Danger in Deep Space

CHAPTER 3

"Polaris unit—staaaaaaaannnnnndddddd toooooo!"

Every muscle, every bone in their three bodies snapped to rigid attention simultaneously. Eyes straight, chins in, the cadets waited for whatever calamity had befallen them. From behind came quick, heavy footsteps. They drew closer until they passed alongside and then abruptly stopped. There, in front of them, stood the one and only Major "Blast-off" Connel!

Though a few inches shorter than Astro, he was what Astro might become in thirty years, heavily muscular, with a barrel chest that filled the gold-and-black uniform tightly. He stood balanced on the balls of his small feet like a boxer, hands hanging loosely at his sides. A bulldog chin jutted out of his rough-hewn face as if it were going to snap off the head of the nearest cadet. He towered over Tom and Roger, and though shorter than Astro, he made up for this by sheer force of personality. When he spoke, his voice was like a deep foghorn that had suddenly learned the use of vowels.

"So this is the great Polaris unit, eh?" he bellowed. "You're two minutes late!"

Tom suddenly felt that he and his unit-mates were all alone in the corridor with the major. He glanced to one side, then the other, cautiously, and saw it was empty. And for good reason! No one wanted to be around when "Blast-off" Connel was blasting. Cadets, enlisted men, and even officers were not safe from his sudden outbursts. He drove himself so hard that he became impatient with others who were not able to match his drive. It was not because of ego but rather to get the job at hand finished. More than once he had dressed down a captain of the Solar Guard in the same tone he used on a green Earthworm. It was legend around the Academy that once, believing he was right, he had broken into the Council Chamber itself to argue his point. He won by a unanimous decision. Nothing, but nothing, had been devised or thought of that could stop "Blast-off" Connel. Every waking moment of his adult life had been spent in the pursuit of more and more knowledge about space, space travel, and life on the other planets.

Now, his wrath at fever pitch at their being tardy, he stood in front of the cadets, turning his anger on Roger first.

"Your name's Manning, isn't it?" he growled.

"Yes, sir!" replied Roger.

"Father got a medal—used to be a Solar Guard officer?"

"That's right, sir. He was killed in space."

"I know. He was a good man. You'll never be the man he was, if you live ten thousand years. But if you don't try to be a better man than he was, you won't live five minutes with me! Is that clear, Cadet Manning?"

"Very clear, sir!" gulped Roger.

Connel turned to Astro.

"And you're the home-grown atomic-rocket genius, Venusian style, eh?"

"Yes, sir," choked Astro. "I'm from Venus."

"Bucked rockets on the old chemical burners as a kid before entering the Academy, eh?" asked Connel. There was less than an inch and a half between Astro's face and Major Connel's jaw.

"Yes, sir," answered Astro, "I was an enlisted man before coming to the Academy."

"Well, get this, you rocket buster," roared Connel. "I want a power deck that will give me what I want, when I want it, or you'll be back in the ranks again. Is that clear, Cadet Astro?"

"Yes, sir! Everything she's got, when you want it, sir."

"And I like to have a power deck clean enough to eat off the deck plates!"

"Yes, sir," stuttered Astro, growing more and more confused. "You like to eat off the deck plates, sir!"

"By the craters of Luna, no! I don't like to eat off the deck plates, but I want them clean enough to eat there if I want to!"

"Yes, sir!" Astro's voice was hardly above a whisper.

"And you're the tactical wizard that won the space maneuvers recently, singlehanded, eh?" asked Connel, bending down to face Tom.

"Our side won, sir. If that answers your question," replied Tom. He was as nervous as Roger and Astro, but he fought for control. He was determined not to be bullied.

"I didn't ask you who won!" snapped Connel. "But you're the one just the same. Control-deck cadet, eh? Well, you work with me. On the control deck there's only room for one brain, one decision, one answer. And when I'm on the control deck, that decision, answer, and brain will be mine!"

"I understand perfectly, sir," said Tom tonelessly.

Connel stepped back, fists on his hips, eying the three cadets. He had heard about their difficulty in fitting personalities together when they had first arrived at Space Academy (as described in Stand By for Mars!). And he had heard about their triumph over the Martian desert. He was impressed with everything he had learned about them, but he knew that he had a reputation for being tough and that this reputation usually brought out the best in cadets. Early in his long and brilliant career he had learned that his life depended on the courage and ingenuity of his fellow spacemen. When he became an instructor at the Academy, he had determined that no cadet would ever be anything but the best, and that, when they blasted off in later years, they could be depended on.

He looked at the three cadets and felt a tinge of excitement that did not show on his scowling face. "Yes," he thought, "they'll make spacemen. It'll take a little time—but they're good material."

"Now listen to this!" he bawled. "We blast off for the Venus space station in exactly thirty minutes. Get your gear aboard the Polaris and stand by to raise ship." He dropped his voice and pushed out his jaw a little farther. "This will be the toughest journey you'll ever make. You'll either come back spacemen, or you'll come back nothing. I'm going to try my best to make it"—he paused and added coldly—"nothing! Because if you can't take it from me, then you don't belong in space! Unit dis-missed!"

He turned on his heel and disappeared up the slidestairs without another look at the three rigid cadets.

"Yeah—we'll educate him, all right," said Astro softly, with a wink at Tom. "Make him think he's done everything for us."

"Ah, go blast your jets!" snarled Roger after he had found his voice.

"Come on," said Tom. "Let's get the Polaris ready. And, fellows, I mean ready!"

Bill Loring and Al Mason stood near the entrance to the control tower of the Academy spaceport and watched the three cadets of the Polaris scramble into the giant rocket cruiser.

"Every time I think about that Connel kicking us out of space for twelve months I wanta pound his head in with a wrench!" snarled Loring.

Mason snorted. "Well, what's the use of hanging around here?" he asked. "That Connel wouldn't have us aboard the Polaris, even if we were cleared and had our papers. There ain't a thing we can do!"

"Don't give up so easy. There's a fortune setting up there in space—just waiting for me and you to come and take it. And no big-shot Solar Guard officer is going to keep me from getting it!"

"Yeah—yeah," grumbled Mason, "but what are you going to do about it?"

"I'll show you what I'm going to do!" said Loring. "We're heading for Venusport."

"Venusport? By the moons of Jupiter, what are we going to do there?"

"Get a free ride to Tara!"

"But how? I only got a few hundred credits and you ain't got much more. There ain't nobody going to go fifty billion miles on nothing!"

Loring's eyes followed the massive figure of Major Connel on the slidewalk as it swept across the spaceport field toward the Polaris. "You just buy us a coupla seats on the next rocket to Venusport and stop asking stupid questions. When we see Major 'Blast-off' Connel again, we'll be giving the orders with a paralo-ray!"

The two disgruntled spacemen turned quickly and walked to the nearest slidewalk, disappearing around a building.

Aboard the Polaris, Tom confronted his two unit-mates.

"Now look, fellows. After the hard time Major Connel just gave us, let's see if we can't really stay on the ball from now on."

"All right by me, Tom," Astro said, nodding his head.

"You're having space dreams, Corbett!" drawled Roger. "No matter what we do for old 'Blast-off' we'll wind up behind the eight ball."

"But if we really try," urged Tom, "if we all do our jobs, there can't be anything for him to fuss about."

"We'll make it tough for him to give us any demerits," Astro chimed in.

"Right," said Tom.

"It won't work," grumbled Roger. "You saw the way he chewed us up, and for what? I ask you—for what?"

"He was just trying to live up to his reputation, Roger," replied Tom. "But common sense will tell you that if you're on the ball you won't get demerits."

"What's the matter, hot-shot?" growled Astro. "Afraid of a little work?"

"Listen, you Venusian clunk," sneered Roger, "I'll work the pants off you any day in the week, and that includes Titan days, too!"

"O.K." Tom smiled. "Save half of that energy for the Polaris, Roger."

"Yeah, use some of that Manning hot air to shine brass!" suggested Astro.

"Come on. Let's get this wagon in shape," said Tom. He turned to the instrument panel and the great control board.

A moment later the three cadets were busy shining the few bits of brass and rechecking the many controls and levers. Suddenly there was the sound of a hatch slamming below and then Astro's voice came whispering over the intercom, "... watch it, fellows. Here he comes!"

The airtight hatch leading to the control deck slid back, and Major Connel stepped inside. With one sweeping glance he took in the control deck and the evidence of their work.

"Unit—staaaaand to!" he roared.

Astro climbed into the control deck and snapped to attention with his unit-mates as Connel began a quick but thorough check of the many dials and switches and relays on the control panel.

"Ummmmh," he mused. "Been doing a little work, I see."

"Oh, nothing special, sir," said Roger.

"Well, from now on it's going to be special!" roared Connel.

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Roger quickly.

"All right, at ease," ordered Connel. As the three boys relaxed, Connel stepped over to the astrogation board and snapped a switch. Immediately a solar chart filled the huge chart screen. It was a black-and-white view of the planet Venus.

"This is where we're going first," he said, placing a finger on a ball-shaped satellite in orbit around the misty planet. "This is the Venus space station. As you know, Venus has no natural satellite of its own, so we built one. We'll blast off from here and go directly to the space station where the Polaris will be fitted with hyperdrive for deep-space operations. While at the station you will acquaint yourselves with the operation of the new audio communications transmitter. When I'm satisfied that you can handle it under the prevailing conditions of an extended space flight, we'll blast off for a test of its range and performance."

Major Connel paused and faced the cadets squarely. Then he continued: "This is an important mission—one which I hope will enable the Solar Guard to establish the first base outside of our solar system. Our destination is Tara, in the star system of Alpha Centauri. Tara is a planet in a stage of development similar to that of Earth several million years ago. Its climate is tropical, and lush vegetation—jungles really—covers the land surface. Two great oceans separate the land masses. One is called Alpha, the other Omega. I was on the first expedition, when Tara was discovered, and have just returned from the second, during which we explored it and ran tests to learn if it could sustain human life. All tests show that Tara can be transformed into a paradise."

Connel paused, took a deep breath, and continued: "I shall expect more than just hard work from you. I want everything you have to offer. Not just good performance, but excellence! I will not tolerate anything less, and if I'm forced to resort to extreme disciplinary action to get what I demand, then you can expect to receive every demerit in the book!" He stepped closer to the three cadets. "Remember! Spacemen—or nothing! Now, stand by to blast off!"

Without a word, the three cadets hurried to their stations and began routine procedure to raise ship.

"All departments ready to blast off, Major Connel," reported Tom, saluting sharply.

"Very well, Corbett, proceed," said Connel.

Tom called into the intercom, "Stand by for blast-off!" He then opened the circuit to the teleceiver screen overhead and spoke to the spaceport control tower.

"Polaris to spaceport control. Request permission to blast off. Request orbit."

"Spaceport traffic to Polaris. Your orbit has been cleared 089—repeat 089—blast off in two minutes...."

"Orbit 089—blast off minus one fifty-nine fifty-eight."

"You read me clear, Polaris ..."

Tom clicked off the switch and turned to the intercom. "Control deck to radar bridge. Do we have a clear tangent forward and up?"

"All clear forward and up, Tom," replied Roger.

"Control deck to power deck. Energize the cooling pumps!"

"Cooling pumps in operation," answered Astro briskly.

The giant ship began to shudder as the mighty pumps on the power deck started their slow, whining build-up. Tom sat in front of the control panel, strapped himself into the acceleration chair, and began checking the dials and gauges. Satisfied everything was in order, he fastened his eyes to the sweeping red second hand on the solar clock. The teleceiver screen brought a sharp picture of the surrounding base of the spaceship, and he saw that it was all clear. The second hand reached the ten-second mark.

"Stand by to raise ship!" bawled Tom into the intercom. The red hand moved steadily, surely, to the zero at the top of the clock face. Tom reached for the master switch.

"Blast off minus five—four—three—two—one—zero!"

Tom threw the switch.

Slowly the giant ship raised itself from the ground. Then faster and faster, pushing the four spacemen deep into their acceleration cushions, it hurtled spaceward.

In a few seconds the Polaris was gravity-free. Once again, Earthmen had started another journey to the stars.

CHAPTER 4

"Of course, you space-brained idiot, and make it fast!" exploded Connel. "What do you want to do? Get us blasted out of space?"

"Yes, sir!" replied Roger. "Right away, sir!"

Tom kept his eyes on the teleceiver screen above his head. The image of the space station loomed large and clear.

"Approaching a little too fast, I think, sir," volunteered Tom. "Shall I make the adjustment?"

"What's the range?" asked Connel.

Tom named a figure.

"Ummmmh," mused Connel. He glanced quickly over the dials and then nodded in assent. Tom turned once more to the intercom. "Control deck to power deck," he called. "Stand by for maneuvering, Astro, and reduce your main drive thrust to minimum space speed."

"Space station traffic control to rocket cruiser Polaris. Come in, Polaris. This is traffic control on space station to Polaris," the audio teleceiver crackled.

"Rocket cruiser Polaris to space station and traffic control. Request touchdown permission and landing-port number," replied Tom.

"Permission to touch down granted, Polaris. You are to line up on approach to landing-port seven—repeat—seven. Am now sending out guiding radar beam. Can you read beam?"

Tom turned to the intercom. "Have you got the station's guiding beam, Roger?"

"All lined up, Tom," replied Roger from the radar bridge. "Get that Venusian on the power deck to give me a three-second shot on the starboard rocket, if he can find the right handles!"

"I heard that, Manning!" roared Astro's voice on the intercom. "Another crack like that and I'll make you get out and push this baby around!"

"You execute that order and do it blasted quick!" Major Connel's voice exploded over the intercom. "And watch that loose talk on the ship's intercom. From now on, all directions and orders will be given and received in a crisp, clear manner without unnecessary familiarity!"

Connel didn't expect them to acknowledge his order. The cadets had heard him and that was enough. He knew it was enough. In the short time it had taken them to traverse the immense gulf of space between the Academy and the station Connel had handed out demerits by fives and tens! Each of the cadets was now tagged with enough black marks to spend two months in the galley working them off!

Now, working together like the smooth team of junior spacemen they were, Tom, Roger, and Astro maneuvered the great rocket ship toward the gaping hole of the air lock in the side of the white ball-like satellite.

"Drop your bow one half degree, Polaris, you're up too high," warned the station control.

"A short burst on the upper trim rocket, Astro," called Tom.

The great ship bucked slightly under the force of sudden thrust, and then its nose dropped the required half degree.

"Cut all thrust and brake your speed to dead ship, Polaris," ordered traffic control.

Again Tom relayed the order to Astro, and a moment later the great ship hung silently in the airless void of space, a scant half mile from the station.

[36]

Through the teleceiver Tom could see the jet boats darting out from the station carrying the magnetic cables. In a moment the lines were attached to the steel skin of the ship, and gradually the lines tightened, pulling the mighty spaceship into the waiting port. Once inside, the outer air lock was closed and the Polaris was slung in the powerful magnetic cradles that held her in a rigid position. Elsewhere on the satellite, quick calculations were made for the additional weight, and the station was counterbalanced to assure an even orbit around Venus.

Tom flicked the many switches off on the great board, glanced at the time of arrival on the solar clock, and reported to Major Connel.

"Touchdown at one-nine-four-nine, sir."

"Very well, Corbett," answered Connel. Then he added grudgingly, "That was as fine a job of control-deck operations as I've seen. Keep up the good work, spaceman."

Tom gulped. The unexpected compliment caught him off guard. And he was even more pleased that for the first time Connel had referred to him as spaceman!

"I'll be needed at the space station commander's quarters for a while, Corbett," said Connel. "Meanwhile, you and Manning and Astro acquaint yourselves with the station. Report to me back aboard the ship in exactly two hours. Dismissed."

Tom saluted, and Connel disappeared toward the exit port.

"Well, spaceman," Roger drawled casually from behind, "it looks like you've got yourself in solid with the old man!"

Tom smiled. "With a guy like that, Roger, you're never in solid. Maybe I did get a pat on the back, but you didn't hear him cancel any of those demerits he gave me for not signing the logbook after that last watch, did you?"

"Let's get some chow," growled Astro, who came hustling through the hatch. "I'm half starved. By the craters of Luna, how many times can you change course in five minutes?"

Astro referred to the countless times Tom had had to call for fraction-degree course changes in their approach to the gaping entrance port.

Tom laughed. "With Connel on the bridge, you're lucky I didn't give you twice as many," he replied. "Can you imagine what would have happened if we had missed and hit the station?"

"Brrrrrr!" shuddered Roger. "I hate to think about it. Come on. Let's rustle up some grub for the Venusian. I could use some myself."

The three boys quickly changed to their dress blue cadet uniforms and left the ship. A moment later they were being whisked up an electric elevator to the main—or "street"—level. The door opened, and they stepped out into a large circular area about the size of a city block in the rear of the station. The area had been broken into smaller sections. One side of the "street" was devoted to shops, a small stereo house which was playing the latest Liddy Tamal hit, "Children of Space" (a sensational drama about the lives of men in the future), restaurants, and even a curio shop. The Venus space station handled ninety per cent of the traffic into and out of Venusport. It was a refueling stop for the jet liners and space freighters bound for the outer planets, and for those returning to Earth. Some ships went directly to Venusport for heavy overhaul or supplies, but the station was established primarily for quick turn arounds. Several ex-enlisted spacemen who had been injured or retired were given special permission to open shops for the convenience of the passengers and crews of the ships and the staff of the station. In twenty years the station had become a place where summer tourists from Earth and winter tourists from Titan made a point of stopping. The first of its kind in the universe, it was as near a perfect place to live as could be built by man.

Tom, Roger, and Astro strolled down the short street, pushing through a crowd of tourists admiring the shops. Finally they found a restaurant that specialized in Venusian dishes.

"Now you two spindly Earthmen are going to have the best meal of your lives! Broiled dinosaur on real Venusian black bread!"

"D-dinosaur!" stuttered Tom in amazement. "Why—why—that's a prehistoric monster!"

"Yeah, Astro," agreed Roger. "What are you trying to hand us?"

Astro laughed. "You'll see, fellows," he replied. "I used to go hunting for them when I was a kid. Brought the best price of any wild game. Fifty credits for babies under three hundred pounds. Over that, you can't eat 'em. Too tough!"

Tom and Roger looked at each other, eyes bulging.

"Ah, come on, Tom," drawled Roger. "He's just trying to pull our leg."

Without a word, Astro grabbed them by the arms and rushed them into the restaurant. They were no sooner seated when a recorded voice announced the menu over a small loud-speaker on the table. Astro promptly ordered dinosaur, and to his unit-mates' amazement, the voice politely inquired:

"Would the spacemen prefer to have it broiled à la Venusian black bread, baked, or raw?"

A sharp look from Roger and Tom, and Astro ordered it broiled.

One hour and fifteen minutes later the three members of the Polaris unit staggered out of the restaurant.

"By the rings of Saturn," declared Tom, "that wasn't only the most I ever ate—it was the best!"

Roger nodded in silent agreement, leaning against the plastic window in front of the restaurant.

"You see," Astro beamed, "maybe you guys will listen to me from now on!"

"Boy, I can't wait to see Mom's face when I tell her that her chicken and dumplings have taken second place to broiled monster!"

"By the jumping blazes of the stars!" yelled Roger suddenly. "Look at the time! We're ten minutes late!"

"Ohhhhh," moaned Tom. "I knew it was too good to be true!"

"Step on it!" said Astro. "Maybe he won't notice."

"Some chance," groaned Roger, running after Tom and Astro. "That old rocket head wouldn't miss anything!"

The three boys raced back to the electric elevator and were silently whisked to the air-lock level. They hurried aboard the Polaris and into the control room. Major Connel was seated in a chair near the chart screen, studying some papers. The cadets drew themselves to attention.

"Unit reporting for duty, sir," Tom quavered.

Connel spun around in the swivel chair, glanced at the clock, put the papers to one side, and slowly advanced toward the cadets.

"Thirteen and a half minutes late!" he said, dropping his voice to a biting growl. "I'll give you five seconds to think up a good excuse. Every man is entitled to an excuse. Some have good ones, some have truthful ones, and some have excuses that sound as though they made them up in five seconds!"

He eyed the cadets speculatively. "Well?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid we were carried away by our enthusiasm for a meal Astro introduced us to, sir," said Tom honestly.

"All right," snapped Connel, "then here's something else to carry you all away!" He paused and rocked on the balls of his feet. "I had planned to give you three liberty of the station while here, whenever you weren't working on the new transmitter. But since you have shown yourselves to be carried away so easily, I don't think I can depend on your completing your regular duties. Therefore, I suggest that each of you report to the officer in charge of your respective departments and learn the operation and function of the station while we're here. This work will be in addition to your assigned duties on the new transmitter operation!"

The three cadets gulped but were silent.

"Not only that," Connel's voice had risen to an angry bark, "but you will be logged a demerit apiece for each minute you reported late. Thirteen and a half minutes, thirteen and a half demerits!"

The gold and black of the Solar Guard uniform never looked more ominous as the three cadets watched the stern spaceman turn and stomp out the exit port.

Alone, their liberty taken away from them before they even knew they had it, the boys sat around on the control deck of the silent ship and listened to the distant throb of a pump, rising and falling, pumping free air throughout the station.

"Well," sighed Tom, "I always did want to know how a space station worked. Now I guess I'll learn firsthand."

"Me, too," said Astro. He propped his big feet up on a delicate instrument panel of the control board.

"Me, too!" sneered Roger, his voice filled with a bitterness that surprised Tom and Astro. "But I didn't think I would find out like this! How in the universe has that—that tyrant managed to stay alive this long!"

CHAPTER 5

"Well," said Roger with a sly wink at Tom, "you can't tell me that Connel has made our Venusian unhappy. Even if he had given us liberty, I'll bet Astro would have spent it down here with the grease monkeys!"

Astro didn't rise to the bait. His attention was riveted on a huge dynamo, which he watched with appreciative eyes. But then Terry Scott introduced the Polaris unit to an older Solar Guard officer.

"Cadets, meet Captain Jenledge," said Scott. "And, sir, this is Cadet Astro. Major Connel would like him to work with you while he's here."

"Glad to know you, boys," said Jenledge, "and particularly you, Cadet Astro. I've heard about your handiness with the thrust buckets on the cruisers. What do you think of our layout?"

The officer turned and waved his hand to indicate the power-deck equipment.

"This is just about the finest—the most terrif—"

The officer smiled at Astro's inability to describe his feelings. Jenledge was proud of his power deck, proud of the whole establishment, for that matter. He had conceived it, had drawn the plans, and had constructed this space station.

Throughout the solar system it was considered his baby. And when he had asked for permission to remain on as senior power-deck chief, the Solar Alliance had jumped at the chance to keep such a good man on the job. The station had become a sort of postgraduate course for power-deck cadets and junior Solar Guard officers.

Astro beamed. So, the great Jenledge had actually heard of him—of humble Cadet Astro. He could hardly restrain himself from ripping off his blue uniform and going right to work on a near-by machine that had been torn apart for repairs. Finally he managed to gasp, "I think it's great, sir—just wonderful!"

"Very well, Cadet Astro," said the officer. "There's a pair of coveralls in my locker. You can start right to work." He paused and his eyes twinkled. "If you want to, that is!"

"Want to!" roared Astro, and was off to the locker room.

Jenledge turned to Scott. "Leave him with me, Scotty. I don't think Cadet Astro's going to care much about the rest of the station!"

Scott smiled, saluted, and walked away. Tom and Roger came to attention, saluted, and followed the young officer off the power deck.

"Astro's probably happier now than he'll ever be in his life, Tom," whispered Roger.

"Yeah," agreed Tom. "Did you see the way his eyes lit up when we walked in there? Like a kid with a brand-new toy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why is that, sir?" asked Roger.

"You don't get any distortion from atmosphere up here," replied the young officer.

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

"Any particular reason for that, sir?" asked Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir," answered Tom, "of course."

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

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

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

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

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

The young officer looked at Corbett quizzically. "That's the man you're going to work for."

Scott walked over to the 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.