back. join me? three--two--one." he fired a twelve-two. twelve seconds burning, two gravities acceleration. it built up his speed away from the platform to a rate which would have been breathless, on earth. but here there was no sensation of motion, and the distances were enormous. things which happen in space happen with insensate violence and incredible swiftness. but long, long, long intervals elapse between events. the twelve-two rocket burned out. the chief had matched that also. brown's voice in the headphones said, "_the rocket's cut acceleration. it's floating up, now. it should reach our orbit fifty miles behind us. but our missile should hit it in forty seconds._" "i wouldn't bet on that," said joe coldly. "figure interception data for the chief and me. make it fast!" he spotted the chief, a dozen miles away and burning his steering rockets to close, again. the chief had the hang of it, now. he didn't try to steer. he drove toward joe. but nothing happened. and nothing happened. and nothing happened. the two tiny space wagons were miles from the platform, which was now merely a glittering speck, hardly brighter than the brightest stars. there was a flare of light to earthward. it was brighter than the sun. the light vanished. brown's voice came in the headphones, "_our missile went off miles short! he sent an interceptor to set it off!_" "then he's dangerous," said joe. "there'll be war rockets coming up any second now for him to control from right at hand. we won't be fighting rockets controlled from , miles away! they've found proximity fuses don't work, so he's going to work in close. give us our course and data, quick! the chief and i have got to try to smash things!" the two tiny space wagons--like stick-insects in form, absurdly painted a brilliant red--seemed inordinately lonely. it was hardly possible to pick out the platform with the naked eyes. the earth was thousands of miles below. joe and the chief, in space suits, rode tiny metal frameworks in an emptiness more vast, more lonely, more terrible than either could have imagined. then the war rockets started up. there were eight of them. they came out to do murder at ten gravities acceleration. but even at ten gravities' drive it takes time to travel , miles. at three, and coasting a great deal of the way, it takes much longer. the platform circled earth in four hours and a little more. anything intending interception and rising straight up needed to start skyward long before the platform was overhead. a three-g rocket would start while the platform was still below the western horizon from its launching-spot. especially if it planned to coast part of its journey--and a three-gravity rocket would have to coast most of the way. so there was time. coasting, the rising manned rocket would be losing speed. if it planned to go no higher than the platform's orbit, its upward velocity would be zero there. if it were intercepted miles down, it would be rising at an almost leisurely rate, and joe and the chief could check their earthward plunge and match its rising rate. this they did. but what they couldn't do was match its orbital velocity, which was zero. they had the platform's eastward speed to start with--over miles a minute. no matter how desperately they fired braking-rockets, they couldn't stop and maneuver around the rising control-ship. inevitably they would simply flash past it in the fraction of an instant. to fire their tiny guided missiles on ahead would be almost to assure that they would miss. also, the enemy ship was manned. it could fight back. but joe had been on the receiving end of one attack in space. it wasn't much experience, but it was more than anybody but he and his own crew possessed. "chief," said joe softly into his helmet-mike, as if by speaking softly he could keep from being overheard, "get close enough to me to see what i do, and do it too. i can't tell you more. whoever's running this rocket might know english." there was a flaring of vapor in space. the chief was using his steering-rockets to draw near. joe spun his little space wagon about, so that it pointed back in the direction from which he had come. he had four guided missiles, demolition type. very deliberately, he fired the four of them astern--away from the rising rocket. they were relatively low-speed missiles, intended to blow up a robot ship that couldn't be hooked onto, because it was traveling too much faster or slower than the platform it was intended to reach. the missiles went away. then joe faced about again in the direction of his prospective target. the chief fumed--joe heard him--but he duplicated joe's maneuver. he faced his own eccentric vessel in the direction of its line of flight. then his fuming suddenly ceased. joe's headphones brought his explosive grunt when he suddenly saw the idea. "_joe! i wish you could talk indian! i could kiss you for this trick!_" brown's voice said anxiously: "_i'm going to let that manned rocket have a couple more shots._" "let us get by first," said joe. "then maybe you can use them on the bombs coming up." he could see the trails of war-rockets on the way out from earth. they were infinitesimal threads of vapor. they were the thinnest possible filaments of gossamer white. but they enlarged as they rose. they were climbing at better than two miles per second, now, and still increasing their speed. but the arena in which this conflict took place was so vast that everything seemed to take place in slow motion. there was time to reason out not only the method of attack from earth, but the excuse for it. if the platform vanished from space, no matter from what cause, its enemies would announce vociferously that it had been destroyed by its own atomic bombs, exploding spontaneously. even in the face of proof of murder, enemy nations would stridently insist that bombs intended for the enslavement of humanity--in the platform--had providentially detonated and removed that instrument of war-mongering scoundrelly imperialists from the skies. there might be somebody, somewhere, who would believe it. joe and the chief were steadied now nearly on a line to intercept the rising manned rocket. they had already fired their missiles, which trailed them. they went into battle, not prepared to shoot, but with their ammunition expended. for which there was excellent reason. something came foaming toward them from the nearby man-carrying rocket. it seemed like a side-spout from the column of vapor rising from earth. actually it was a guided missile. "now we dodge," said joe cheerfully. "remember the trick of this maneuvering business!" it was simple. speeding toward the rising assassin, and with his missiles rushing toward them, the relative speeds of the wagons and the missiles were added together. if the space wagons dodged, the missile operator had less time to swing his guided rockets to match the change of target course. and besides, the attacker hadn't made a single turn in space. not yet. he might know that a rocket doesn't go where it's pointed, as a matter of theory. he might even know intellectually that the final speed and course of a rocket is the sum of all its previous speeds and courses. but he hadn't used the knowledge joe and the chief had. something rushed at them. they went into evasive action. and they didn't merely turn the noses of their space wagons. they flung them about end-for-end, and blasted. they used wholly different accelerations at odd angles. joe shot away from earth on steering rocket thrust, and touched off a four-three while he faced toward earth's north pole, and halfway along that four-second rush he flipped his craft in a somersault and the result was nearly a right-angled turn. when the four-three burned out he set off a twelve-two, and halfway through its burning fired a three-two with it, so that at the beginning he had two gravities acceleration, then four gravities for three seconds, and then two again. with long practice, a man might learn marksmanship in space. but all a man's judgment of speeds is learned on earth, where things always, always, always move steadily. nobody making his first space-flight could possibly hit such targets as joe and the chief made of themselves. the man in the enemy rocket was making his first flight. also, joe and the chief had an initial velocity of miles a minute toward him. the marksman in the rising rocket hadn't a chance. he fired four more missiles and tried desperately to home them in. but---- they flashed past his rising course. and then they were quite safe from his fire, because it would take a very long time indeed for anything he shot after them to catch up. but their missiles had still to pass him--and joe and the chief could steer them without any concern about their own safety or anything else but a hit. they made a hit. two of the eight little missiles flashed luridly, almost together, where the radar-pips showed the rocket to be. then there were two parts to the rocket, separating. one was small and one was fairly large. another demolition-missile hit the larger section. still another exploded as that was going to pieces. the smaller fragment ceased to be important. the explosions weren't atomic bombs, of course. they were only demolition-charges. but they demolished the manned rocket admirably. brown's voice came in the headphones, still tense. "_you got it! how about the others?_" joe felt a remarkable exhilaration. later he might think about the poor devil--there could have been only one--who had been destroyed some , miles above the surface of the earth. he might think unhappily of that man as a victim of hatred rather than as a hater. he might become extremely uncomfortable about this, but at the moment he felt merely that he and the chief had won a startling victory. "i think," he said, "that you can treat them with silent contempt. they won't have proximity fuses. those friends of ours who want so badly to kill us have found that proximity fuses don't work. unless one is on a collision course i don't think you need to do anything about them." the chief was muttering to himself in mohawk, twenty miles away. joe said: "chief, how about getting back to the platform?" the chief growled. "_my great-grandfather would disown me! winning a fight and no scalp to show! not even counting coup! he'd disown me!_" but joe saw his rockets flare, away off against the stars. the war rockets were very near, now. they still emitted monstrous jettings of thick white vapor. they climbed up with incredible speed. one went by joe at a distance of little more than a mile, and its fumes eddied out to half that before they thinned to nothingness. they went on and on and on.... they burned out somewhere. it would be a long time before they fell back to earth. hours, probably. then they would be meteors. they'd vaporize before they touched solidity. they wouldn't even explode. but joe and the chief rode back to the platform. it was surprising how hard it was to match speed with it again, to make a good entrance into the giant lock. they barely made it before the platform made its plunge into that horrible blackness which was the earth's shadow. and joe was very glad they did make it before then. he wouldn't have liked to be merely astride a skinny framework in that ghastly darkness, with the monstrous blackness of the abyss seeming to be trying to devour him. haney met them in the airlock. he grinned. "nice job, joe! nice job, chief!" he said warmly. "uh--the lieutenant commander wants you to report to him, joe. right away." joe cocked an eyebrow at him. "what for?" haney spread out his hands. the chief grunted. "that guy bothers me. i'll bet, joe, he's going to explain you shouldn't've gone out when he didn't want you to. me, i'm keeping away from him!" the chief shed his space suit and swaggered away, as well as anyone could swagger while walking on what happened to be the ceiling, from joe's point of view. joe put his space gear in its proper place. he went to the small cubbyhole that brown had appropriated for the office of the platform commander. joe went in, naturally without saluting. brown sat in a fastened-down chair with thigh grips holding him in place. he was writing. on joe's entry, he carefully put the pen down on a magnetized plate that would hold it until he wanted it again. otherwise it could have floated anywhere about the room. "mr. kenmore," said brown awkwardly, "you did a very nice piece of work. it's too bad you aren't in the navy." joe said: "it did work out pretty fortunately. it's lucky the chief and i were out practicing, but now we can take off when a rocket's reported, any time." brown cleared his throat. "i can thank you personally," he said unhappily, "and i do. but--really this situation is intolerable! how can i report this affair? i can't suggest commendation, or a promotion, or--anything! i don't even know how to refer to you! i am going to ask you, mr. kenmore, to put through a request that your status be clarified. i would imagine that your status would mean a rank--hm--about equivalent to a lieutenant junior grade in the navy." joe grinned. "i have--ah--prepared a draft you might find helpful," said brown earnestly. "it's necessary for something to be done. it's urgent! it's important!" "sorry," said joe. "the important thing to me is getting ready to load up the platform with supplies from earth. excuse me." he went out of the office. he made his way to the quarters assigned himself and his crew. mike greeted him with reproachful eyes. joe waved his hand. "don't say it, mike! the answer is yes. see that the tanks are refilled, and new rockets put in place. then you and haney go out and practice. but no farther than ten miles from the platform. understand?" "no!" said mike rebelliously. "it's a dirty trick!" "which," joe assured him, "i commit only because there's a robot ship from bootstrap coming up any time now. and we'll need to pick it up and tow it here." he went to the control-room to see if he could get a vision connection to earth. he got the beam, and he got sally on the screen. a report of the attack on the platform had evidently already gone down to earth. sally's expression was somehow drawn and haunted. but she tried to talk lightly. "derring-do and stuff, joe?" she asked. "how does it feel to be a victorious warrior?" "it feels rotten," he told her. "there must have been somebody in the rocket we blew up. he felt like a patriot, i guess, trying to murder us; but i feel like a butcher." "maybe you didn't do it," she said. "maybe the chief's bombs----" "maybe," said joe. he hesitated. "hold up your hand." she held it up. his ring was still on it. she nodded. "still there. when will you be back?" he shook his head. he didn't know. it was curious that one wanted so badly to talk to a girl after doing something that was blood-stirring--and left one rather sickish afterward. this business of space travel and even space battle was what he'd dreamed of, and he still wanted it. but it was very comforting to talk to sally, who hadn't had to go through any of it. "write me a letter, will you?" he asked. "we can't tie up this beam very long." "i'll write you all the news that's allowed to go out," she assured him. "be seeing you, joe." her image faded from the screen. and, thinking it over, he couldn't see that either of them had said anything of any importance at all. but he was very glad they'd talked together. the first robot ship came up some eight hours later--two revolutions after the television call. mike was ready hours in advance, fidgeting. the robot ship started up while the platform was over the middle of the pacific. it didn't try to make a spiral approach as all other ships had done. it came straight up, and it started from the ground. no pushpots. its take-off rockets were monsters. they pushed upward at ten gravities until it was out of atmosphere, and then they stepped up to fifteen. much later, the robot turned on its side and fired orbital speed rockets to match velocity with the platform. there were two reasons for the vertical rise, and the high acceleration. if a robot ship went straight up, it wouldn't pass over enemy territory until it was high enough to be protected by the platform. and--it costs fuel to carry fuel to be burned. so if the rocketship could get up speed for coasting to orbit in the first couple of hundred miles, it needn't haul its fuel so far. it was economical to burn one's fuel fast and get an acceleration that would kill a human crew. hence robots. the landing of the first robot ship at the platform was almost as matter-of-fact as if it had been done a thousand times before. from the platform its dramatic take-off couldn't be seen, of course. it first appeared aloft as a pip on a radar screen. then mike prepared to go out and hook on to it and tow it in. he was in his space suit and in the landing lock, though his helmet faceplate was still open. a loudspeaker boomed suddenly in brown's voice: "_evacuate airlock and prepare to take off!_" joe roared: "hold that!" brown's voice, very official, came: "_withhold execution of that order. you should not be in the airlock, mr. kenmore. you will please make way for operational procedure._" "we're checking the space wagon," snapped joe. "that's operational procedure!" the loudspeaker said severely: "_the checking should have been done earlier!_" there was silence. mike and joe, together, painstakingly checked over the very many items that had to be made sure. every rocket had to have its firing circuit inspected. the tanks' contents and pressure verified. the air connection to mike's space suit. the air pressure. the device that made sure that air going to mike's space suit was neither as hot as metal in burning sunlight, nor cold as the chill of a shadow in space. everything checked. mike straddled his red-painted mount. joe left the lock and said curtly: "okay to pump the airlock. okay to open airlock doors when ready. go ahead." mike went out, and joe watched from a port in the platform's hull. the drone from earth was five miles behind the platform in its orbit, and twenty miles below, and all of ten miles off-course. joe saw mike scoot the red space wagon to it, stop short with a sort of cocky self-assurance, hook on to the tow-ring in the floating space-barge's nose, and blast off back toward the platform with it in tow. mike had to turn about and blast again to check his motion when he arrived. and then he and haney--haney in the other space wagon--nudged at it and tugged at it and got it in the great spacelock. they went in after it and the lock doors closed. neither mike nor haney were out of their space suits when kent brought joe a note. a note was an absurdity in the platform. but this was a formal communication from brown. "_from: lt. comdr. brown to: mr. kenmore subject: cooperation and courtesy in rocket recovery vehicle launchings. . there is a regrettable lack of coordination and courtesy in the launching of rocket-recovery vehicles (space wagons) in the normal operation of the platform. . the maintenance of discipline and efficiency requires that the commanding officer maintain overall control of all operations at all times. . hereafter when a space vehicle of any type is to be launched, the commanding officer will be notified in writing not less than one hour before such launching. . the time of such proposed launching will be given in such notification in hours and minutes and seconds, greenwich mean time. . all commands for launching will be given by the commanding officer or an officer designated by him._" joe received the memo as he was in the act of writing a painstaking report on the maneuver mike had carried out. mike was radiant as he discussed possible improvements with later and better equipment. after all, this had been a lucky landing. for a robot to end up no more than miles from its target, after a journey of , miles, and with a difference in velocity that was almost immeasurable--such good fortune couldn't be expected as a regular thing. the space wagons were tiny. if they had to travel long distances to recover erratic ships coming up from earth---- joe forgot all about lieutenant commander brown and his memo when the mail was distributed. joe had three letters from sally. he read them in the great living compartment of the platform with its sixty-foot length and its carpet on floor and ceiling, and the galleries without stairs outside the sleeping cabins. he sat in a chair with thigh grips to hold him in place, and he wore a gravity simulation harness. it was necessary. the regular crew of the platform, by this time, couldn't have handled space wagons in action against enemy manned rockets. joe meant to stay able to take acceleration. it was just as he finished his mail that brent came in. "big news!" said brent. "they're building a big new ship of new design--almost half as big as the platform. with concreted metal they can do it in weeks." "what's it for?" demanded joe. "it'll be a human base on the moon," said brent relievedly. "an expedition will start in six weeks, according to plan. as long as we're the only american base in space, we're going to be shot at. but a base on the moon will be invulnerable. so they're going ahead with it." joe said hopefully: "any orders for me to join it?" brent shook his head. "we're to be loaded up with supplies for the moon expedition. we're to be ready to take a robot ship every round. actually, they can't hope to send us more than two a day for a while, but even that'll be eighty tons of supplies to be stored away." the chief grumbled, but somehow his grumbling did not sound genuine. "they're going to the moon--and leave us here to do stevedore stuff?" his tone was odd. he looked at a letter he'd been reading and gave up pretense. he said self-consciously: "listen, you guys.... my tribe's got all excited. i just got a letter from the council. they've been having an argument about me. wanna hear?" he was a little amused, and a little embarrassed, but something had happened to make him feel good. "let's have it," said joe. mike was very still in another chair. he didn't look up, though he must have heard. haney cocked an interested ear. the chief said awkwardly, "you know--us mohawks are kinda proud. we got something to be proud of. we were one of the five nations, when that was a sort of united nations and all europe was dog-eat-dog. my tribe had a big pow-wow about me. there's a tribe member that's a professor of anthropology out in chicago. he was there. and a couple of guys that do electronic research, and doctors and farmers and all sorts of guys. all mohawks. they got together in tribal council." he stopped and flushed under his dark skin. "i wouldn't tell you, only you guys are in on it." still he hesitated. joe found a curious picture forming in his mind. he'd known the chief a long time, and he knew that part of the tribe lived in brooklyn, and individual members were widely scattered. but still there was a certain remote village which to all the tribesmen was home. everybody went back there from time to time, to rest from the strangeness of being indians in a world of pale-skinned folk. joe could almost imagine the council. there'd be old, old men who could nearly remember the days of the tribe's former glory, who'd heard stories of forest warfare and zestful hunts, and scalpings and heroic deeds from their grandfathers. but there were also doctors and lawyers and technical men in that council which met to talk about the chief. "it's addressed to me," said the chief with sudden clumsiness, "in the world-by-itself canoe. that's the platform here. and it says--i'll have to translate, because it's in mohawk." he took a deep breath. "it says, 'we your tribesmen have heard of your journeyings off the earth where men have never traveled before. this has given us great pride, that one of our tribe and kin had ventured so valiantly.'" the chief grinned abashedly. he went on. "'in full assembly, the elders of the tribe have held counsel on a way to express their pride in you, and in the friends you have made who accompanied you. it was proposed that you be given a new name to be borne by your sons after you. it was proposed that the tribe accept from each of its members a gift to be given you in the name of the tribe. but these were not considered great enough. therefore the tribe, in full council, has decreed that your name shall be named at every tribal council of the mohawks from this day to the end of time, as one the young braves would do well to copy in all ways. and the names of your friends joe kenmore, mike scandia, and thomas haney shall also be named as friends whose like all young braves should strive to seek out and to be.'" the chief sweated a little, but he looked enormously proud. joe went over to him and shook hands warmly. the chief almost broke his fingers. it was, of course, as high an honor as could be paid to anybody by the people who paid it. haney said awkwardly, "lucky they don't know me like you do, chief. but it's swell!" which it was. but mike hadn't said a word. the chief said exuberantly: "did you hear that, mike? every mohawk for ten thousand years is gonna be told that you were a swell guy! crazy, huh?" mike said in an odd voice: "yeah. i didn't mean that, chief. it's fine! but i--i got a letter. i--never thought to get a letter like this." he looked unbelievingly at the paper in his hands. "mash note?" asked the chief. his tone was a little bit harsh. mike was a midget. and there were women who were fools. it would be unbearable if some half-witted female had written mike the sort of gushing letter that some half-witted females might write. mike shook his head, with an odd, quick smile. "not what you think, chief. but it is from a girl. she sent me her picture. it's a--swell letter. i'm--going to answer it. you can look at her picture. she looks kind of--nice." he handed the chief a snapshot. the chief's face changed. haney looked over his shoulder. he passed the picture to joe and said ferociously: "you mike! you doggoned don juan! the chief and me have got to warn her what kinda guy you are! stealing from blind men! fighting cops----" joe looked at the picture. it was a very sweet small face, and the eyes that looked out of the photograph were very honest and yearning. and joe understood. he grinned at mike. because this girl had the distinctive look that mike had. she was a midget, too. "she's--thirty-nine inches tall," said mike, almost stunned. "she's just two inches shorter than me. and--she says she doesn't mind being a midget so much since she heard about me. i'm going to write her." but it would be, of course, a long time before there was a way for mail to get down to earth. it was a long time. now it was possible to send up robot rockets to the platform. they came up. when the second arrived, haney went out to pull it in. joe forgot to notify brown, in writing, an hour before launching a rocket recovery vehicle (space wagon) according to paragraph of the formal memo, nor the time of launching in hours, minutes, etc., by greenwich mean time (paragraph ), nor was the testing of all equipment made before moving it into the airlock. this was because the testing equipment was in the airlock, where it belonged. and the commands for launching were not given by brown or an officer designated by him, because joe forgot all about it. brown made a stormy scene about the matter, and joe was honestly apologetic, but the chief and haney and mike glared venomously. the result was completely inconclusive. joe had not been put under brown's command. he and his crew were the only people on the platform physically in shape to operate the space wagons, considering the acceleration involved. brent and the others were wearing gravity simulators, and were building back to strength. but they weren't up to par as yet. they'd been in space too long. so there was nothing brown could do. he retreated into icily correct, outraged dignity. and the others hauled in and unloaded rockets as they arrived. they came up fast. the processes of making them had been improved. they could be made faster, heated to sintering temperature faster, and the hulls cooled to usefulness in a quarter of the former time. the production of space ship hulls went up to four a day, while the molds for the moonship were being worked even faster. the moonship, actually, was assembled from precast individual cells which then were welded together. it would have features the platform lacked, because it was designed to be a base for exploration and military activities in addition to research. but only twenty days after the recovery and docking of the first robot ship to rise, a new sort of ship entirely came blindly up as a robot. the little space wagons hauled it to the airlock and inside. they unloaded it--and it was no longer a robot. it was a modified hull designed for the duties of a tug in space. it could carry a crew of four, and its cargohold was accessible from the cabin. it had an airlock. more, it carried a cargo of solid-fuel rockets which could be shifted to firing racks outside its hull. starting from the platform, where it had no effective weight, it was capable of direct descent to the earth without spiralling or atmospheric braking. to make that descent it would, obviously, expend four-fifths of its loaded weight in rockets. and since it had no weight at the platform, but only mass, it was capable of far-ranging journeying. it could literally take off from the platform and reach the moon and land on it, and then return to the platform. but that had to wait. "sure we could do it," agreed joe, when mike wistfully pointed out the possibility. "it would be good to try it. but unfortunately, space exploration isn't a stunt. we've gotten this far because--somebody wanted to do something. but----" then he said, "it could be done and the united nations wouldn't do it. so the united states had to, or--somebody else would have. you can figure who that would be, and what use they'd make of space travel! so it's important. it's more important than stunt flights we could make!" "nobody could stop us if we wanted to take off!" mike said rebelliously. "true," joe said. "but we four can stand three gravities acceleration and handle any more manned rockets that start out here. we've lived through plenty more than that! but brent and the others couldn't put up a fight in space. they're wearing harness now, and they're coming back to strength. but we're going to stay right here and do stevedoring--and fighting too, if it comes to that--until the job is done." and that was the way it was, too. of stevedoring there was plenty. two robot ships a day for weeks on end. three ships a day for a time. four. sometimes things went smoothly, and the little space wagons could go out and bring back the great, rocket-scarred hulls from earth. but once in three times the robots were going too fast or too slow. the space wagons couldn't handle them. then the new ship, the space tug, went out and hooked onto the robot with a chain and used the power it had to bring them to their destination. and sometimes the robots didn't climb straight. at least once the space tug captured an erratic robot miles from its destination and hauled it in. it used some heavy solid-fuel rockets on that trip. the platform had become, in fact, a port in space, though so far it had had only arrivals and no departures. its storage compartments almost bulged with fuel stores and food stores and equipment of every imaginable variety. it had a stock of rockets which were enough to land it safely on earth, though there was surely no intention of doing so. it had food and air for centuries. it had repair parts for all its own equipment. and it had weapons. it contained, in robot hulls anchored to its sides, enough fissionable material to conduct a deadly war--which was only stored for transfer to the moon base when that should be established. and it had communication with earth of high quality. so far the actual mail was only a one-way service, but even entertainment came up, and news. once there was a television shot of the interior of the shed. it was carefully scrambled before transmission, but it was a heartening sight. the shed on the tv screen appeared a place of swarming activity. robot hulls were being made. they were even improved, fined down to ten tons of empty weight apiece, and their controls were assembly line products now. and there was the space flight simulator with men practicing in it, although for the time being only robots were taking off from earth. and there was the moonship. it didn't look like the platform, but rather like something a child might have put together out of building blocks. it was built up out of welded-together cells with strengthening members added. it was feet high from the floor and twice as long, and it did not weigh nearly what it seemed to. already it was being clad in that thick layer of heat insulation it would need to endure the two-week-long lunar night. it could take off very soon now. the pictured preparations back on earth meant round-the-clock drudgery for joe and the others. they wore themselves out. but the storage space on the platform filled up. days and weeks went by. then there came a time when literally nothing else could be stored, so joe and his crew made ready to go back to earth. they ate hugely and packed a very small cargo in their ship. they picked up one bag of mail and four bags of scientific records and photographs which had only been transmitted by facsimile tv before. they got into the space tug. it floated free. "_you will fire in ten seconds_," said a crisp voice in joe's headphones. "_ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... fire!_" joe crooked his index finger. there was an explosive jolt. rockets flamed terribly in emptiness. the space tug rushed toward the west. the platform seemed to dwindle with startling suddenness. it seemed to rush away and become lost in the myriads of stars. the space tug accelerated at four gravities in the direction opposed to its orbital motion. as the acceleration built up, it dropped toward earth and home like a tumbled stone. there was bright sunshine at the shed, not a single cloud in all the sky. the radar bowls atop the roof--they seemed almost invisibly small compared with its vastness--wavered and shifted and quivered. completely invisible beams of microwaves lanced upward. atop the shed, in the communication room, there was the busy quiet of absolute intentness. signals came down and were translated into visible records which fed instantly into computers. then the computers clicked and hummed and performed incomprehensible integrations, and out of their slot-mouths poured billowing ribbons of printed tape. men read those tapes and talked crisply into microphones, and their words went swiftly aloft again. down by the open eastern door of the shed at the desert's edge, sally holt and joe's father waited together, watching the sky. sally was white and scared. joe's father patted her shoulder reassuringly. "he'll make it, all right," said sally, dry-throated. joe's father nodded. "of course he will!" but his voice was not steady. "nothing could happen to him now!" said sally fiercely. "of course not," said joe's father. a loudspeaker close to them said abruptly: "_nineteen miles._" there was a tiny, straggling thread of white visible in the now. it thinned out to nothingness, but its nearest part flared out and flared out and flared out. it grew larger, came closer with a terrifying speed. "_twelve miles_," said the speaker harshly. "_rockets firing._" the downward-hurtling trail of smoke was like a crippled plane falling flaming from the sky, except that no plane ever fell so fast. at seven miles the white-hot glare of the rocket flames was visible even in broad daylight. at three miles the light was unbearably bright. at two, the light winked out. sally saw something which glittered come plummeting toward the ground, unsupported. it fell almost half a mile before rocket fumes flung furiously out again. then it checked. visibly, its descent was slowed. it dropped more slowly, and more slowly, and more slowly still.... it hung in mid-air a quarter-mile up. then there was a fresh burst of rocket fumes, more monstrous than ever, and it went steadily downward, touched the ground, and stayed there spurting terrible incandescent flames for seconds. then the bottom flame went out. an instant later there were no more flames at all. sally began to run toward the ship. she stopped. a procession of rumbling, clanking, earth-moving machinery moved out of the shed and toward the upright space tug. prosaically, a bulldozer lowered its wide blade some fifty yards from the ship. it pushed a huge mass of earth before it, covering over the scorched and impossibly hot sand about the rocket's landing place. other bulldozers began to circle methodically around and around, overturning the earth and burying the hot surface stuff. water trucks sprayed, and thin steam arose. but also an exit-port opened and joe stood in the opening. then sally began to run again. * * * * * joe sat at dinner in the major's quarters. major holt was there, and joe's father, and sally. "it feels good," said joe warmly, "to use a knife and fork again, and to pick food up from a plate where it stays until it's picked up!" "the crew of the platform----" major holt began. "they're all right," said joe, with his mouth full. "they're wearing gravity simulator harness. brent's got his up to three-quarters gravity. they get tired, wearing the harness. they sleep better. everything's fine! they can handle the space wagons we left and they've got guided missiles to spare! they're all right!" joe's father said unsteadily, "you'll stay on earth a while now, son?" sally moved quickly. she looked up, tense. but joe said, "they're going to get the moonship up, sir. we came back--my gang and me--to help train the crew. we only have a week to do it in, but we've got some combat tactics to show them on the training gadget in the shed." he added anxiously, "and, sir--they'll have to take the moonship off in a spiral orbit. she can't go straight up! that means she's got to pass over enemy territory, and--we've got to have a real escort for her. a fighting escort. it's planned for the space tug to take off a few minutes after the moonship and blast along underneath. we'll dump guided missiles out--like drones--and if anything comes along we can start their rockets and fight our way through. and we four have had more experience than anybody else. we're needed!" "you've done enough, surely!" sally cried. "the united states," said joe awkwardly, "is going to take over the moon. i--can't miss having a hand in that! not if it's at all possible!" "i'm afraid you will miss it, joe," major holt said detachedly. "the occupation of the moon will be a navy enterprise. space exploration project facilities are being used to prepare for it, but the navy won the latest battle of the pentagon. the navy takes over the moon." joe looked startled. "but----" "you're space exploration personnel," said the major with the same coolness. "you will be used to instruct naval personnel, and your space tug will be asked to go along to the platform as an auxiliary vessel. for purposes of assisting in the landing of the moonship at the platform, you understand. you'll haul her away from the platform when she's refueled and supplied, so she can start off for the moon. but the occupation of the moon will be strictly navy." joe's expression became carefully unreadable. "i think," he said evenly, "i'd better not comment." major holt nodded. "very wise--not that we'd repeat anything you did say. but the point is, joe, that just one day before the moonship does take off, the united nations will be informed that it is a united states naval vessel. the doctrine of the freedom of space--like the freedom of the seas--will be promulgated. and the united states will say that a united states naval task force is starting off into space on an official mission. to attack a space exploration ship is one thing. that's like a scientific expedition. but to fire on an american warship on official business is a declaration of war. especially since that ship can shoot back--and will." joe listened. he said, "it's daring somebody to try another pearl harbor?" "exactly," said the major. "it's time for us to be firm--now that we can back it up. i don't think the moonship will be fired on." "but they'll need me and my gang just the same," said joe slowly, "for tugboat work at the platform?" "exactly," said the major. "then," joe said doggedly, "they get us. my gang will gripe about being edged out of the trip. they won't like it. but they'd like backing out still less. we'll play it the way it's dealt--but we won't pretend to like it." major holt's expression did not change at all, but joe had an odd feeling that the major approved of him. "yes. that's right, joe," his father added. "you--you'll have to go aloft once more, son. after that, we'll talk it over." sally hadn't said a word during the discussion, but she'd watched joe every second. later, out on the porch of the major's quarters, she had a great deal to say. but that couldn't affect the facts. the world at large, of course, received no inkling of the events in preparation. the shed and the town of bootstrap and all the desert for a hundred-mile circle round about, were absolutely barred to all visitors. anybody who came into that circle stayed in. most people were kept out. all that anyone outside could discover was that enormous quantities of cryptic material had poured and still were pouring into the shed. but this time security was genuinely tight. educated guesses could be made, and they were made; but nobody outside the closed-in area save a very few top-ranking officials had any real knowledge. the world only knew that something drastic and remarkable was in prospect. mike, though, was able to write a letter to the girl who'd written him. major holt arranged it. mike wrote his letter on paper supplied by security, with ink supplied by security, and while watched by security officers. his letter was censored by major holt himself, and it did not reveal that mike was back on earth. but it did invite a reply--and mike sweated as he waited for one. the others had plenty to sweat about. joe and haney and the chief were acting as instructors to the moonship's crew. they taught practical space navigation. at first they thought they hadn't much to pass on, but they found out otherwise. they had to pass on data on everything from how to walk to how to drink coffee, how to eat, sleep, why one should wear gravity harness, and the manners and customs of ships in space. they had to show why in space fighting a ship might send missiles on before it, but would really expect to do damage with those it left behind. they had to warn of the dangers of unshielded sunshine, and the equal danger of standing in shadow for more than five minutes, and---- they had material for six months of instruction courses, but there was barely a week to pass it on. joe was run ragged, but in spite of everything he managed to talk at some length with sally. he found himself curiously anxious to discuss any number of things with his father, too, who suddenly appeared to be much more intelligent than joe had ever noticed before. he was almost unhappy when it was certain that the moonship would take off for space on the following day. he talked about it with sally the night before take-off. "look," he said awkwardly. "as far as i'm concerned this has turned out a pretty sickly business. but when we have got a base on the moon, it'll be a good job done. there will be one thing that nobody can stop! everybody's been living in terror of war. if we hold the moon the cold war will be ended. you can't kick on my wanting to help end that!" sally smiled at him in the moonlight. "and--meanwhile," said joe clumsily, "well--when i come back we can do some serious talking about--well--careers and such things. until then--no use. right?" sally's smile wavered. "very sensible," she agreed wrily. "and awfully silly, joe. i know what kind of a career i want! what other fascinating topic do you know to talk about, joe?" "i don't know of any. oh, yes! mike got a letter from his girl. i don't know what she said, but he's walking on air." "but it isn't funny!" said sally indignantly. "mike's a person! a fine person! if he'll let me, i'll write to his girl myself and--try to make friends with her so when you come back i--maybe i can be a sort of match-maker." "that, i like!" joe said warmly. "you're swell sometimes, sally!" sally looked at him enigmatically in the moonlight. "there are times when it seems to escape your attention," she observed. * * * * * the next morning she cried a little when he left her, to climb in the space tug which was so small a part of today's activity. joe and his crew were the only living men who had ever made a round trip to the platform and back. but now there was the moonship to go farther than they'd been allowed. it was even clumsier in design than the platform, though it was smaller. but it wasn't designed to stay in space. it was to rest on the powdery floor of a ring-mountain's central plain. let it get off into space, and somehow get to the platform to reload. then let it replace the rockets it would burn in this take-off and it could go on out to emptiness. it would make history as the first serious attempt by human beings to reach the moon. joe and his followers would go along simply to handle guided missiles if it came to a fight, and to tow the moonship to its wharf--the platform--and out into midstream again when it resumed its journey. and that was all. the moonship lifted from the floor of the shed to the sound of hundreds of pushpot engines. then the space tug roared skyward. her take-off rockets here substituted for the pushpots. her second-stage rockets were also of the nonpoisonous variety, because she fired them at a bare , feet. they were substitutes for the jatos the pushpots carried. she was out in space when the third-stage rockets roared dully outside her hull. when the moonship crossed the west coast of africa, the space tug was miles below and miles behind. when the moonship crossed arabia, the difference was miles vertically and less than in line. then the moonship released small objects, steadied by gyroscopes and flung away by puffs of compressed air. the small objects spread out. haney and mike and the chief had reloaded the firing racks from inside the ship, and now were intent upon control boards and radar. they pressed buttons. one by one, little puffs of smoke appeared in space. they had armed the little space missiles, setting off tiny flares which had no function except to prove that each missile was ready for use. by the time the two space craft floated toward india, above an area from which war rockets had been known to rise, there were more little weapons floating with them. one screen of missiles hurtled on before the space tug, and another behind. anything that came up from earth would instantly be attacked by dozens of midget ships bent upon suicide. radar probed the space formation, but enemies of the fleet and the platform very wisely did no more than probe. the moonship and its attendants went across the pacific, still rising. above the longitude of washington, the space tug left its former post and climbed, nudging the moonship this way and that. and from behind, the platform came floating splendidly. tiny figures in space suits extended the incredibly straight lines which were plastic hoses filled with air. very, very gently indeed, the great, bulbous platform and the squat, flat moonship came together and touched. they moored in contact. and then the inert small missiles that had floated below, all the way up, flared simultaneously. their rockets emitted smoke. in fine alignment, they plunged forward through emptiness, swerved with a remarkable precision, and headed out for emptiness beyond the platform's orbit. their function had been to protect the moonship on its way out. that function was performed. there were too many of them to recover, so they went out toward the stars. when their rockets burned out they vanished. but a good hour later, when it was considered that they were as far out as they were likely to go, they began to blow up. specks of flame, like the tiniest of new stars, flickered against the background of space. but joe and the others were in the platform by then. they'd brought up mail for the crew. and they were back on duty. the platform seemed strange with the moonship's crew aboard. it had been a gigantic artificial world with very few inhabitants. with twenty-five naval ratings about, plus the four of its regular crew, plus the space tug's complement, it seemed excessively crowded. and it was busy. there were twenty-five new men to be guided as they applied what they'd been taught aground about life in space. it was three full earthdays before the stores intended for the journey to the moon and the maintenance of a base there really began to move. the tug and the space wagons had to be moored outside and reached only by space suits through small personnel airlocks. and there was the matter of discipline. lieutenant commander brown had been put in command of the platform for experience in space. he was considered to be prepared for command of the moonship by that experience. so now he turned over command of the platform to brent--he made a neat ceremony of it--and took over the ship that would go out to the moon. he made another ceremony out of that. in command of the moonship, his manner to joe was absolutely correct. he followed regulations to the letter--to a degree that left joe blankly uncomprehending. but he wouldn't have gotten along in the navy if he hadn't. he'd tried to do the same thing in the platform, and it wasn't practical. but he ignored all differences between joe and himself. he made no overtures of friendship, but that was natural. unintentionally, joe had defied him. he now deliberately overlooked all that, and joe approved of him--within limits. but mike and haney and the chief did not. they laid for him. and they considered that they got him. when he took over the moonship, lieutenant commander brown naturally maintained naval discipline and required snappy, official naval salutes on all suitable occasions, even in the platform. and joe's gang privately tipped off the noncommissioned personnel of the moonship. thereafter, no enlisted man ever saluted lieutenant brown without first gently detaching his magnet-soled shoes from the floor. when a man was free, a really snappy salute gave a diverting result. the man's body tilted forward to meet his rising arm, the upward impetus was one-sided, and every man who saluted brown immediately made a spectacular kowtow which left him rigidly at salute floating somewhere overhead with his back to lieutenant brown. with a little practice, it was possible to add a somersault to the other features. on one historic occasion, brown walked clanking into a storeroom where a dozen men were preparing supplies for transfer to the moonship. a voice cried, "shun!" and instantly twelve men went floating splendidly about the storeroom, turning leisurely somersaults, all rigidly at salute, and all wearing regulation poker faces. an order abolishing salutes in weightlessness followed shortly after. it took four days to get the transfer of supplies properly started. it took eight to finish the job. affixing fresh rockets to the outside of the moonship's hull alone called for long hours in space suits. during this time mike floated nearby in a space wagon. one of the navy men was a trifle overcourageous. he affected to despise safety lines. completing the hook-on of a landing rocket, he straightened up too abruptly and went floating off toward the milky way. mike brought him back. after that there was less trouble. even so, the moonship and the platform were linked together for thirteen full days, during which the platform seemed extraordinarily crowded. on the fourteenth day the two ships sealed off and separated. joe and his crew in the space tug hauled the moonship a good five miles from the platform. the space tug returned to the platform. a blinker signal came across the five-mile interval. it was a very crisp, formal, navy-like message. then the newly-affixed rockets on the moonship's hull spurted their fumes. the big ship began to move. not outward from earth, of course. that was where it was going. but it had the platform's , miles per hour of orbital speed. if the bonds of gravitation could have been snapped at just the proper instant, that speed alone would have carried the moonship all the way to its destination. but they couldn't. so the moonship blasted to increase its orbital speed. it would swing out and out, and as the earth's pull grew weaker with distance the same weight of rockets would move the same mass farther and farther toward the moon. the moonship's course would be a sort of slowly flattening curve, receding from earth and becoming almost a straight line where earth's and the moon's gravitational fields cancelled each other. from there, the moonship would have only to brake its fall against a gravity one-sixth that of earth, and reaching out a vastly shorter distance. joe and the others watched the roiling masses of rocket fumes as the ship seemed to grow infinitely small. "we should've been in that ship," said haney heavily when the naked eye could no longer pick it out. "we could've beat her to the moon!" joe said nothing. he ached a little inside. but he reflected that the men who'd guided the platform to its orbit had been overshadowed by himself and haney and the chief and mike. a later achievement always makes an earlier one look small. now the four of them would be forgotten. history would remember the commander of the moonship. forgotten? yes, perhaps. but the names of the four of them, joe and haney and the chief and mike, would still be remembered in a language joe couldn't speak, in a small village he couldn't name, on those occasions when the mohawk tribe met in formal council. the chief grumbled. mike stared out the port with bitter envy. "it was a dirty trick," growled the chief. "we shoulda been part of the first gang ever to land on the moon!" joe grimaced. his crew needed to be cured of feeling the same way he did. "i wouldn't say this outside of our gang," said joe carefully, "but if it hadn't been for us four that ship wouldn't be on the way at all. haney figured the trick that got us back to earth the first time, or else we'd have been killed. if we had been killed, mike wouldn't have figured out the metal-concrete business. but for him, that moonship wouldn't even be a gleam in anybody's eye. and if the chief hadn't blown up that manned rocket we fought in the space wagons, there wouldn't be any platform up here to reload and refuel the moonship. so they left us behind! but just among the four of us i think we can figure that if it hadn't been for us they couldn't have made it!" haney grinned slowly at joe. the chief regarded him with irony. mike said, "yeah. haney, and me, and the chief. we did it all." "uh-huh," said the chief sardonically. "us three. just us three. joe didn't do anything. just a bum, he is. we oughta tell sally he's no good and she oughta pick herself out a guy that'll amount to something some day." he hit joe between the shoulders. "sure! just a bum, joe! that's all! but we got a weakness for you. we'll let you hang around with us just the same! come on, guys! let's get something to eat!" the four of them marched down a steel-floored corridor, their magnetic-soled shoes clanking on the plates. their progress was uncertain and ungainly and altogether undignified. suddenly the chief began to bawl a completely irrelevant song to the effect that the inhabitants of the kingdom of siam were never known to wash their dishes. haney chimed in, and mike. they were all very close together, and they were not at all impressive. but it hit joe very hard, this sudden knowledge that the others didn't really care. it was the first time it had occurred to him that haney and mike and the chief would rather be left behind with him, as a gang, than go on to individual high achievement in a first landing on the moon. it felt good. it felt _real_ good. * * * * * but that, and all other sources of satisfaction, was wiped out by news that came back from the moonship a bare six hours later. the moonship was in trouble. the sequence and timing of its rocket blasts were worked out on earth, and checked by visual and radar observation. the computations were done by electronic brains the moonship could not possibly have carried. and everything worked out. the ship was on course and its firings were on schedule. but then the unexpected happened. it was an error which no machine could ever have predicted, for which statistics and computations could never have compensated. it was a _human_ error. at the signal for the final acceleration blast, the pilot of the moonship had fired the wrong set of rockets. inexperience, stupidity, negligence, excitement--the reason didn't matter. after years of planning and working and dreaming, one human finger had made a mistake. and the mistake was fatal! when the mistake was realized, they'd had sense enough to cut loose the still-firing rockets. but the damage had been done. the ship was still plunging on. it would reach the moon. but it wouldn't land in aristarchus crater as planned. it would crash. if every rocket remaining mounted on the hull were to be fired at the best possible instant, the moonship would hit near copernicus, and it would land with a terminal velocity of feet per second-- miles an hour. it could even be calculated that when the moonship landed, the explosion ought to be visible from earth with a fairly good telescope. it was due to take place in thirty-two hours plus or minus a few minutes. the others got the space tug into the platform's lock and did things to it, in the way of loading, that its designers never intended, while joe was calling earth for calculations. the result was infuriating. the moonship had taken off for the moon on the other side of the platform's orbit, when it had a velocity of more than , miles an hour in the direction it wished to go. the platform and of course the space tug was now on the reverse side of the platform's orbit. and of course they now had a velocity of more than , miles per hour away from the direction in which it was urgently necessary for the space tug to go. they could wait for two hours to take off, said earth, or waste the time and fuel they'd need to throw away to duplicate the effect of waiting. "but we can't wait!" raged joe. then he snapped. "look here! suppose we take off from here, dive at earth, make a near-graze, and let its gravity curve our course! like a cometary path! figure that! that's what we've got to do!" he kicked off his magnetic-soled shoes and went diving down to the airlock. over his shoulder he panted an order for the radar-duty man to relay anything from earth down to him there. he arrived to find haney and mike in hot argument over whether it was possible to load on an extra ton or two of mass. he stopped it. they would. "everything's loaded?" he demanded. "okay! space suits! all set? let's get out of this lock and start blasting!" he drove them into the space tug. he climbed in himself. he closed the entrance port. the plastic walls of the lock bulged out, pulled back fast, and the steering rockets jetted. the space tug came out of the lock. it spun about. it aimed for earth and monstrous bursts of rocket-trail spread out behind it. it dived. naturally! when a ship from the platform wanted to reach earth for atmosphere-deceleration, it was more economical to head away from it. now that it was the most urgent of all possible necessities to get away from earth, in the opposite direction to the space tug's present motion, it was logical to dive toward it. the ship would plunge toward earth, and earth's gravity would help its rockets in the attainment of frenzied speed. but the tug still possessed its orbital speed. so it would not actually strike the earth, but would be carried eastward past its disk, even though aimed for earth's mid-bulge. yet earth would continue to pull. as the space tug skimmed past, its path would be curved by the pull of gravity. at the nearest possible approach to earth, the tug would fire its heaviest rockets for maximum acceleration. and it would swing around earth's atmosphere perhaps no more than miles high--just barely beyond the measurable presence of air--and come out of that crazy curve a good hour ahead of the platform for a corresponding position, and with a greater velocity than could be had in any other way. traced on paper, the course of the tug would be a tight parabola. the ship dived. and it happened that it had left the platform and plunged deep in earth's shadow, so that the look and feel of things was that of an utterly suicidal plunge into oblivion. there was the seeming of a vast sack of pure blackness before the nose of the space tug. she started for it at four gravities acceleration, and joe got his headphones to his ears and lay panting while he waited for the figures and information he had to have. he got them. when the four-gravity rockets burned out, the tug's crew painstakingly adjusted the ship's nose to a certain position. they flung themselves back into the acceleration chairs and joe fired a six-g blast. they came out of that, and he fired another. the three blasts gave the ship a downward speed of a mile and a half a second, and earth's pull added to it steadily. the earth itself was drawing them down most of a , -mile fall, which added to the speed their rockets built up. down on earth, radar-bowls wavered dizzily, hunting for them to feed them observations of position and data for their guidance. back on the platform, members of the crew feverishly made their own computations. when the four in the space tug were half-way to earth, they were traveling faster than any humans had ever traveled before, relative to the earth or the platform itself. when they were a thousand miles from earth, it was certain they would clear its edge. joe proposed and received an okay to fire a salvo of mark tens to speed the ship still more. when they burned to the release-point and flashed away past the ports, the chief and haney panted up from their chairs and made their way aft. "going to reload the firing-frames," gasped the chief. they vanished. the space tug could take rockets from its cargo and set them outside its hull for firing. no other ship could. haney and the chief came back. there was dead silence in the ship, save for a small, tinny voice in joe's headphones. "we'll pass earth miles high," said joe in a flat voice. "maybe closer. i'm going to try to make it . we'll be smack over enemy territory, but i doubt they could hit us. we'll be hitting better than six miles a second. if we wanted to, we could spend some more rockets and hit escape velocity. but we want to stop, later. we'll ride it out." silence. stillness. speed. out the ports to earthward there was purest blackness. on the other side, a universe of stars. but the blackness grew and grew and grew until it neatly bisected the cosmos itself, and half of everything that was, was blackness. half was tiny colored stars. then there was a sound. a faint sound. it was a moan. it was a howl. it was a shriek.... and then it was a mere thin moan again. then it was not. "we touched air," said joe calmly, "at six and a quarter miles per second. pretty thin, though. at that, we may have left a meteor-trail for the populace to admire." nobody said anything at all. in a little while there was light ahead. there was brightness. instantly, it seemed, they were out of night and there was a streaming tumult of clouds flashing past below--but they were miles up now--and joe's headphones rattled and he said: "now we can give a touch of course-correction, and maybe a trace of speed...." rockets droned and boomed and roared outside the hull. the earth fell away and away and presently it was behind. and they were plunging on after the moonship which was very, very, very far on before them. it was actually many hours before they reached it. they couldn't afford to overtake it gradually, because they had to have time to work in after contact. but overtaking it swiftly cost extra fuel, and they hadn't too much. so they compromised, and came up behind the moonship at better than , feet per second difference in speed--they approached it as fast as most rifle-bullets travel--and all creation was blotted out by the fumes of the rockets they fired for deceleration. then the space tug came cautiously close to the moonship. mike climbed out on the outside of the tug's hull, with the chief also in space equipment, paying out mike's safety-line. mike leaped across two hundred yards of emptiness with light-years of gulf beneath him. his metal soles clanked on the moonship's hull. then the vision-screen on the tug lighted up. lieutenant commander brown looked out of it, quietly grim. joe flicked on his own transmitter. he nodded. "_mr. kenmore_," said brown evenly, "_i did not contact you before because i was not certain that contact could be made. how many passengers can you take back to the platform?_" joe blinked at him. "i haven't any idea," he said. "but i'm going to hitch on and use our rockets to land you." "_i do not think it practicable_," said brown calmly. "_i believe the only result of such a course will be the loss of both ships with all hands. i will give you a written authorization to return on my order. but since all my crew can't return, how many can you take? i have ten married men aboard. six have children. can you take six? or all ten?_" then he said without a trace of emphasis, "_of course, none of them will be officers._" "if i tried to turn back now, i think my crew would mutiny," joe said coldly. "i'd hate to think they wouldn't, anyhow! we're going to hook on and play this out the way it lies!" there was a pause. then brown spoke again. "_mr. kenmore, i was hoping you'd say that. actually--er--not to be quoted, you understand--actually, intelligent defiance has always been in the traditions of the navy. of course, you're not in the navy, kenmore, but right now it looks like the navy is in your hands. like a battleship in the hands of a tug. good luck, kenmore._" joe flicked off the screen. "you know," he said, winking at mike, "i guess brown isn't such a bad egg after all. let's go!" in minutes, the space tug had a line made fast. in half an hour, the two space craft were bound firmly together, but far enough apart for the rocket blasts to dissipate before they reached the moonship. mike returned to the tug. a pair of the big mark twenty rockets burned frenziedly in emptiness. the moonship was slowed by a fraction of its speed. the deceleration was hardly perceptible. there were more burnings. back on earth there were careful measurements. a tight beam tends to attenuate when it is thrown a hundred thousand miles. it tends to! when speech is conducted over it, the lag between comment and reply is perceptible. it's not great--just over half a second. but one notices it. that lag was used to measure the speed and distance of the two craft. the prospect didn't look too good. the space tug burned rocket after rocket after rocket. there was no effect that joe could detect, of course. it would have been like noticing the effect of single oar-strokes in a rowboat miles from shore. but the instruments on earth found a difference. they made very, very, very careful computations. and the electronic brains did the calculations which battalions of mathematicians would have needed years to work out. the electronic calculations which could not make a mistake said--that it was a toss-up. the moon came slowly to float before the two linked ships. it grew slowly, slowly larger. the word from earth was that considering the rockets still available in the space tug, and those that should have been fired but weren't on the moonship, there must be no more blasts just yet. the two ships must pass together through the neutral-point where the gravities of earth and moon exactly cancel out. they must fall together toward the moon. forty miles above the lunar surface such-and-such rockets were to be fired. at twenty miles, such-and-such others. at five miles the moonship itself must fire its remaining fuel-store. with luck, it was a toss-up. safety or a smash. but there was a long time to wait. joe and his crew relaxed in the space tug. the chief looked out a port and observed: "i can see the ring-mountains now. naked-eye stuff, too! i wonder if anybody ever saw that before!" "not likely," said joe. mike stared out a port. haney looked, also. "how're we going to get back, joe?" "the moonship has rockets on board," joe told him. "only they can't stick them in the firing-racks outside. they're stowed away, all shipshape, navy fashion. after we land, we'll ask politely for rockets to get back to the platform with. it'll be a tedious run. mostly coasting--falling free. but we'll make it." "if everything doesn't blow when we land," said the chief. joe said uncomfortably: "it won't. not that somebody won't try." then he stopped. after a moment he said awkwardly: "look! it's necessary that we humans get to the stars, or ultimately we'll crowd the earth until we won't be able to stay human. we'd have to have wars and plagues and such things to keep our numbers down. it--it seems to me, and i--think it's been said before, that it looks like there's something, somewhere, that's afraid of us humans. it doesn't want us to reach the stars. it didn't want us to fly. before that it didn't want us to learn how to cure disease, or have steam, or--anything that makes men different from the beasts." haney turned his head. he listened intently. "maybe it sounds--superstitious," said joe uneasily, "but there's always been somebody trying to smash everything the rest of us wanted. as if--as if something alien and hateful went around whispering hypnotically into men's ears while they slept, commanding them irresistibly to do things to smash all their own hopes." the chief grunted. "huh! d'you think that's new stuff, joe?" "n-no," admitted joe. "but it's true. something fights us. you can make wild guesses. maybe--things on far planets that know that if ever we reach there.... there's something that hates men and it tries to make us destroy ourselves." "sure," said haney mildly. "i learned about that in sunday school, joe." "maybe i mean that," said joe helplessly. "but anyhow there's something we fight--and there's something that fights with us. so i think we're going to get the moonship down all right." mike said sharply: "you mean you think this is all worked out in advance. that we'd be here, we'd get here----" the chief said impatiently, "it's figured out so we can do it if we got the innards. we got the chance. we can duck it. but if we duck it, it's bad, and somebody else has to have the chance later. i know what joe's saying. us men, we got to get to the stars. there's millions of 'em, and we need the planets they've got swimming around 'em." haney said, "some of them have planets. that's known. yeah." "those planets ain't going to go on forever with nobody using 'em," grunted the chief. "it don't make sense. and things in general do make sense. all but us humans," he finished with a grin. "and i like us, anyhow. joe's right. we'll get by this time. and if we don't--some other guys'll have to do the job of landing on the moon. but it'll be done--as a starter." "i can see lots of mountains down there. plain," mike said quietly. "what's the radar say?" joe looked. back at the platform it had shown the curve of the surface of earth. here a dim line was beginning to show on the vertical-plane screen. it was the curve of the surface of the moon. "we might as well get set," said joe. "we've got time but we might as well. space suits on. i'll tighten up the chain. steering rockets'll do that. then we'll take a last look. all firing racks loaded outside?" "yeah," said haney. he grinned wrily. "you know, joe, i know what i know, but still i'm scared." "me, too," said joe. but there were things to do. they took their places. they watched out the ports. the moon had seemed a vast round ball a little while back. now it appeared to be flattening. its edges still curved away beyond a surprisingly nearby horizon. the ring-mountains were amazingly distinct. there were incredibly wide, smooth spaces with mottled colorings. but the mountains.... when the ships were miles high the space tug blasted valorously, and all the panorama of the moon's surface was momentarily hidden by the racing clouds of mist. the rockets burned out. haney and the chief replaced the burned-out rockets. they were gigantic, heavy-bore tubes which they couldn't have stirred on earth. now they loaded them into the curious locks which conveyed them outside the hull into firing position. the ring-mountains were gigantic when they blasted again! they were only miles up, then, and some of the peaks rose four miles from their inner crater floors. the ships were still descending fast. joe spoke into his microphone. "calling moonship! calling----" he stopped and said matter-of-factly, "i suggest we fire our last blast together. shall i give the word? right!" the surface of the moon came toward them. craters, cracks, frozen fountains of stone, swelling undulations of ground interrupted without rhyme or reason by the gigantic splashings of missiles from the sky a hundred thousand million years ago. the colorings were unbelievable. there were reds and browns and yellows. there were grays and dusty deep-blues and streaks of completely impossible tints in combination. but joe couldn't watch that. he kept his eyes on a very special gadget which was a radar range-finder. he hadn't used it about the platform because there were too many tin cans and such trivia floating about. it wouldn't be dependable. but it did measure the exact distance to the nearest solid object. "prepare for firing on a count of five," said joe quietly. "five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... fire!" the space tug's rockets blasted. for the first time since they overtook the moonship, the tug now had help. the remaining rockets outside the moonship's hull blasted furiously. out the ports there was nothing but hurtling whitenesses. the rockets droned and rumbled and roared.... the main rockets burned out. the steering rockets still boomed. joe had thrown them on for what good their lift might do. "joe!" said haney in a surprised tone. "i feel weight! not much, but some! and the main rockets are off!" joe nodded. he watched the instruments before him. he shifted a control, and the space tug swayed. it swayed over to the limit of the tow-chain it had fastened to the moonship. joe shifted his controls again. there was a peculiar, gritty contact somewhere. joe cut the steering rockets and it was possible to look out. there were more gritty noises. the space tug settled a little and leaned a little. it was still. then there was no noise at all. "yes," said joe. "we've got some weight. we're on the moon." they went out of the ship in a peculiarly solemn procession. about them reared cliffs such as no man had ever looked on before save in dreams. above their heads hung a huge round greenish globe, with a white polar ice-cap plainly visible. it hung in mid-sky and was four times the size of the moon as seen from earth. if one stood still and looked at it, it would undoubtedly be seen to be revolving, once in some twenty-four hours. mike scuffled in the dust in which he walked. nobody had emerged from the moonship yet. the four of them were literally the first human beings ever to set foot on the surface of the moon. but none of them mentioned the fact, though all were acutely aware of it. mike kicked up dust. it rose in a curiously liquid-like fashion. there was no air to scatter it. it settled deliberately back again. mike spoke with an odd constraint. "no green cheese," he said absurdly. "no," agreed joe. "let's go over to the moonship. it looks all right. it couldn't have landed hard." they went toward the bulk of the ship from earth, which now was a base for the military occupation of a globe with more land-area than all earth's continents put together--but not a drop of water. the moonship was tilted slightly askew, but it was patently unharmed. there were faces at every port in the hull. the chief stopped suddenly. a sizable boulder rose from the dust. the chief struck it smartly with his space-gloved hand. "i'm counting coup on the moon!" he said zestfully "tie that, you guys!" then he joined the others on their way to the moonship's main lock. "shall we knock?" asked mike humorously. "i doubt they've got a door-bell!" but the lock-door was opening to admit them. they crowded inside. commander brown was waiting for them with an out-stretched hand. "glad to have you aboard." and there was a genuine smile creeping across his face. * * * * * joe talked with careful distinctness into a microphone. his voice took a little over a second to reach its destination. then there was a pause of the same length before the first syllable of sally's reply came to him from earth. "i've reported to your father," said joe carefully, "and the moonship has reported to the navy. in a couple of hours haney and the chief and mike and i will be taking off to go back to the platform. we got rockets from the stores of the moonship." sally's voice was surprisingly clear. it wavered a little, but there was no sound of static to mar reception. "then what, joe?" "i'm bringing written reports and photographs and first specimens of geology from the moon," joe told her. "i'm a mailman. it'll probably be sixty hours back to the platform--free fall most of the way--and then we'll refuel and i'll come down to earth to deliver the reports and such." pause. one second and a little for his voice to go. another second and something over for her voice to return. "and then?" "that's what i'm trying to find out," said joe. "what day is today?" "tuesday," said sally after the inevitable pause. "it's ten o'clock tuesday morning at the shed." joe made calculations in his mind. then he said: "i ought to land on earth some time next monday." pause. "yes?" said sally. "i wondered," said joe. "how about a date that night?" another pause. then sally's voice. she sounded glad. "it's a date, joe. and--do you know, i must be the first girl in the world to make a date with the man in the moon?" combat mission! _joe kenmore's mission was as dangerous as it sounded simple:_ "deliver supplies and atomic weapons to the space platform. then prepare for man's first expedition to the moon." joe had helped launch the first space platform--that initial rung in man's ladder to the stars. but the enemies who had ruthlessly tried to destroy the space station before it left earth were still at work. they were plotting to stop joe's mission! cover painting by robert schulz +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note | | | | the chemical symbol for carbon dioxide has been shown as | | co_ to depict a subscript . | | | | in the following words, the hyphen has been removed to | | conform to majority use in text. | | brain-storm | | loud-speaker | | | | the following words with and without a hyphen were left as | | such because of equal prevalence of both forms: | | half-way halfway | | pay-load payload | | rocket-lift rocketlift | | sun-lamps sunlamps | | hand-hold handhold | | pin-points pinpoints | | | | "overall" and "over-all" were left as such since the writers | | are different (the narrator and a character). | | | | the following typos have been corrected: | | adorning adoring | | level lever | | runing running | | shed shed | | thiry-nine thirty-nine | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ the earthman by irving cox, jr. _the four survivors were sitting ducks surrounded by barbaric savages. and they were doubly handicapped, because they knew that one of them was a traitor!_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, december . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the robot supply ship came every thursday at seven minutes after noon. it was an unfortunate hour for the personnel of the nevada station, who happened to be in the commissary at lunch. out of fourteen hundred assigned to the post, only four escaped--two guards on noon duty in the watch tower; the commander's wife, who had skipped lunch and stayed in her cottage; and captain tchassen. the captain was on a hill south of the station making a tri-d shot of the range of mountains west of the camp. he took his amateur photography seriously and, like any tourist, he was fascinated by the rugged scenery; there was nothing comparable to this on any world in the civilized galaxy. to get the back lighting that he wanted, tchassen would cheerfully have given up any number of meals. as a matter of fact, he wasn't aware that it was noon until he heard the jet blast of the supply ship as it came in on the transit beam. tchassen saw the ship spin out of control as the beam went haywire. the robot plunged into the heart of the station and the earth shook in the catastrophic explosion of the nuclear reactor. the commissary, the communication center, the supply sheds and the row of patrol ships vanished in the rising, mushroom cloud. concussion threw tchassen violently to the ground. his camera was smashed against a boulder. the captain picked himself up unsteadily. he took a capsule from his belt pouch and swallowed it--a specific against shock and radiation sickness. in a remarkably short time, tchassen's mind cleared. he saw the prisoners pouring through the gap torn in the compound fence and running for the hills. but that did not alarm him particularly. they were unarmed and for the moment they represented no real danger. tchassen began to run toward the ruined administrative center. he had to find out if there were any other survivors and he had to make emergency contact with the occupation base on the coast. he ran with considerable difficulty. after less than a hundred yards, he was gasping for breath. he slowed to a walk. he could feel the hammering of his heart; his throat was dry and ice cold. to the escaped prisoners, watching from beyond the camp, the captain's weakness was unbelievable--for tchassen, in his twenties, had a magnificent build. typical of the occupation army, he wore the regulation military uniform, knee-high boots and tight-fitting, silver colored trousers. above the waist he was naked, except for the neck-chain which carried the emblem of his rank. his body was deeply tanned. his hair was a bristling, yellow crown. yet, despite his appearance, his sudden exhaustion was very real; captain tchassen had been on earth only five days and he was still not adjusted to the atmospheric differences. as he passed the row of officers' cottages, he fell against a wall, panting for breath. the flat-roofed buildings were nearly a mile from the crater of the explosion, yet even here windows had been broken by concussion. a cold, arid wind whipped past the dwellings; somewhere a door, torn loose from its frame, was banging back and forth. then tchassen heard a muffled cry. in one of the officer's cottages he found tynia. she had been thrown from her bed and the bed was overturned above her. it was a fortunate accident; the mattress had protected her from the flying glass. tchassen helped her to her feet. she clung to him, trembling. he was very conscious of her sensuous beauty, as he had been since he first came to the nevada station. tynia was the wife of the commanding officer: tchassen kept reminding himself of that, as if it could somehow build a barrier against her attractiveness. she was strikingly beautiful--and thirty years younger than her husband. it was common gossip that she had been flirting with most of the junior officers assigned to the station. tchassen was, in fact, a security investigator sent to probe the potential scandal and recommend a means for heading it off. he gave tynia a shock pill from his pouch. her hysteria subsided. she became suddenly modest about the semi-transparent bedgown she was wearing, and she zipped into a tight coverall, made from the same silver-hued material as the captain's trousers. they went outside. she stood a foot shorter than tchassen. her dark hair framed her face in graceful waves; make-up emphasized the size of her eyes and the lush, scarlet bow of her lips. tynia glanced toward the crater, shielding her face from the noon sun. "what happened, captain?" "the flight beam failed; the supply ship exploded." "and killed them all." she said it flatly, without feeling--but tchassen doubted that she would have mourned the loss of her husband in any case. "i'll have to get word through to the coast. we'll need a rescue helio and--" "i know how to use the emergency transmitter," tynia volunteered. "there may be other survivors, captain tchassen; they'll need your help." "i don't want to leave you alone, tynia." it was the first time he spoke her given name, though the informality was commonplace among the junior officers on the post. "the prisoners are out of the compound. we may have trouble." "not yet, captain; they're still unarmed. i'll be all right." she nodded toward the crater. "we have to make sure there's no one else alive down there." * * * * * he left her reluctantly. she went toward the emergency communications room, buried in a metal-walled pillbox which had been intentionally located far from the center of the station. tchassen walked across the scarred earth in the direction of the crater. none of the important buildings had survived. concussion had torn up the fence around the prison compound, but the cell block, half a mile from the explosion and built of concrete and steel, was still standing. the watch tower, beyond the prison building, stood askew on bent metal pillars, but it was otherwise undamaged. the captain knew that at least two guards were on watch duty at all hours; they might still be alive. he crossed the crater and pulled himself up the battered stairs to the top of the tower. the door was jammed. using a broken piece of railing as a lever, he pried it open. he found the two guards unconscious, slumped across their observation console. he gave them shock capsules, but the men regained consciousness slowly. while he waited, tchassen read their identity disks. the corporal, gorin drein, was a three-year draftee, serving a six month tour of duty on earth. he was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, probably no more than twenty years old. sergeant briggan was an army career man, in his fifties and only a few years away from retirement. yet the only physical indication of his age was the touch of gray in his bristling mane of dark hair. when their erratic breathing steadied and they opened their eyes, the captain explained what had happened. both men were still groggy; the shock pills inhibited their normal emotional reactions. neither briggan nor drein had much to say until tchassen helped them down from the tower and they stood looking at the hole blasted in the earth. "the supply rocket," sergeant briggan said slowly, "couldn't have done this; the beam landings are foolproof. the prisoners must have pulled it off, though i don't see--" "how?" tchassen broke in. "the compound fence didn't go down until after the blast; there was no way any of them could get out." "robot ships just don't get off the beam," corporal drein declared stubbornly. briggan nodded toward the empty cell block. "it worked out nicely--for the prisoners. a single explosion wipes out most of us; but the prisoners are far enough away from the blast center to escape." "surely there isn't any danger of revolution," tchassen asked, unconsciously mocking the optimism of the security bulletins. "not any longer." briggan grinned. "you've only been here five days, sir; you don't know how thoroughly our indoctrination has failed. the earth people hate us more than ever." "even so, how could one of the prisoners have brought the robot down?" "by tampering with the beam." "but that means they had a subversive--that means one of us must be--" "an earthman, yes. we encourage them to apply for citizenship. if we had an earthman on the post masquerading as an officer, how would we know it--unless he told us? they're no different from our own people, captain." on the other side of the crater tynia staggered out of the communications pillbox. tchassen saw her waving frantically and he knew something was wrong--very wrong. he began to run toward her. briggan and drein followed close behind him. almost immediately the captain staggered and gasped for breath; he motioned for the sergeant and the corporal to go on without him. briggan waited long enough to say, "so far we've located four survivors, sir--only four. and one of the four is very probably an earthman. the transit beams don't fail of their own accord. it's not a very nice thing to think about, is it, sir?" * * * * * the two men left him and tchassen walked slowly, alone across the barren land. the wind whispered against his naked chest; it felt suddenly cold and forbidding. the ragged peaks piled on the western horizon were no longer simply photogenic curiosities of an alien world, but symbols of undefined terror. why had the supply robot crashed? why had the prisoners been able to get away without a casualty? had it been planned by an officer of the station? if so, where was he now--with the prisoners, dead in the commissary, or among the four survivors? the tide of questions hammered at tchassen's mind, but he came up with no workable answers. his real trouble stemmed from the fact that he knew so little about the earth people. their reasoning was beyond rational analysis. they were physically identical to normal human beings, and it was almost impossible not to assume that their thinking would be normally human, too. when tchassen reached the communications pillbox, the sergeant, the corporal, and tynia were inside. in the gloomy half-light he saw the others silently trying to patch together the broken wires of the transmitter. it was hopeless; tchassen saw that at once. only a master technician could have made sense out of that jumbled maze. the other three knew that, too. they stopped when they saw tchassen and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to tell them what to do. with something of a shock, he realized that he now ranked as station commander. "i don't believe the explosion wrecked the transmitter," tchassen decided uncertainly. "it was torn up like this when i first came in," tynia told him. "so we couldn't get in touch with the occupation base. obviously one of the prisoners did it. they must have had--" the captain licked his lips. "they must have had outside help." "what do we do now?" tynia's voice was shrill with rising hysteria. "we can't radio for a rescue ship. how do we get away?" "it's up to us to find something else." she moved close to sergeant briggan, reaching for his hand. "the earth people are outside somewhere, waiting to kill us. we can't escape, captain! and you start talking nonsense--" very deliberately tchassen slapped the back of his hand against her cheek. the pillbox was abruptly very still. she stared at him, her eyes wide. slowly she raised her hand and touched the reddening mark on her face. she shrank against briggan and the sergeant put his arm around her shoulders. "you didn't have to do that, captain," he bristled. "don't quarrel," tynia whispered. "not on my account." tchassen's muscles tensed. this was the way tynia had created tension on the post; he had seen it happen to her husband. yet could he honestly blame her? it wasn't her fault; just the irony of circumstance. and tchassen knew that his anger now was primarily envy, because she had turned to the sergeant for protection and not to him. he made himself relax. "hysteria," he said, "is a luxury none of us can afford." "you're right," tynia answered. "absolutely right. i was very foolish." she moved away and briggan muttered, "sorry, sir. i didn't think--" "we must get back to the coast," tchassen said briskly, "through territory occupied by the enemy. we can scrape together all the weapons we'll need and the roads are supposed to be passable. our only problem, then, is transportation." "maybe we'd better stay here," tynia suggested. "sitting ducks for the earthmen to attack?" "you said we have weapons." "not enough to hold out indefinitely." "sir," corporal drein intervened, "there's an old, enemy vehicle in the prison building. we used it sometimes for field inspections." "let's look it over." captain tchassen had seen the instructional films which were made immediately after the occupation. he could identify the sedan--an inefficient, petroleum-burning machine, typical of a primitive people who had just reached the threshhold of the power age. the original beauty of design had long since disappeared. only one window and the windshield were unbroken; the body paint was peeling away in spreading patches of rust; the pneumatic tires were in shreds and the vehicle moved noisily on bent, metal rims. they fueled the car with gasoline confiscated long ago and stored in drums in the prison warehouse; corporal drein volunteered to do the driving. in the officers' cottages they found weapons--a portable heat beam, half a dozen dispersal rays, and a box of recharge cartridges. in terms of tchassen's technology such weapons were minor sidearms, but they were superior to anything yet produced by the earth people. tchassen was sure he had the power to beat off any attack. the survivors were handicapped in only one respect: all the food on the post had been destroyed with the commissary. however, tchassen did not consider that a serious problem. he was sure they could reach the coast by the following morning. shortly before three o'clock--nearly two hours after the supply robot crashed--the survivors left the station. they headed west on a highway unused since the conquest. tchassen and tynia sat together in back. the captain kept all the weapons. briggan's warning couldn't be ignored; one of the other three might be an earthman. unless they faced an actual emergency, tchassen did not intend to let any of the others carry arms. * * * * * the sedan lumbered over cracked and crumbling asphalt. the tireless rims made a nerve-wracking din that prevented all conversation. tchassen was unused to any sort of surface transportation. the civilized galaxy had outgrown it centuries ago; the flight beam, safe and inexpensive, was universally used. with equal ease the beam could move a one-man runabout or a cargo freighter over any distance--a few feet or the light years gapping between planets. twice tchassen revised his estimate of the sedan's speed. at this rate, it would be twenty-four hours or more before they reached the coast. that made their shortage of food far more significant. through the shattered side window tchassen scanned the arid soil. it was remotely possible that they might stumble across a native food cache, but he couldn't count on that. he wasn't even sure the caches existed, although the theory was a basic factor in the occupation policy. the galactic council of scientists estimated that one-tenth of the earth people had never been rounded up and resettled in the prison compounds; bandit raids increased that number steadily. how the rebels survived no one knew, for any large scale food production would have been spotted by the patrols and wiped out. one or two crackpot theorists said the bandits fed themselves by hunting wild game, but that was absurd. it was common fact throughout the civilized galaxy that any culture which evolved as far as the power age would, in the normal process of growth, eliminate all planetary animal life. the accepted explanation was the food cache theory. according to it, the earthmen--sometime after the conquest and before the prison compounds were set up--had raided their own cities and hidden the packaged food in remote mountain areas. the supply was decidedly limited. when it was gone, the rebels faced starvation unless they returned voluntarily to the compounds. the sierra range between the nevada station and the coast had become a haven for so many escaped earthmen that the region was marked "enemy territory" on the occupation maps. although tchassen was aware of that, he knew he could not assume that, because the four survivors had to pass through a rebel area, they would discover a cache of food. far too many organized expeditions, sent out expressly for that purpose, had returned empty handed. * * * * * as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the sedan seemed to be moving no closer to the snow-capped peaks, the air became colder. tchassen's naked chest was studded with gooseflesh. drein and briggan were rubbing their arms to keep warm. tchassen was accustomed to the controlled temperatures on the civilized worlds and the comforts of the beam ships. it hadn't occurred to him that the regular military uniform might be inadequate. he felt the subtle pulsing of fear, the crushing loneliness of a stranger on an alien world. he fingered the barrel of a dispersal ray, but the weapon gave him no sense of security. he had a terrible sensation of psychological nakedness. the weapons could drive off bandits, but what protection did tchassen have against the unknown elements of a savage world? we've failed; we have no right to be here: the words lashed at his mind like an insinuating poison. he could feel sweat on his face and chest, sweat turning cold in the icy wind. now the sedan entered a decaying village nestled close to the mountains. it was in an amazingly good state of repair--undoubtedly because it was located so far from the coastal cities that it had escaped destruction during the invasion. then, too, the village was too close to the nevada compound for the earth people to have looted it. tchassen tapped on drein's shoulder and ordered him to stop the sedan. "we need warmer clothing," the captain explained, "before we start up the grade." "i suppose we might pick up something here," sergeant briggan conceded. "this place is called reno. it was one of the few communities still intact after the invasion." "i'm scared," tynia said. "the prisoners may be hiding here, waiting for us." "they have better sense than to face a dispersal ray without any protection." tchassen's tone was crisp with an assurance he didn't feel, but it satisfied her. drein opened the door and stood on the sidewalk, waiting for tchassen to hand out one of the weapons. but tchassen couldn't be sure drein was not an earthman; nor, on the other hand, could he ask the corporal to explore an enemy town unarmed. as a sort of compromise, tchassen said, "we'll stick together; i'll carry all the weapons, corporal." it wasn't satisfactory, but both drein and briggan were too well-disciplined to protest. tchassen felt foolish with six dispersal rays and a heat beam slung over his shoulders, but he couldn't risk leaving anything in the sedan, either. * * * * * the survivors spent a good part of an hour searching the downtown stores, but reno had been stripped of native artifacts; the buildings were empty shells filled with dust. the only chance they had of finding clothing was to look in the private homes closer to the outskirts. they went back to the sedan and drove to a residential street. by that time the sun was setting. tchassen did not relish the prospect of being caught in an enemy town after dark, but the search could be speeded up only if they separated. for a second time the captain compromised. he issued dispersal rays to the others, but insisted that they work in pairs. if one of them was an enemy, that arrangement would more or less tie his hands. tynia volunteered to go with drein; tchassen felt a pang of envy and jealousy, but he had better sense than to use his authority to force her to come with him. tchassen and the sergeant searched through half a dozen houses before they found one that had not been looted. their luck was unbelievable, for they found shelves of canned food as well as clothing sealed in plastic bags. from an open window the captain fired a dispersal ray toward the sky, a signal prearranged with the others. as the needle of light arched above the village, tchassen heard a distant blast of explosions and tynia's shrill scream of terror. "it's a bandit raid!" briggan cried. he turned to run toward the street. tchassen's hand shot out and caught the sergeant's shoulder. "not so fast. i said we'd stay in pairs." "but tynia's in trouble! the earth people are barbarians, sir. they give no quarter. they--" "i'm still in command, sergeant." briggan stiffened. "yes, sir." the two men walked toward the source of the sound. tchassen couldn't allow himself to run, even to help tynia; the exertion would have been too much for him. there was another clatter of shots and tchassen recognized the gunfire of the primitive earth weapons. in the darkness it was vaguely disturbing, but not frightening. both tynia and drein were armed with dispersal rays; they would have no trouble defending themselves. sudden footsteps pelted toward them. tynia ran from a dark side street and threw herself into the captain's arms. she clung to him, trembling and panting for breath. "where's drein?" he demanded. "the corporal--he took my gun. he tried to kill me!" "tynia, do you understand what you're saying? the accusation--" "you told us to stay together. i did my best. i was going through a house when i realized suddenly that i was alone. i saw drein outside; i thought he was talking to someone. i ran out and--" she bit her lip and hid her eyes against his shoulder. in a flat, emotionless voice, tchassen asked, "drein was with earthmen?" "i don't know! someone sprang at me and knocked the ray out of my hands. i saw people--i thought i saw people--in the shadows behind corporal drein. i began to run. i don't want to accuse him of--of anything, captain. i can't be sure. if he's an earthman, we have to--we have to dispose of him, and i wouldn't want--" her voice trailed off in a gasp of terror as they heard a new burst of gunfire, very close. tchassen dodged aside, pulling tynia behind a tree. sergeant briggan fired blindly into the night. his dispersal beam danced across the face of a frame building and the house exploded into flame. in the red glare of the fire, tchassen saw a band of savages, dressed in animal hides--no that was impossible!--fleeing into the darkness beyond the village. corporal drein staggered toward them. blood spilled from a gash torn in his chest. he saw tchassen, tynia and the sergeant standing together. like a man in a daze, he began to raise his dispersal ray. in tchassen's mind there was no longer any room for doubt; the truth was clear. drein was an earthman; drein had betrayed the station; drein now intended to kill off the only survivors. the captain acted with military decision. he pressed the firing stud of his weapon. drein screamed in agony as he died. tynia buried her face in her hands. briggan put his arm around her. in the flickering light, tchassen saw the sergeant grin. "you didn't have to kill him, captain," tynia whispered. "after what you told me--" "don't blame me; i didn't do anything!" "he was going to fire at us, wasn't he?" "you don't know that for sure. maybe he was asking for help!" tchassen shrugged; there was no accounting for the emotional inconsistencies of a woman. "what did you expect to prove by murdering drein?" briggan asked. "i saved us from--" "if he was an earthman, why were the bandits firing at him? why had they wounded him?" "to make it look good," tchassen replied, no longer really believing it himself. "they wanted our weapons; they have to use trickery to get them away from us." tchassen slid the weapon out of drein's lifeless fingers and half-heartedly searched the street for tynia's dispersal ray. he didn't expect to find it. the earth people had it now. the loss of the weapon was, in one sense, more serious than the destruction of the nevada station. a prison compound could be rebuilt and restaffed. but if the earth ever faced the conqueror with equal firepower, earthmen would recapture their world--and more. we've failed; we have no right to be here--the captain fought a burning nausea as the fear washed over his mind. what had they accomplished by the occupation? the earth was neither enslaved nor destroyed. hatred made the natives savages. they would never be content until they had revenge. they never conceded defeat; they never would. corporal drein seemed to be typical of their fanaticism, and that was why tchassen had killed him--that, and the hysterical story tynia had told. on calmer reflection, tchassen knew he had no proof of drein's disloyalty--which meant that either briggan or tynia could be earth natives. that problem was unsolved; the danger was undiminished. * * * * * tchassen wasted very little time looking for the weapon tynia had lost. after twenty minutes, the three survivors returned to the house where tchassen and briggan had found food and clothing. they packed the canned goods into the sedan and put on warm coats and jackets. although the woolens and the cottons fell to pieces when they touched the cloth, the synthetic fabrics were still relatively sound, particularly when they had been sealed in mothproof plastic. tchassen took over the driving when they left reno. for greater warmth, tynia and the sergeant crowded into the front seat beside him. as they ascended the grade toward the pass, the air turned much colder. tchassen's hands felt numb on the wheel and the altitude made his mind swim in a haze of vague nausea. there was no moon and the headlights of the sedan had been smashed long ago. the captain drove very slowly, concentrating on the curves of the highway. three times the machine narrowly missed going over the edge; the guard rail saved them. tchassen knew he was risking their lives to drive at night, but he had no alternative. they would not be really safe again until they reached the base on the coast, and the earth people would try to prevent that. they would try to make sure that no survivors lived to report what had happened at the nevada station. briggan fished three cans of food out of the back of the car and blasted them open with his dispersal ray. the can he handed tchassen contained a fruit in a heavy, sickly sweet syrup. tchassen made himself empty the tin. tynia had a pinkish meat which she was totally unable to choke down. the civilized galaxy had been vegetarian for two thousand years; a clear indication of the savagery of the earth culture was the fact that the natives still ate animal flesh. briggan opened another can for tynia. after a brief hesitation, he began to eat the meat himself. tynia gagged and looked away. "i don't see how you can do it, sergeant." "we may be on the road longer than we think," he answered. "we can't afford to waste anything; we aren't likely to find another food cache." tchassen glanced at briggan suspiciously. it was possible that he could force himself to stomach the meat, if he were starving, but how was he able to eat it now? an earthman could do it; yet if briggan were a native, wasn't he too clever to give himself away with anything so trivial? "tell me, captain," briggan asked, "what chance do we have of getting through this alive?" "we're armed; we have transportation; we--" "and the natives will risk everything to stop us. they have to. this attack on the nevada station was the beginning of the revolution. if they plan the rest of it as carefully, they stand a good chance of throwing us off the earth." "no!" tynia cried. "now that they know the civilized galaxy exists, they'll build space ships and come after us. with our weapons--" "plus their fanaticism," tchassen put in, "the galaxy doesn't stand a chance." "but we invaded the earth to prevent that; we came here to teach them to live civilized lives." "how much teaching have we actually done in the compounds?" the sergeant demanded. "how many earth people have listened to us?" "they're human beings; they have brains like ours. surely when we have explained our ways to them logically and sanely--" "the trouble is," tchassen said thoughtfully, "it's our logic, not theirs. if you look at this from the point of view of an earthman, you see us as savage invaders of their world." "our purpose makes it different." "we say that, but the earth people wouldn't understand us." "it's very strange," sergeant briggan said quietly, "that you understand the earthman's point of view so well, captain tchassen. let's see. you've been here--how many days?" "five." "but you set yourself up as an authority on these people." "come now, sergeant. i didn't say that. i'm simply trying to understand them reasonably." "to think like an earthman: that's rather difficult for us to do, captain." briggan paused briefly before he snapped out a rapid question, "where were you stationed before you came here, captain?" "at security headquarters." "assigned to what staff?" "well, i was--" tchassen glanced at tynia. it would do no good, now, to explain why he had been assigned to the nevada post. all that was finished because the station staff died in the explosion. "i wasn't on any staff," he said. "i was working on my own." "that's a pity, sir. you wouldn't remember the name of your commanding officer, then; i could have checked up on that." tynia gasped; only then did tchassen realize what briggan's questions implied. he said coldly, "you're way off the track, briggan. i'm the only one of you who couldn't be an earthman; i haven't become acclimated yet--that's obvious, isn't it?" "of course you're right, sir. it wouldn't be the sort of thing you could put over by playing a part, would it? besides, drein was the earthman and you killed him. we've no reason to be suspicious of each other now, have we?" there was no way tchassen could reply. he gritted his teeth and said nothing. from the expression on tynia's face, he realized that briggan's insinuation had been rather effective. and suppose briggan actually believed it himself. didn't that rule out the sergeant as an earthman? and it left only tynia. tchassen eyed the dark-haired woman on the seat beside him. what did he really know about her?--only that she had been married to a station commander; and had flirted outrageously with other post officers. she may have done it simply because she was bored; on the other hand, it could have been a deliberate attempt to create friction--exactly the sort of thing an earth woman might try to do. perhaps she was a native. when tchassen was given the security assignment, he hadn't checked into her background; it didn't seem necessary. he realized suddenly that tynia was the only witness against drein. because of what she had said, tchassen had killed the corporal. tynia's hysteria had set the stage for murder. * * * * * as the sedan climbed higher into the pass, it moved more slowly. the motor coughed and wheezed; once or twice it seemed ready to stop altogether. when they reached the summit, the tenuous crescent of a new moon emerged above the pines. in the pale glow of light, tchassen saw that the highway was covered with a treacherous sheet of ice. the metal rims found no traction. when the machine began to skid, the captain found he could neither control it nor stop it. in spite of the cold, his body was covered with sweat. at a point four or five miles beyond the summit, they came to a place where thick trees on both sides of the highway shaded the road so the sun never reached it. the ice was continuous for a hundred feet or more, and it was covered with three inches of unmelted snow. the sedan skidded out of control. tynia screamed and hid her face in her hands. tchassen fought the wheel futilely. the car spun toward the shoulder, banged against a tree, and slid across the road into a clearing in front of an abandoned building. in the sudden silence tchassen heard nothing but the whisper of icy wind in the trees. he opened the door and looked at the deserted building. the roofs of the smaller structures nearby had collapsed under the pressure of winter snows, but the main building, sheltered by tall pines, was in good repair. "we'd be warmer inside," tchassen suggested. "in the morning after the sun comes out--" "captain!" briggan broke in. "we must reach the coast!" "--after the sun comes out, the ice on the road should begin to melt; the driving will be much easier." "don't you realize, sir--these mountains are enemy territory?" "we're still well-armed, sergeant." "we had the rays in reno, too, but drein's dead." "i tell you we'll be safe here. i remember a trick i saw demonstrated at the school of tactics." "you security men have the advantage. i'm just an enlisted non-com. i never went to the military schools and learned any fancy tricks, but i know i have a duty to reach the coast and report what's happened." tynia took briggan's arm. "the sedan won't run, sergeant. surely you aren't saying we have to walk--" "it's interesting, isn't it, that the car stopped right here--in front of a place where it would be so convenient for us to spend the night?" "what do you mean, briggan?" "i wasn't doing the driving, tynia." a hard knot of anger exploded in tchassen's mind, but he held his temper. it was easier to ignore briggan than to answer his suspicion. in a tone that concealed his feelings, the captain said, "let me show you what i saw them do in the demonstration, sergeant." he slid out of the sedan. with numb fingers, he opened the firing box of the portable heat ray and took out one of the two thermal coils. breaking the seal, he began to unwind the thin thread of wire. "we have our own alarm system right here," he explained, trying to convey more enthusiasm than he really felt. "nearly a quarter mile of wire. we'll string it in a circle around this clearing, six inches above the ground. the natives will never notice it. if they attack us, they'll snap the wire and set off the thermal reaction. we'll be surrounded for a second or two in a blazing ring of fire." "maybe it'll work, captain." * * * * * the two men strung the wire while tynia lugged the weapons and the canned goods into the abandoned building. when the sergeant and tchassen went inside, they found that she had started a fire in a pot-bellied stove. the captain stood holding his hands over the flames and gradually he began to feel warm again. he knew that the pillar of smoke rising from the chimney might invite an attack by the natives, but there was also a good chance that the smoke would disperse before it could be spotted. the warmth of the fire acted like an opiate, but tchassen realized he didn't dare risk falling asleep. tynia or briggan might be earth people, waiting for the chance to finish the job they had begun when the nevada station was destroyed. after a brief hesitation, the captain took another shock capsule from his belt pouch and choked it down. the drug would keep him awake, although it was dangerous to take a second capsule so soon after the first; there were sometimes emotional side-affects which were unpleasant. "one of us should stay on guard," briggan said. "we could take turns at it, captain--two hour stints until dawn." "good idea, briggan. i'll stand the first watch." "i was going to volunteer--" "no; you're tired; you and tynia need your sleep." "you're too considerate of us, captain." the overtone in briggan's voice suggested far more than he actually said. he lay back on his blankets, but he did not shut his eyes, and he put his dispersal ray across his belly with his hand on the firing stud. tchassen stood up, sliding a weapon over each shoulder. he went through a connecting hall into a narrow room. a few scattered dishes, overlooked by the looters, and built-in cooking machines indicated that this had been a restaurant. the room gave him an excellent vantage point, for the windows, still unbroken, provided a broad view of the highway and the clearing in front of the building. the restaurant was bitterly cold. tchassen pulled the rough, fibrous clothing tight around his shoulders, but it felt irritating rather than warm. he looked out on the ice and the snow and the pines, and he was acutely conscious of the savage alienness of earth. snow he knew as a scientific curiosity; he had seen it created in laboratory experiments. nowhere in the civilized galaxy did it exist as a natural phenomenon. the teeming billions of people crowding every world could not survive unless every square inch of soil was occupied and exploited. science regimented the temperatures in the same way that it controlled rainfall. for more than twenty centuries neither deserts nor arctic wastes had existed. all animal species had disappeared. trees survived only as ornamental growths in city parks. the earth was a relic of the past, a barbaric museum piece. the strong, individualistic genius of its people had evolved in no other society; and that genius had created a technology which mushroomed far beyond the capacity to control it. it gave this savage world atomic power before it had planetary unity. for that reason, the civilized galaxy had invaded the earth. they could do nothing else. the decision had been made long before tchassen was born. the galactic council of scientists studied the earth and argued the meaning of their observations for a quarter of a century before they ordered the invasion. war, to the civilized galaxy, was unthinkable; yet the government had no alternative. for, with even their primitive form of atomic power, the earth people could blow their world to dust. the planet had to be occupied to save the natives from the consequences of their own folly. but what does it matter, tchassen thought bitterly, if our intentions were noble and unselfish? it's what earth thinks we meant to do that counts. and by that standard we've failed. we have no right to be here. alone in the cold darkness of the abandoned restaurant, tchassen faced the fear gnawing at his soul. the drug he had taken warped his depression into a crushing weight of melancholy. the occupation of the earth had gone wrong--or so it seemed to him--because the council of scientists misjudged the native mentality. true, these people had created a brilliant technology, but it didn't follow that they would comprehend the social forces at work in the civilized galaxy. their emotional reactions were at best on an adolescent level; intelligence alone would not lift them up to maturity. the prisoners in the compounds learned nothing but hatred; they lived for nothing but revenge. vividly tchassen saw the nightmare of the future: the time when the savages on the earth had weapons to match the dispersal ray; the time when they would be able to build ships that could invade the civilized galaxy. * * * * * the captain paced the dusty floor in front of the serving counter. briggan did not come in two hours to take over the watch; and he made no attempt to call the sergeant. it was long after midnight, perhaps less than an hour before dawn, when something outside triggered the thermal-wire alarm. simultaneously, as the blaze of white glared against the restaurant windows, tynia screamed. tchassen heard the explosive blast of a dispersal ray slashing into wood. a split-second later tynia burst through the connecting hall and flung herself into tchassen's arms. "they're attacking!" she screamed. "you saw them? where?" "briggan. at the window. i--i shot him." his fingers bit into the soft flesh of her arm. "take it easy, tynia. tell me how it happened." "i saw him when the alarm went off. he was lifting his dispersal ray, as if he meant to shoot you. i remembered how he had eaten meat last night, and i--i thought--" she shuddered. "i knew he was an earthman. he was the one who blew up the supply robot; now he wants to kill us." "you were sure drein was an earthman, too." "what do you mean by that?" "it's obvious, isn't it?" "obvious?" she shrank back against the counter. he ignored her but kept her within the range of his peripheral vision while he glanced through the window, trying to locate what had set off the alarm. the circle of heat had melted all the snow and ice in the clearing; the trunks of the pines were smoldering and a corner of the building was beginning to burn. tchassen saw a chunk of flesh lying on the road--an animal of some sort which had blundered into the alarm wire. then they had not been attacked by natives. the dead animal made it very clear that wild beasts still survived on the earth. no wonder the natives were meat eaters! and, since they were, that meant they could live indefinitely in the remote mountain areas. they did not depend upon hidden caches of food; starvation would never drive them back to the prison compounds. the occupation policy was based upon a false assumption; more than ever it was vitally imperative for tchassen to reach the coast and report the truth to his superiors. tchassen shifted his weapon so that his fingers lay on the firing stud. tynia stared at him, her eyes wide with terror. in a tight whisper, she said, "then you--you're the earthman, captain!" he grinned, admiring her skillful use of emotion. if he hadn't known better, he would have taken her fear for the real thing. maybe it was; he couldn't be sure, but the facts seemed to add up to only one answer. tynia laid the groundwork for the killing of corporal drein; she herself shot briggan. and who had been in a better position to tamper with the landing beam for the supply rocket? who else had a better opportunity to destroy the transmitter in the emergency pillbox? yet, even in the face of so much evidence, tchassen gave her the benefit of the doubt! his reasoning might have been colored by the drug he had taken. with the mouth of his weapon, he nudged her toward the hall. "go back and pick up the food, tynia. we're leaving here now." she clenched her fist over her mouth. "don't turn me over to them, captain. let me go. i've never done you earth people any harm." magnificent acting! no wonder they had sent her to the nevada station. "we're heading for the coast," he explained. "the sedan wouldn't go last night; it won't now, either." "we'll push the car back to the highway. the downgrade is steep enough to make the machine run without power. if that doesn't work, we can always walk." "it'll be warmer if we wait until daylight." "and the natives would be here by that time, too, wouldn't they? the glare of the thermal explosion was visible for miles." "i didn't sleep at all last night, captain. i don't have the energy to--" with the dispersal ray, he pushed her along the hall toward the room where she and briggan had slept in front of the pot-bellied stove. naturally she would try to keep him there, he thought; he didn't need much more proof of her disloyalty. flames from the burning wall lit the room. as they entered, tynia screamed and fell back against tchassen. "the sergeant's gone!" she gasped. "along with the weapons you left in here." "then he--he's the earthman, captain; you aren't!" "you said you'd shot him." "i fired at him. i saw him fall. i thought he was dead." tchassen wanted to believe her, but the husky, deep-throated appeal in her voice couldn't quite destroy the hard core of his doubt. this could be an alibi which she could have contrived for herself. she might have hidden the weapons as well as briggan's body. if tchassen believed her, if he let himself trust her, it would be easier later on for her to dispose of him. "pack up the food, tynia; i'm going to see if i can start the car." * * * * * when he went outside, the dawn was brightening the eastern sky. the snow and ice, melted by the thermal fire, made a slushy sheet of water in the clearing; it ate at the drifts, sluggishly washing the snow into the highway. tchassen waded through the water toward the sedan. his boots kept him dry, but the cold penetrated and made his feet numb. hidden by the water were tiny, unmelted puddles of ice which made very treacherous footing. twice the captain slipped and nearly went down. he was twenty feet from the car when he heard the door of the building bang open behind him. he glanced back, calling tynia a warning to be careful of the hidden ice. at the same time she screamed. tchassen swung aside instinctively. he slipped and fell. from the back of the sedan a thread of energy snaked toward him. tchassen felt the momentary pain stab at his shoulder; then nothing. he lay flat in the icy water, fighting the red haze that hung over his mind. if the dispersal ray had come half an inch closer to his heart, it would have cut the artery and killed him. sergeant briggan opened the door of the sedan and stood leaning against it, holding a dispersal ray in his left hand. the sergeant was badly wounded. his right arm was an unrecognizable, bleeding pulp; he was too weak to stand alone. so tynia had told the truth, tchassen thought; she actually had shot him. the captain felt a surge of relief and hope. perhaps he could rely on tynia, after all. but now it was too late! the blast from the sergeant's weapon had paralyzed tchassen's motor control; he was helpless. the sergeant, obviously, assumed that tchassen was dead. ignoring him, he ordered tynia to pile the canned food in the back of the sedan. she moved toward him slowly. "you're the earthman," she said dully. "and i thought captain tchassen--" "the farce is over, tynia. you and tchassen made a fine game of it for a while, but i've been in the service long enough to spot a fake security officer." "the captain and i?" she repeated. "do i have to draw you a blueprint? you two are in this together. you're both natives." for a moment she seemed to recover her self-assurance. "so that's how you're going to play it, sergeant. just who do you think you'll take in with such nonsense?" "i'm through batting words around with you, tynia. put the food in the car. help me push the machine out to the road." "why bother, sergeant? if you stay right here, the natives will be along soon enough." "i'm glad you admit that, tynia." briggan laughed sourly. "but it's my duty to get through to the base--just as it's your duty, i suppose, to try to stop me." "why do you still want to make me believe that, sergeant? what difference does it make now?" tchassen, paralyzed and unable to speak, suddenly realized the truth. each of them feared the other. all four survivors had assumed that one of the others had to be an earthman. we put our faith in machines, he thought; we were too certain that the robot ship couldn't crash simply because something had gone wrong with the beam. our real trouble is we have no faith in ourselves. none of us was an earthman; the earth people had nothing to do with the destruction of the nevada station. he wanted desperately to shout that out. after a supreme effort, he was able to make his lips move a fraction of an inch; and that was all. tynia put the canned food in the sedan. briggan waved her to the back of the car with his weapon. he held the beam leveled at her while she pushed the sedan toward the road. the clearing was built on a slight slant and she had no trouble moving the heavy vehicle. as the wheels began to turn, tynia pretended to slip and fall into the slushy water. briggan was distracted by the motion of the sedan. tynia rolled toward tchassen and snatched up his dispersal ray. the sergeant realized what she intended to do and lifted his weapon awkwardly in his left hand. no! stop! don't be fools! the words sang through tchassen's mind, but he could not speak. briggan and tynia fired simultaneously. the beam caught the sergeant squarely in the face. he died in a blaze of energy. the sedan rolled into the road and tynia fell unconscious beside tchassen. he wanted to help her, but he was still not able to move. in another half hour the paralysis would be gone, but by that time it would be too late to do anything for tynia. furiously he drove his body to respond and he managed to turn on his side. the exertion was too much for him. the haze swam in painful waves across his mind. just before unconsciousness came, he saw a band of natives on the edge of the clearing. * * * * * the swaying motion of the stretcher shook him awake. the earthmen were carrying him along a narrow mountain trail, past deep drifts of snow. his wound, where briggan's beam had hit him, was neatly bandaged; he could smell the odor of a disinfectant. it surprised him that the earth people knew so much about medicine; but it surprised him more that they had tried to save his life. he listened to his captors when they talked. he was able to understand a few phrases of the native dialect which every man assigned to the occupation had to learn, but what he had been taught was sadly inadequate. when one of his stretcher bearers saw that the captain was conscious, he spoke to him in the cultured language of the civilized galaxy. the syntax was awkwardly handled, yet tchassen was amazed that the earthman used it so well. "be no fear," the native said. "you get living again." "tynia. the girl with me--" "wound bad; she dead before we come. we follow from prison and try help all four you. you fight each other. you have evil weapons. we can save only you." "what are you going to do with me?" "make you well; send you back." the answer came as a shock to tchassen; it was what a civilized people would have said. but the earth natives were savages--brilliant, inventive individualists, but nonetheless social barbarians. it would have seemed much more logical if the native had said he was keeping tchassen for a religious ceremonial sacrifice. "as soon as my wounds are healed," tchassen repeated, "you'll let me go?" the native ran his hand over the captain's bandages. "this wound is a little thing, of no importance." he touched tchassen's head. "here is your real sickness, in the brain. we teach you how to think like a man; then you go home." "you're going to teach me? me? do you realize, i come from the civilized galaxy?" tchassen began to laugh; he wondered if he had been taken prisoner by a band of madmen. "we show you how to be human," the native answered blandly. "not fight and kill each other, the way you and the others did when the post blow up. we know meaning for civilization; you have none. it is easy secret. we learn after the invasion, when our world destroyed. real civilized people get along; live in peace; give help to each other. your people and ours: we can be brothers here on the earth, and on your other worlds, too." tchassen's laughter was touched with hysteria. have we failed? he knew the answer now: for the captives, the dispossessed men of the earth, would become the teachers of the conquerors--and teach them what the conquerors had come to build on the earth. no, we have not failed; we have simply misunderstood the strange genius of the quixotic earth. the defeated would one day rise up and conquer the galaxy. tchassen saw that clearly, but no longer in fear. he wanted to make their stamina, their grit, their ability to survive a part of himself. he wanted to make himself over--as an earthman. slow burn by henry still _the problems of space were multiple enough without the opinions and treachery of senator mckelvie--who really put the "fat into the fire". all kevin had to do was get it out...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, october . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "tell 'em to look sharp, bert. this pickup's got to be good." kevin morrow gulped the last of his coffee and felt its bitter acid gurgle around his stomach. he stared moodily through the plastic port where the spangled skirt of stars glittered against the black satin of endless night and a familiar curve of the space station swung ponderously around its hub. four space-suited tugmen floated languidly outside the rim. beyond them the gleaming black and white moonship tugged gently at her mooring lines, as though anxious to be off. bert alexander radioed quiet instructions to the tugmen. "why the hell couldn't he stay down there and mind his own business?" kevin growled. "mckelvie's been after our hide ever since we got the appropriation, and now this." he slapped the flimsy radio-gram. he looked up as the control room hatch opened. jones came in from the astronomy section. "morning, commander," he said. "you guys had breakfast yet? mess closes in minutes." kevin shook his head. "we're not hungry," bert filled in. "you think you've got nerves?" jones chuckled. "i just looked in on mark. he's sleeping like a baby. you wouldn't think the biggest day of his life is three hours away." "mckelvie's coming up to kibitz," morrow said. "mckelvie!" "the one and only," bert said. "here, read all about it." he handed over the morning facsimile torn off the machine when the station hurtled over new england at , miles an hour. the upper half of the sheet bore a picture of the white-maned senator. clearly etched on his face were the lines of too many half-rigged elections, too many compromises. beneath the picture were quotes from his speech the night before. "as chairman of your congressional watchdog committee," the senator had said, "i'll see that there's no more waste and corruption on this space project. for three years they've been building a rocket--the moon rocket, they call it--out there at the space station. "i haven't seen that rocket," the senator had continued. "all i've seen is five billion of your tax dollars flying into the vacuum of space. they tell me a man named mark kramer is going to fly out in that rocket and circle the moon. "but he will fail," mckelvie had promised. "if god had intended man to fly to the moon, he would have given us wings to do it. tomorrow i shall fly out to this space station, even at the risk of my life. i'll report the waste and corruption out there, and i'll report the failure of the moon rocket." jones crumpled the paper and aimed at the waste basket. "pardon me while i vomit," he said. "we've been there," kevin sighed deeply. "i suppose max gordon will be happy." "he'll wear a hole in his tongue on mckelvie's boots," bert said bitterly. "is it that bad?" "how else would he get a first class spaceman's badge?" morrow said. "he can't add two and two. but if stool pigeons had wings, he'd fly like a jet. we can't move up here without mckelvie knowing and howling about it. "don't worry," jones said, "if the moon rocket makes it, public opinion will take care of the senator." "if he doesn't take care of us first," kevin said darkly. "he'll be aboard in minutes." * * * * * dawn touched the high sierras as the station whirled in from the pacific, miles high. "bert. get me a radar fix on white sands." morrow huddled over the small computer, feeding in radar information as it came from his assistant. "rocket away!" blared a radio speaker on the bulkhead. the same message carried to the four space-suited tugmen floating beyond the rim of the wheel, linked with life-lines. jones watched interestedly out the port. "there she is!" he yelled. sunlight caught the ascending rocket, held it in a splash of light. the intercept technique was routine now, a matter of timing, but for a moment kevin succumbed to the frightening optical illusion that the rocket was approaching apex far below the station. then, slowly, the slender cylinder matched velocity and pulled into the orbit, crept to its destination. with deceptive ease, the four human tugs attached magnetic shoes and guided the projectile into the space station hub with short, expert blasts of heavy rocket pistols. "take over bert," morrow directed, "i guess i'm the official greeter." he hurried out of the control room, through a short connecting tube and emerged floating in the central space surrounding the hub where artificial gravity fell to zero. air pressure was normal to transfer passengers without space suits. the connecting lock clanked open. the rocket pilot stepped out. "he got sick," the pilot whispered to kevin. "i swabbed him off, but he's hoppin' mad." the senator's mop of white hair appeared in the port. kevin braced to absorb a tirade, but mckelvie's deep scowl changed to an expression of bliss as he floated weightless into the tiny room. "why, this is wonderful!" he sputtered. he waved his arms like a bird and kicked experimentally with a foot. "grab him!" kevin shouted. "he's gone happy with it." the pilot was too late. mckelvie's body sailed gracefully through the air and his head smacked the bulkhead. his eyes glazed in a frozen expression of carefree happiness. kevin swore. "now he'll accuse us of a plot against his life. help me get him to sick bay." the two men guided the weightless form into a tube connecting with the outer ring. as they pushed outward, mckelvie's weight increased until they carried him the last feet into the dispensary compartment. max gordon burst wild-eyed into the room. "what have you done to the senator?" he shouted. "why didn't you tell me he was coming up?" morrow made sure mckelvie was receiving full medical attention before he turned to the junior officer. "he went space happy and bumped his head," kevin said curtly, "and there was no more reason to notify you than the rest of the crew." he walked away. gordon bent solicitously over his unconscious patron. kevin found anderson in the passageway. "i ordered them to start fueling moonbeam," bert said. "good. is mark awake?" "eating breakfast. the psycho's giving him a clinical chat." "i wish it were over." morrow brushed back his hair. "you've really got the jitters, huh chief?" morrow turned angrily and then tried to laugh. "i'd sell my job for a nickel right now, bert. this will be touch and go, without having the worst enemy of space flight aboard. if this ship fails, it's more than a rocket or the death of a man. it'll set the whole program back years." "i know," bert answered, "but he'll make it." footsteps sounded in the tube outside the cabin. mark kramer walked in. "hi, chief," he grinned, "moonbeam ready to go?" "the techs are out now and fuel's aboard. how about you? shouldn't you get some rest?" "that's all i've had since they shipped me out here." kramer laughed. "it'll be a snap. after all, i'll never make over two gees and pick up mph to leave you guys behind. then i play ring around the rosy, take a look at luna's off side and come home. just like that." "just like that," kevin whispered meditatively. the moon rocket, floating there outside the station's rim was ugly, designed never to touch a planet's atmosphere, but it was the most beautiful thing man had ever built, assembled in space from individual fragments boosted laboriously from the earth's surface. another clatter of footsteps approached the hatch. max gordon entered and stood at attention as senator mckelvie made a dignified entrance. the senator wore an adhesive patch on his high forehead. he turned to kramer. "young man," he rumbled, "are you the fool risking your life in that--that thing out there? you must know it'll never reach the moon. i know it'll never--" kramer's face paled slightly and he moved swiftly between the two men. without using force, he backed the senator and gordon through the hatch and slammed it behind him. anger was a knot of green snakes in his belly. "i want to talk to that pilot," mckelvie said belligerently. "i'm sorry, senator. the best psychiatrists on earth worked eight months to condition kramer for this flight. he must not be emotionally disturbed. you can't talk to him." "you forbid...?" mckelvie exploded, but morrow intercepted smoothly. "gordon. i'm sure the senator would like a tour of the station. will you escort him?" mckelvie's face reddened and max opened his mouth to object. "gordon!" morrow said sharply. max closed his mouth and guided the grumbling congressman up the tube. * * * * * "twenty minutes to blastoff," bert reported. "right," kevin acknowledged absently. he studied taped data moving in by radio facsimile from the mammoth electronic computer on earth. "our orbit's true," he said with satisfaction and wiped a sweaty palm on his trousers. "get the time check, bert." beeps from the naval observatory synchronized with the space station chronometer. "alert kramer." "he's leaving the airlock now," bert said. from the intercom, morrow listened to periodic reports from crew members as mckelvie and gordon progressed in their tour. "mr. morrow?" "right." "this is adams in section m. the senator and gordon have been in the line chamber for minutes." "boot 'em out," kevin said crisply. "blastoff in minutes." "that machinery controls the safety lines," bert said. kevin looked up with a puzzled frown, but turned back to watch kramer creeping along a mooring line to the moon ship. a group of tugmen helped the space-suited figure into the rocket, dogged shut the hatch and cleared back to the station rim. "station to kramer," on the radio, "are you ready?" "all set," came the steady voice, "give me the word." "all right. five minutes." kevin turned to the intercom. "release safety lines." in the weightlessness of space the cables retained their normal rigid line from the rim of the station to the rocket. they had been under no strain. their shape would not change until they were reeled in. "two minutes," morrow warned. tension grew as anderson began the slow second count. the hatch opened. mckelvie and gordon entered the control room. no one noticed it. "five ... four ... three ... two ... one ..." a gout of white fire jabbed from the stern of the rocket. slowly the ship moved forward. morrow watched tensely, hands gripping a safety rail. then his face froze in a mask of disbelief and horror. "the lines!" he shouted. "the safety lines fouled!" he fell sprawling as the space station lurched heavily, tipped upward like a giant platter under the inexorable pull of the moon rocket. kevin scrambled back to the viewport, the shriek of tortured metal in his ears. horror-stricken, he saw the taut cables that had failed to release. then a huge section of nylon, aluminum and rubber ripped out of the station wall, was visible a second in the rocket glare, and vanished. escaping air whistled through the crippled structure. pressure dropped alarmingly before the series of automatic airlocks clattered reassuringly shut. kevin's hand was bleeding. he staggered with the frightening new motion of the space station. gordon and the senator had collapsed against a bulkhead. mckelvie's pale face twisted with fear and amazement. blood streaked down the pink curve of his forehead. individual station reports trickled through the intercom. miraculously, the bulk of the station had escaped damage. "line chamber's gone," adams reported. "other bulkheads holding, but something must have jammed the line machines. they ripped right out." "get repair crews in to patch leaks," morrow shouted. he turned frantically to the radio. "station to moonbeam. kramer! are you all right?" he waited an agonizing minute, then a scratchy voice came through. "kramer, here. what the hell happened? something gave me a terrific yaw, but the gyro pulled me back on course. fuel consumption high. otherwise i'm okay." "you ripped out part of the station," kevin yelled. "you're towing extra mass. release the safety lines if you can." the faint answer came back, garbled by static. another disaster halted a new try to reach him. with a howling rumble, the massive gyroscope case in the bulkhead split open. the heavy wheel, spinning at , revolutions per minute, slowly and majestically crawled out of its gimbals; the gyroscope that stabilized the entire structure remained in its plane of revolution, but ripped out of its moorings when the station was forcibly tilted. spinning like a giant top, the gyro walked slowly across the deck. mckelvie and gordon scrambled out of its way. "it'll go through!" bert shouted. kevin leaped to a chest of emergency patches. the wheel ripped through the magnesium shell like a knife in soft cheese. a gaping rent opened to the raw emptiness of space, but morrow was there with the patch. before decompression could explode the four creatures of blood and bone, the patch slapped in place, sealed by the remaining air pressure. trembling violently, kevin staggered to a chair and collapsed. silence rang in his ears. anderson gripped the edge of a table to keep from falling. kevin turned slowly to mckelvie and gordon. "come here," he said tonelessly. "now see here, young man--" the senator blustered. "i said come here!" the two men obeyed. the commander's voice held a new edge of steel. "you were the last to leave the line control room," he said. "_did you touch that machinery?_" gordon's face was the color of paste. his mouth worked like a suffocating fish. mckelvie recovered his bluster. "i'm a united states senator," he stuttered, "i'll not be threatened...." "i'm not threatening you," kevin said, "but if you fouled that machinery to assure your prediction about the rocket, i'll see that you hang. do you realize that gyroscope was the only control we had over the motion of this space station? whatever it does now is the result of the moon rocket's pull. we may not live to see that rocket again." as though verifying morrow's words, the lights dimmed momentarily and returned to normal brilliance. a frightened voice came from the squawkbox. "hey, chief! this is power control. we've lost the sun!" anderson looked out the port, studied the slowly wheeling stars. "mother of god," he breathed. "we're flopping ... like a flapjack over a stove." and the power mirrors were on only one face of the space station, mirrors that collected the sun's radiation and converted it to power. now they were collecting nothing but the twinkling of the stars. the vital light would return as the station continued its new, awkward rotation, but would the intermittent exposure be sufficient to sustain power? "shut down everything but emergency equipment," morrow directed. "when we get back on the sun, soak every bit of juice you can into those batteries." he turned to gordon and mckelvie. "won't it be interesting if we freeze to death, or suffocate when the air machines stop?" worry replaced anger as he turned abruptly away from them. "we've got a lot of work to do, bert," he said crisply. "see if you can get white sands." "it's over the horizon, i'll try south africa." anderson worked with the voice radio but static obliterated reception. "here comes a morse transmission," he said at last. morrow read slowly as tape fed out of the translator: "radar shows moon rocket in proper trajectory. where are you?" the first impulse was to dash to the viewport and peer out. but that would be no help in determining position. "radar, bert," he whispered. anderson verniered in the scope, measuring true distance to earth's surface. he read the figure, swore violently, and readjusted the instrument. "it can't be," he muttered at last. "this says we're miles out." " miles outside our orbit?" morrow said calmly. "i was afraid of that. that tug from the moonbeam not only cart-wheeled us, it yanked us out." he snatched a sheet of graph paper out of a desk drawer and penciled a point. "give me a reading every seconds." points began to connect in a curve. and the curve was something new. "get jones from astronomy," kevin said at last. "he can help us plot and maybe predict." when the astronomer arrived minutes later, the space station was miles above the earth, still shearing into space on an ascending curve. "get a quick look at this, jones," kevin spoke rapidly. "see if you can tell where it will be two hours from now." the astronomer studied the curve intently as it continued to grow under kevin's pencil. "it may be an outward spiral," he said haltingly, "or it could be a ... parabola." "no!" bert protested. "that would throw us into space. we couldn't--" "we couldn't get back," kevin finished grimly. "there'd better be an alternative." "it could be an ellipse," jones said. "it must be an ellipse," bert said eagerly. "the moonbeam couldn't have given us mph velocity." abruptly the lights went out. the radar scope faded from green to black. morrow swore a string of violent oaths, realizing in the same instant that anger was useless when the power mirrors lost the sun. he bellowed into the intercom, but the speaker was dead. already bert was racing down the tube to the power compartment. minutes later, the intercom dial flickered red. morrow yelled again. "you've got to keep power to this radar set for the next half-hour. everything else can stop, even the air machines, but _we've got to find out where we're going_." the space station turned again. power resumed and kevin picked up the plot. "we're miles out!" he breathed. "but it's flattening," jones cried. "the curve's flattening!" bert loped back into the control room. jones snatched the pencil from his superior. "here," he said quickly, "i can see it now. here's the curve. it's an ellipse all right." "it'll carry us out miles," bert gasped. "no one's ever been out that far." "all right," morrow said. "that crisis is past. the next question is where are we when we come back on nadir. bert, tell the crew what's going on. jones, you can help me. we've got to pick up white sands and get a fuel rocket up here to push." "good lord, look at that!" jones breathed. he stared out the port. the earth, a dazzling huge globe filling most of the heavens, swam slowly past the plastic window. it was the first time they had been able to see more than a convex segment of oceans and continents. kevin looked, soberly, and turned to the radio. the power did not fail in the next crazy rotation of the station. "there's the west coast." kevin pointed. "in a few minutes i can get white sands, i hope." jones had taken over the radar plot. at last his pencil reached a peak and the curve started down. the station had reached the limit of its wild plunge into space. "good," kevin muttered. "see if you can extrapolate that curve and get us an approximation where we'll cut in over the other side." the astronomer figured rapidly and abstractedly. "may i remind you young man," mckelvie's voice boomed, "you have a united states senator aboard. if anything happens--" "if anything happens, it happens to all of us," kevin answered coldly. "when you're ready to tell me what _did_ happen, i'm ready to listen." silence. "white sands, this is station i. come in please." kevin tried to keep his voice calm, but the lives of men rode on it, on his ability to project his words through the crazy hash of static lacing this part of space from the multitude of radio stars. a power rocket with extra fuel was the only instrument that could return the space station to its normal orbit. that rocket must come from white sands. white sands did not answer. he tried again, turned as an exclamation of dismay burst from the astronomer. morrow bent to look at the plotting board. jones had sketched a circle of the earth, placing it in the heart of the ellipse the space station was drawing around it. from miles out, the line curved down and down, and down.... but it did not meet the point where the station had departed from its orbit miles above earth's surface. the line came down and around to kiss the earth--almost. "i hope it's wrong," jones said huskily. "if i'm right, we'll come in miles above the surface." "it can't!" morrow shouted in frustration. "we'll hit stratosphere. it'll burn us--just long enough so we'll feel the agony before we die." jones rechecked his figures and shook his head. the line was still the same. each seconds it was supported by a new radar range. the astronomer's lightning fingers worked out a new problem. "we have about minutes to do something about it," he said. "we'll be over the atlantic or england when it happens." "station i, this is...." the beautiful, wonderful voice burst loud and clear from the radio and then vanished in a blurb of static. "oh god!" kevin breathed. it was a prayer. "we hear you," he shouted, procedure gone with the desperate need to communicate with home. "come in white sands. please come in!" faintly now the voice blurred in and out, lost altogether for vital moments: "... your plot. altiac computer ... your orbit ... rocket on standby ... as you pass." "yes!" kevin shouted, gripping the short wave set with white fingers, trying to project his words into the microphone, across the dwindling thousands of miles of space. "yes. send the rocket!" "can they do it?" jones asked. "the rocket, i mean." "i don't know," kevin said. "they're all pre-set, mass produced now, and fuel is adjusted to come into the old orbit. they can be rigged, i think, if there's enough time." * * * * * the coast of california loomed below them now, a brown fringe holding back the dazzling flood of the pacific. they were miles above the earth, dropping sharply on the down leg of the ellipse. at their present speed, the station appeared to be plunging directly at the earth. the globe was frighteningly larger each time it wobbled across the viewport. "shall i call away the tugmen?" bert asked tensely. "i can't ask them to do it," kevin said. "with this crazy orbit, it's too dangerous. i'm going out." he slipped into his space gear. "i'm going with you," bert said. kevin smiled his gratitude. in the airlock the men armed themselves with three heavy rocket pistols each. morrow ordered other tugmen into suits for standby. "i wish i could do this alone, bert," he said soberly. "but i'm glad you're coming along. if we miss, there won't be a second chance." they knew approximately when they would pass over the rocket launching base, but this time it would be different. the space station would pass at miles altitude and with a new velocity. no one could be sure the feeder rocket would make it. unless maximum fuel had been adjusted carefully, it might orbit out of reach below them. rescue fuel would take the place of a pilot. * * * * * anderson and morrow floated clear of the huge wheel, turning lazily in the deceptive luxury of zero gravity. the familiar sensation of exhilaration threatened to wipe out the urgency they must bring to bear on their lone chance for survival. they could see the jagged hole where the moonbeam had yanked out a section of the structure. an unintelligible buzz of voice murmured in the radios. unconsciously kevin tried to squeeze the earphones against his ears, but his heavily-gloved hands met only the rigid globe of his helmet. "you get it, bert?" "no." "this is jones," a new voice loud and clear. "earth says seconds to blastoff." "rocket away!" like a tiny, clear bell the words emerged from static. bert and kevin gyrated their bodies so they could stare directly at the passing panorama of earth below. they had seen it hundreds of times, but now more miles of altitude gave the illusion they were studying a familiar landmark through the small end of a telescope. "there it is!" bert shouted. a pinpoint of flame, that was it, with no apparent motion as it rose almost vertically toward them. then a black dot in an infinitesimal circle of flame--the rocket silhouetted against its own fire ... as big as a dime ... as big as a dollar.... ... as big as a basketball, the circle of flame soared up toward them. "it's still firing!" kevin yelled. "it'll overshoot us." as he spoke, the fire died, but the tiny bar of the rocket, black against the luminous surface of earth, crawled rapidly up into their sector of starlit blackness. then it was above earth's horizon, nearly to the space station's orbit, crawling slowly along, almost to them--a beautiful long cylinder of metal, symbol of home and a civilization sending power to help them to safety. hope flashed through kevin's mind that he was wrong, that the giant computer and the careful hands of technicians had matched the ship to their orbit after all. but he was right. it passed them, angling slowly upward not yards away. instantly the two men rode the rocket blast of their pistols to the nose of the huge projectile. but it carried velocity imparted by rockets that had fired a fraction of a minute too long. clinging to the metal with magnetic shoes, morrow and anderson pressed the triggers of the pistols, held them down, trying to push the cylinder down and back. bert's heavy breathing rasped in the radio as he unconsciously used the futile force of his muscles in the agonizing effort to move the ship. their pistols gave out almost simultaneously. both reached for another. thin streams of propulsive gas altered the course of the rocket, slightly, but the space station was smaller now, angling imperceptibly away and down as the rocket pressed outward into a new, higher orbit. the rocket pistols were not enough. "get the hell back here!" jones' voice blared in their ears. "you can't do it. you're miles away now and angling up. don't be dead heroes!" the last words were high and frantic. "we've got to!" morrow answered. "there's no other way." "we can't do the impossible, chief," bert gasped. a group of tiny figures broke away from the rim of the space station. the tugmen were coming to help. then kevin grasped the hideous truth. there were not enough rocket pistols to bring the men to the full ship and return _with any reserve to guide the projectile_. "get back!" he shouted. "save the pistols. we're coming in." behind them their only chance for life continued serenely upward into a new orbit. there, miles above the earth, it would revolve forever with more fuel in its tanks than it needed. fuel that would have saved the lives of desperate men. by leaving it, morrow and anderson had bought perhaps more minutes of life before the space station became a huge meteor riding its fiery path to death in the the upper reaches of the atmosphere. both suffered the guilt of enormous betrayal. the fact that they could have done no more did not erase it. frantically, kevin flipped over in his mind the possible tools that still could be brought to bear to lift the space station above its flaming destruction. but his tools were the stone axe of a primitive man trying to hack his way out of a forest fire. * * * * * eager hands pulled them back into the station. for a moment there were the reassuring sounds as their helmets were unscrewed. then the familiar smells and shape of the structure that had been home for so long. now that haven was about to destroy itself. then morrow remembered the earth rocket that had brought senator mckelvie to the great white sausage in space. that rocket still contained a small quantity of fuel. if fired at the precise moment, that fuel, anchored with the rocket in the hub socket, might be enough to lift the entire station. he shouted instructions and men raced to obey. kevin, himself, raced into the nearest tube. there was no sound, but ahead of him the hatch was open to the discharge chamber. he leaped into the zero gravity room. mckelvie was crawling through the connecting port into the feeder rocket. kevin sprawled headlong into gordon. the recoil threw them apart, but gordon recovered balance first. he had a gun. "get back," he snarled. "we're going down." he laughed sharply, near hysteria. "we're going down to tell the world how you fried--through error and mismanagement." "you messed up those lines," kevin said. it didn't matter now. he only hoped to hold gordon long enough for diversionary help to come out of the tube. "yes," gordon leered. "we fixed the lines. the senator wasn't sure we should, but i helped him over his squeamishness, and now we'll crack the whip when we get back home." "you won't make it," kevin said. "we're still more than miles high. the glide pattern in that rocket is built to take you down from miles." mckelvie's head appeared in the hatch. he was desperately afraid. "you said you could fly this thing, gordon. can you?" max nodded his head rapidly, like a schoolboy asked to recite a lesson he has not studied. kevin was against the bulkhead. now he pushed himself slowly forward. "stay back or i'll shoot?" gordon screamed. instead, he leaped backward through the hatch. hampered by his original slow motion, kevin could not move faster until he reached another solid surface. the hatch slammed shut before his grasping fingers touched it. a wrenching tug jostled the space station structure. the rocket was gone, and with it the power that might have saved all of them. morrow ran again. he had not stopped running since the beginning of this nightmare. he tumbled over bert and jones in the tube. they scrambled after him back to the control room. the three men watched through the port. "if he doesn't hit the atmosphere too quick, too hard ..." kevin whispered. his fists were clenched. he felt no malice at this moment. he did not wish them death. there was no sound in the radio. the plummeting projectile was a tiny black dot, vanishing below and behind them. when the end came, it was a mote of orange red, then a dazzling smear of white fire as the rocket ripped into the atmosphere at nearly , miles an hour. "they're dead!" jones voice choked with disbelief. kevin nodded, but it was a flashing thing that lost meaning for him in the same instant. he knew that unless a miracle happened, ninety men in his command would meet the same fate. * * * * * like a perpetual motion machine, his brain kept reaching for something that could save his space station, his own people, the iron-nerved spacemen who knew they were near death but kept their vital posts, waiting for him to find a way. stories do not end unhappily--that thought kept cluttering his brain--a muddy optimism blanking out vital things that might be done. "what's the altitude jones?" " now. leveling a bit." "enough?" it was a stupid question and kevin knew it. jones shook his head. "we might be lucky," he said. "we'll hit it about miles up. the top isn't a smooth surface, it billows and dips. but," he added, almost a whisper, "we'll penetrate to about miles before...." "how much time?" kevin asked sharply. a tiny chain of hope linked feebly. "about minutes." "bert, order all hands into space suits--emergency!" while the order was being carried out, kevin summoned the tugmen. "how many loaded pistols do we have?" "six," the chief answered. "all right. get this quick. anchor yourselves inside the hub. aim those pistols at the earth and fire until they're exhausted." the chief stared incredulously. "i know it's crazy," kevin snapped. "it's not enough, but if it alters our orbit feet, it'll help." the tugmen ran out. bert, kevin and jones scrambled into space suits. morrow called for reports. "all hands," he intoned steadily, "open all ports. repeat. open all ports. do not question. follow directions closely." ten seconds later, a whoosh of escaping air signaled obedience. "now!" kevin shouted, "grab every loose object within reach. throw it at the earth. desks, books, tools, anything. throw them down with every ounce of strength you've got!" it was insane. everything was insane. it couldn't possibly be enough.... but space around the hurtling station blossomed with every conceivable flying object that man has ever taken with him to a lonely outpost. a pair of shoes went tumbling into darkness, and behind it the plastic framed photograph of someone's wife and children. jones knew his superior had not gone berserk. he bent anxiously over the radar scope. it was not a matter of jettisoning weight. every action has an equal reaction, and the force each man gave to a thrown object was as effective in its diminuitive way as the exhaust from a rocket. "read it!" morrow shouted. "read it!" " miles," jones cried. "i need more readings to tell if it helped." there was no sound in the radio circuit, save that of men breathing, waiting to hear death sentences. jones' heavily-gloved hands moved the pencil clumsily over the graph paper. he drew a tangent to a new curve. "it helped," he said tonelessly, "we'll go in at miles, penetrate to ...." "not enough," kevin said. "close all ports. repeat. close all ports!" an unheard sigh breathed through the mammoth, complex doughnut as automatic machinery gave new breath to airless spaces. it might never be needed again to sustain human life. but the presence of air delivered one final hope to morrow's frantic brain. "two three oh miles," jones said. "air control," kevin barked into the mike, "how much pressure can you get in minutes?" "air control, aye," came the answer, and a pause while the chief calculated. "about pounds with everything on the line." "get it on! and hang on to your hats," kevin yelled. the station dropped another miles, slanting in sharply toward the planet's envelope of gas that could sustain life--or take it away. morrow turned to anderson. "bert. there are four tubes leading into the hub. get men and open the outer airlocks. then standby the four inner locks. when i give the signal, open those locks, fast. you may have to pull to help the machinery--you'll be fighting three times normal air pressure." bert ran out. nothing now but to wait. five minutes passed. ten. "we're at miles," jones said. far below the earth wheeled by, its apparent motion exaggerated as the space station swooped lower. " miles." kevin's throat was parched, his lips dry. increasing air pressure squeezed the space suits tighter around his flesh. a horror of claustrophobia gripped him and he knew every man was suffering the same torture. " miles." "almost there," bert breathed, unaware that his words were audible. then a new force gripped them, at first the touch of a caressing finger tip dragging back, ever so slightly. kevin staggered as inertia tugged him forward. "we're in the air!" he shouted. "bert. standby the airlocks!" "airlocks ready!" the finger was a hand, now, a huge hand of tenuous gases, pressing, pressing, but the station still ripped through its death medium at a staggering , miles an hour. jones pointed. morrow's eyes followed his indicating finger to the thermocouple dial. the dial said ° f. while he watched it moved to , quickly to °. * * * * * five seconds more. a blinding pain of tension stabbed kevin behind the eyes. but through the flashing colors of agony, he counted, slowly, deliberately.... "now!" he shouted. "open airlocks, bert. now!" air rushed out through the converging spokes of the great wheel, poured out under tremendous pressure, into the open cup of the space station hub, and there the force of three atmospheres spurted into space through the mammoth improvised rocket nozzle. kevin felt the motion. every man of the crew felt the surge as the intricate mass of metal and nylon leaped upward. that was all. morrow watched the temperature gauge. it climbed to °, to ° ... ... .... "the temperature is at degrees," he announced huskily over the radio circuit. "if it goes higher, there's nothing we can do." the needle quivered at , moved to , and held.... two minutes, three.... the needle stepped back, one degree. "we're moving out," kevin whispered. "we're moving out!" the cheer, then, was a ringing, deafening roar in the earphones. jones thumped kevin madly on the back and leaped in a grotesque dance of joy. * * * * * morrow leaned back in the control chair, pressed tired fingers to his temples. he could not remember when he had slept. the first rocket from white sands had brought power to adjust the orbit. this one was on the mark. the next three brought the senate investigating committee. but that didn't matter, really. kevin was happy, and he was waiting. the control room door banged open. mark kramer's grin was like a flash of warm sunlight. "hi, commander," he said, "wait'll you see the marvelous pictures i got." outside the moonbeam rode gently at anchor, tethered with new safety lines.