Danger in Deep Space by Carey Rockwell (novel24 TXT) đź“•
The Polaris unit was well known among other cadet units, and they were greeted heartily from all sides. As Astro and Roger joked with various cadet units, forming up in front of the slidestairs leading down to the mess halls, Alfie turned to take a slidestairs going up. Suddenly he stopped, grabbed Tom by the shoulders, and whispered in his ear. Just as abruptly he turned and raced up the ascending slidestairs.
"What was that about?" asked Roger, as Tom stood staring after the little cadet.
"Roger--he--he said our next assignment would be one of the great experiments in space history. Something to be done that--that hasn't ever been done before!"
"Well, blast my jets!" said Astro. "What do you suppose it is?"
"Ahhh," sneered Roger, "I'll bet it's nothing more than takin
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Then the connection was relayed to one of the secondary control officers at the monitoring boards.
"That's Captain Stefens," said Scott in a whisper. "Toughest officer on the station. He has to be. From five hundred to a thousand ships arrive and depart daily. It's his job to see that every arriving ship is properly taken into the landing ports. Besides that, everything you've seen, except the meteor and weather observation rooms, are under his command. If he thinks a ship is overloaded, he won't allow it to enter and disrupt the balance of the station. Instead, he'll order its skipper to dump part of his cargo out in space to be picked up later. He makes hundreds of decisions a day—some of them really hair-raising. Once, when a rocket scout crew was threatened with exploding reactant mass, he calmly told them to blast off into a desolate spot in space and blow up. The crew could have abandoned ship, but they chose to remain with it and were blown to atoms. It could have happened to the station. That night he got a three-day pass from the station and went to Venusport."
Scott shook his head. "I've heard Venusport will never be the same after that three-day pass of Captain Stefens."
The young officer looked at Corbett quizzically. "That's the man you're going to work for."
Scott walked over to the circular desk and spoke rapidly to the officer inside. As Tom approached, Stefens gave him a quick, sharp glance. It sent a shiver down the cadet's spine. Scott waved to him to come over.
"Captain Stefens, this is Cadet Tom Corbett."
Tom came to attention.
"All right, Corbett," said Stefens, speaking like a man who had a lot to do, knew how to do it, liked to do it, and was losing time. "Stand up here with me and keep your mouth shut. Remember any questions you want to ask, and when I have a spare moment, ask them. And by the rings of Saturn, be sure I'm free to answer. Take my attention at the wrong moment and we could have a bad accident."
Stefens gave Scott a fleeting smile and turned back to his constant keen-eyed inspection of the monitors.
The radar watch was reporting the approach of a ship. Stefens began his cold, precise orders.
"Monitor seven, take freighter out of station on port sixty-six; monitor twelve, stand by for identification signal of jet liner coming in from Mars. Watch her closely. The Venusport Space Line is overloading again...." On and on he went, with Tom standing to one side watching with wide-eyed wonder as the many ships were maneuvered into and out of the station.
Suddenly Stefens turned to Tom. "Well, Corbett," he rasped, "what's the first question?"
Tom gulped. He had been so fascinated by the room's sheer magic and by Stefens' sure control of the traffic that he hadn't had a chance to think.
"I—I—don't have one—yet, sir," he managed finally.
"I want five questions within five minutes!" snapped Stefens, "and they better be rocket-blasting good questions!" He turned back to the monitors.
Tom Corbett, while he had gained the respect of many elder spacemen, was discovering that a cadet's life got no easier as time went on. He wondered fleetingly how Roger and Astro were making out, and then he began to think of some questions.
Beside him, oblivious of his presence, Stefens continued to spout directions. "Monitor three, take rocket scout out of landing-port eight. One crew member is remaining aboard the station for medical treatment. He weighs one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. Make balance adjustments accordingly...."
Tom's head was spinning. It was all too much for one young cadet to absorb on such short notice.
"There goes the jet liner to Mars," said Al Mason wistfully. "Sure wish we wuz on her." His eyes followed the beautiful slim passenger ship just blasting off from Venus.
"Why?" demanded Loring.
"Anything to get away from Venusport. What a stinking hole!" snorted the shorter of the two spacemen.
"For what we want to do," said Loring, "there ain't another city in the system that's got the advantages this place has!"
"Don't talk to me about advantages," whined Mason. "Be darned if I can see any. All we been doing is hang around the spaceport, talk to the spacemen, and watch the ships blast off. Maybe you're up to something but I'm blasted if I see what it can be."
"I've been looking for the right break to come along."
"What kind of break?" growled Mason.
"That kind," said Loring. He pointed to a distant figure emerging from a space freighter. "There's our answer!" said Loring, a note of triumph in his voice. "Come on. Let's get outta here. I don't want to be recognized."
"But—but—what's up? What's that guy and the space freighter Annie Jones got to do with us?"
Loring didn't answer but stepped quickly to the nearest jet cab and hopped into the back seat. Mason tumbled in after him.
"Spaceman's Row," Loring directed, "and make it quick!"
The driver stepped on the accelerator and the red teardrop-shaped vehicle shot away from the curb into the crowd of cars racing along Premier Highway Number One. In the back seat of the jet cab, Loring turned to his spacemate and slapped him on the back.
"Soon's we get into the Row, you go and pack our gear, see! Then meet me at the Café Cosmos in half an hour."
"Pack our gear?" asked Mason with alarm. "Are we going some place?"
Loring shot a glance at the driver. "Just do as I tell you!" he growled. "In a few hours we'll be on our way to Tara, and then—" He dropped his voice to a whisper. Mason listened and smiled.
The jet cab slid along the arrow-straight highway toward the heart of the city of Venusport. Soon it reached the outskirts. On both sides of the highway rose low, flat-roofed dwellings, built on a revolving wheel to follow the precious sun, and constructed of pure Titan crystal. Farther ahead and looming magnificent in the late afternoon sun was the first and largest of Venusian cities, Venusport. Like a fantastically large diamond, the startling towers of the young city shot upward into the misty atmosphere, catching the light and reflecting it in every color of the spectrum.
Loring and Mason did not appreciate the beauty of the city as they rode swiftly through the busy streets. Loring, in particular, thought as he had never thought before. He was busily putting a plot together in his mind—a plot as dangerous as it was criminal.
The jet cab slammed to a stop at a busy intersection of the city. This was Spaceman's Row, and it dated back to Venusport's first rough and tough pioneering days.
For two blocks on either side of the street, in building after building, cafés, pawnshops, cheap restaurants above and below the street level, supplied the needs of countless shadowy figures who came and went as silently as ghosts. Spaceman's Row was where suspended spacemen and space rats, prospectors of the asteroids for uranium and pitchblende, gathered and found short-lived and rowdy fun. Here, skippers of rocket ships, bound for destinations in deep space, could find hands willing to sign on their dirty freighters despite low pay and poor working conditions. No questions were asked here. Along Spaceman's Row, hard men played a grim game of survival.
Loring and Mason paid the driver, got out, and walked down the busy street. Here and there, nuaniam signs began to flick on, their garish blues, reds, and whites bathing the street in a glow of synthetic light. It was early evening, but already Spaceman's Row was getting ready for the coming night.
Presently, Mason left Loring, climbing up a long narrow flight of stairs leading to a dingy back hall bedroom to pack their few remaining bits of gear.
Loring walked on amid the noise and laughter that echoed from cheap restaurants and saloons. Stopping before Café Cosmos, he surveyed the street quickly before entering the wide doors. Many years before, the Cosmos had been a sedate dining spot, a place where respectable family parties came to enjoy good food and the gentle breezes of a near-by lake. Now, with the lake polluted by industry and with the gradual influx of shiftless spacemen, the Cosmos had been given over to the most basic, simple need of its new patrons—rocket juice!
The large room that Loring entered still retained some of the features of its more genteel beginnings, but the huge blaring teleceiver screen was filled with the pouting face of a popular singer. He advanced to the bar that occupied one entire wall.
"Rocket juice!" he said, slamming down his fist on the wooden bar. "Double!" He was served a glass of the harsh bluish liquid, paid his credits, and downed the drink. Then he turned slowly and glanced around the half-filled room. Almost immediately he spotted a small wizened man limping toward him.
"Been waiting for you," said the man.
"Well," demanded Loring, "did'ja get anything set up, Shinny?"
"Mr. Shinny!" growled the little man, with surprising vigor. "I'm old enough to be your father!"
"Awright—awright—Mr. Shinny!" sneered Loring. "Did'ja get it?"
The little man shook his head. "Nothing on the market, Billy boy." He paused and aimed a stream of tobacco juice at a near-by cuspidor.
Loring looked relieved. "Just as well. I've got something else lined up, anyway."
Shinny's eyes sharpened. "You must have a pretty big strike, Billy boy, if you're so hot to buy a spaceship!"
"Only want to take a little ride upstairs, Mr. Shinny," said Loring.
"Don't hand me that space gas!" snapped Shinny. "A man who's lost his space papers ain't going to take a chance at getting caught by the Solar Guard, busting the void with a rocket ship and no papers." He stopped, and his small gray eyes twinkled. "Unless," he added, "you've got quite a strike lined up!"
"Hey, Loring!" yelled Mason, entering the café. He carried two spaceman's traveling bags, small black plastic containers with glass zippers.
"So you've got Al Mason in with you," mused Shinny. "Pretty good man, Al. Let's see now, I saw you two just before you blasted off for Tara!" He paused. "Couldn't be that you've got anything lined up in deep space, now could it?"
"You're an old fool!" snarled Loring.
"Heh—heh—heh," chuckled Shinny. A toothless smile spread across his wrinkled face. "Coming close, am I?"
Al Mason looked at Shinny and back at Loring. "Say! What is this?" he demanded.
"O.K., O.K.," said Loring between clenched teeth. "So we've got a strike out in the deep, but one word outta line from you and I'll blast you with my heater!"
"Not a word," said Shinny, "not a word. I'll only charge you a little to keep your secret."
Mason looked at Loring. "How much?" he demanded.
"A twentieth of the take," said Shinny. "And that's dirt cheap."
"It's robbery," said Loring, "but O.K. We've got no choice!"
"Loring, wait a minute!" objected Mason. "One twentieth! Why, that could add up to a million credits!"
Shinny's eyes opened wide. "Twenty million! Hey, there hasn't been a uranium strike that big since the old seventeenth moon of Jupiter back in 2294!"
Loring motioned to them to sit down at a table. He ordered a bottle of rocket juice and filled three glasses.
"This ain't uranium, Mr. Shinny!" he said.
Shinny's eyes opened wider still. "What then?"
"What's the most precious metal in the system today?" Loring asked.
"Why—gold, I guess."
"Next to gold?"
Shinny thought for a moment. "Couldn't be
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