"Gentlemen, please!"
Commander Walters, the commandant of Space Academy, stood behind his
desk and slammed his fist down sharply on its plastic top. "I must
insist that you control your tempers and refrain from these repeated
outbursts," he growled.
The angry voices that had filled the room began to subside, but Walters
did not continue his address. He stood, arms folded across his chest,
glaring at the assembled group of men until, one by one, they stopped
talking and shifted nervously in their chairs. When the room was finally
still, the commander glanced significantly at Captain Steve Strong,
standing at the side of the desk, smiled grimly, and then resumed in a
calm, conversational tone of voice.
"I am quite aware that we have departed from standard operational
procedure in this case," he said slowly. "Heretofore, the Solar Guard
has always granted interplanetary shipping contracts to private
companies on the basis of sealed bids, the most reasonable bid winning
the job. However, for the job of hauling Titan crystal to Earth, we have
found that method unsatisfactory. Therefore, we have devised this new
plan to select the right company. And let me repeat"--Walters leaned
forward over his desk and spoke in a firm, decisive voice--"this
decision was reached in a special executive session of the Council of
the Solar Alliance last night."
A short, wiry man suddenly rose from his chair in the front row, his
face clearly showing his displeasure. "All right, get on with it,
Walters!" he snapped, deliberately omitting the courtesy of addressing
the commander by his title. "Don't waste our time with that 'official'
hogwash. It might work on your cadets and your tin soldiers, but not on
us!"
There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled group of men. Present
were some of the wealthiest and most powerful shipping magnates in the
entire Solar Alliance--men who controlled vast fleets of commercial
spaceships and whose actions and decisions carried a great deal of
weight. Each hoped to win the Solar Guard contract to transport Titan
crystal from the mines on the tiny satellite back to Earth. Combining
steellike strength and durability with its great natural beauty, the
crystal was replacing metal in all construction work and the demand was
enormous. The shipping company that got the job would have a guaranteed
income for years to come, and each of the men present was fighting with
every weapon at his command to win the contract.
Heartened by the reaction of the men around him, the speaker pressed
his advantage. "We've all hauled cargo for the Solar Guard before, and
the sealed-bid system was perfectly satisfactory then!" he shouted. "Why
isn't it satisfactory now? What's all this nonsense about a space race?"
Again, the murmur filled the room and the men glared accusingly at
Walters. But the commander refused to knuckle down to any show of
arrogance. He fixed a cold, stony eye on the short man. "Mr. Brett," he
snapped in a biting voice, "you have been invited to this meeting as a
guest, not by any right you think you have as the owner of a shipping
company. A guest, I said, and I ask that you conduct yourself with that
social obligation in mind!"
Before Brett could reply, Walters turned away from him and addressed the
others calmly. "Despite Mr. Brett's outburst, his question is a good
one. And the answer is quite simple. The bids submitted by your
companies were not satisfactory in this case because we believe that
they were made in bad faith!"
For once, there was silence in the room as the men stared at Walters in
shocked disbelief. "There are fourteen shipping companies represented in
this room, some of them the most respected in the Solar Alliance," he
continued, his voice edged with knifelike sarcasm. "I cannot find it in
my conscience to accuse all of you of complicity in this affair, but
nevertheless we are faced with one of the most startling coincidences I
have ever seen."
Walters paused and looked around the room, measuring the effect of his
words. Satisfied, he went on grimly, "There isn't enough difference
between the bids of each of you, not _five credits'_ worth of
difference, to award the contract to any single company!"
The men in the room gasped in amazement.
"The bids were exactly alike. The only differences we found were in
operational procedure. But the cost to the Solar Guard amounted to, in
the end, exactly the same thing from each of you! The inference is
clear, I believe," he added mockingly. "Someone stole the minimum
specifications and circulated them among you."
In the shocked quiet that followed Walters' statement, no one noticed
Tom, Roger, and Astro slip into the room. They finally caught the eye of
Captain Strong, who acknowledged their presence with a slight nod, as
they found seats in the rear of the room.
"Commander," a voice spoke up from the middle of the group, "may I make
a statement?"
"Certainly, Mr. Barnard," agreed Walters, and stepped back from his desk
as a tall, slender man in his late thirties rose to address the men
around him. The three Space Cadets stared at him with interest. They had
heard of Kit Barnard. A former Solar Guard officer, he had resigned from
the great military organization to go into private space-freight
business. Though a newcomer, with only a small outfit, he was well liked
and respected by every man in the room. And everyone present knew that
when he spoke, he would have something important to say, or at least
advance a point that should be brought to light.
"I have no doubt," said Barnard in a slow, positive manner, "that the
decision to substitute a space race between us as a means of awarding
the contract was well considered by the Solar Council." He turned and
shot Brett a flinty look. "And under the circumstances, I, for one,
accept their decision." He sat down abruptly.
There were cries of: "Hear! Hear!" "Righto!" "Very good!"
"No!" shouted Brett, leaping to his feet. "By the craters of Luna, it
isn't right! I demand to know exactly who submitted the lowest bid!"
Walters sighed and shuffled through several papers on his desk. "You are
within your rights, Mr. Brett," he said, eying the man speculatively.
"It was you."
[Illustration]
"Then why in blue blazes didn't I get the contract?" screamed Brett.
"For several reasons," replied Walters. "Your contract offered us the
lowest bid in terms of money, but specified very slow schedules. On the
other hand, Universal Spaceways Limited planned faster schedules, but
at a higher cost. Kit Barnard outbid both of you in money and schedules,
but he has only two ships, and we were doubtful of his ability to
complete the contract should one of his ships crack up. The other
companies offered, more or less, the same conditions. So you can
understand our decision now, Mr. Brett." Walters paused and glared at
the man. "The Solar Council sat in a continuous forty-eight-hour session
and considered _everyone_. The space race was finally decided on, and
voted for by every member. Schedules were the most vital point under
consideration. But other points could not be ignored, and these could
only be determined by actual performance. Now, does that answer all your
questions, Mr. Brett?"
"No, it doesn't!" yelled Brett.
"Oh, sit down, Brett!" shouted a voice from the back of the room.
"Yes! Sit down and shut up!" called another. "We're in this too, you
know!"
Brett turned on them angrily, but finally sat down, scowling.
In the rear of the room Tom nudged Roger. "Boy! The commander sure knows
how to lay it on the line when he wants to, doesn't he?"
"I'll say!" replied Roger. "That guy Brett better watch out. Both the
commander and Captain Strong look as if they're ready to pitch him out
on his ear."
Six feet tall, and looking crisp, sure, and confident in his
black-and-gold uniform, Captain Steve Strong stood near Walters and
scowled at Brett. Unit instructor for the _Polaris_ crew and Commander
Walters' executive officer, Strong was not as adept as Walters in
masking his feelings, and his face clearly showed his annoyance at
Brett's outbursts. He had sat the full forty-eight hours with the
Council while they argued, not over costs, but in an effort to make sure
that none of the companies would be slighted in their final decision. It
made his blood boil to see someone like Brett selfishly disregard these
efforts at fairness.
"That is all the information I can give you, gentlemen," said Walters
finally. "Thank you for your kind attention"--he shot an ironic glance
at Brett--"and for your understanding of a difficult situation. Now you
must excuse me. Captain Strong, whom you all know, will fill in the
details of the race."
As Walters left the room, Strong stepped to the desk, faced the
assembly, and spoke quickly. "Gentlemen, perhaps some of you are
acquainted with the present jet car race that takes place each year? The
forerunner of that race was the Indianapolis Five-Hundred-Mile Race of
some few hundred years ago. We have adopted their rules for our own
speed tests. Time trials will be held with all interested companies
contributing as many ships that they think can qualify, and the three
ships that make the fastest time will be entered in the actual race.
This way we can eliminate the weaker contenders and reduce the chance of
accidents taking place millions of miles out in space. Also, it will
result in a faster time for the winner. Now, the details of the race
will be given to your chief pilots, crew chiefs, and power-deck officers
at a special meeting in my office here in the Tower building tomorrow.
You will receive all information and regulations governing the minimum
and maximum size of the ships entered, types of reactor units, and
amount of ballast to be carried."
"How many in the crew?" asked a man in the front.
"Two," replied Steve, "or if the ship is mostly automatic, one. Either
can be used. The Solar Guard will monitor the race, sending along one of
the heavy cruisers." Strong glanced at his notes. "That is all,
gentlemen. Are there any questions?"
There were no questions and the men began to file out of the room.
Strong was relieved to see Brett was among the first to leave. He didn't
trust himself to keep his temper with the man. As the room emptied,
Strong stood at the door and grabbed Kit Barnard by the sleeve. "Hello,
spaceman!" he cried. "Long time, no see!"
"Hello, Steve," replied Kit, with a slow, warm smile.
"Say! Is that the way to greet an old friend after four, or is it five
years?"
"Five," replied Kit.
"You look worried, fellow," said Strong.
"I am. This race business leaves me holding the bag."
"How's that?"
"Well, I made a bid on the strength of a new reactor unit I'm trying to
develop," explained Kit. "If I had gotten the contract, I could have
made a loan from the Universal Bank and completed my work easily. But
now--" Kit stopped and shook his head slowly.
"What is this reactor?" Strong asked. "Something new?"
"Yes. One quarter the size of present standard reactors and less than
half the weight." Kit's eyes began to glow with enthusiasm as he spoke.
"It would give me extra space in my ships and be economical enough on
fuel for me to be able to compete with the larger outfits and their
bigger ships. Now, all I've got is a reactor that hasn't been tested
properly, that I'm not even sure will work on a long haul and a hot
race."
"Is there any way you can soup up one of your present reactors to make
this run?" asked Strong.
"I suppose so," added Kit. "I'll give the other fellows a run for their
money all right. But it'll take every credit I have. And if I don't win
the race, I'm finished. Washed up."
"Excuse me, Captain Strong," said Tom Corbett, coming to attention.
"Major Connel ordered us to report here for special assignment."
"Oh, yes," said Strong, turning to Tom, Roger, and Astro with a smile.
"Meet Kit Barnard. Kit--Tom Corbett, Roger Manning, and Astro, the
_Polaris_ unit. My unit," he added proudly.
The boys saluted respectfully, and Barnard smiled and shook hands with
each of them.
"You've heard about the race now," said Strong to Tom.
"Yes, sir," replied the young cadet. "It sounds exciting."
"It will be, with spacemen like Kit Barnard, Charley Brett, and the
other men of the big outfits competing. You're going to work with me on
the time trials, and later the _Polaris_ will be the ship that monitors
the race. But first, you three will be inspectors."
"Of what, sir?" asked Roger.
"You'll see that all regulations are observed--that no one gets the jump
on anyone else. These men will be souping up their reactors until those
ships will be nothing but 'go,' and it's your job to see that they use
only standard equipment."
"We're going to be real popular when we tell a spaceman he can't use a
unit he's rigged up specially," commented Astro with a grin.
Tom laughed. "We'll be known as the cadets you love to hate!"
"Especially when you run up against Charley Brett," said Kit.
The cadets looked at the veteran spaceman inquiringly, but he was not
smiling, and they suddenly felt a strange chill of apprehension.
[Illustration]