"It's about time you got here!"
Charley Brett glared angrily at his chief pilot, Quent Miles, as he
sauntered into the office and flopped into a chair.
"I had a heavy date last night. I overslept," the spaceman replied,
yawning loudly.
"We're late for Strong's meeting over at the Academy," Brett snapped.
"Get up! We've got to leave right away."
Quent Miles looked at the other man, his black eyes gleaming coldly.
"I'll get up when I'm ready," he said slowly.
The two men glared at each other for a moment, and finally Brett lowered
his eyes. Miles grinned and yawned again.
"Come on," said Brett in a less demanding tone. "Let's go. No use
getting Strong down on us before we even get started."
"Steve Strong doesn't scare me," replied Miles.
"All right! He doesn't scare you. He doesn't scare me, either," said
Brett irritably. "Now that we both know that neither of us is scared,
let's get going."
Quent smiled again and rose slowly. "You know something, Charley?" he
said in a deceptively mild voice. "One of these days you're going to get
officious with the wrong spaceman, one that isn't as tolerant as I am,
and you're going to be pounded into space dust."
Quent Miles stood in front of Brett's desk and stretched like a languid
cat. Brett noted the powerful hands and arms and the depth of the
shoulders and chest, all emphasized by the tight-fitting clothes the
spaceman affected. The man was dark and swarthy, and dressed all in
black. Brett had often imagined that if the devil ever took human form
it would look like Quent Miles. He shivered uncontrollably and waited.
Finally Miles turned to him, a mocking smile on his face.
"Well, Charley? What are we waiting for?"
A few moments later they were speeding through the broad streets of Atom
City in a jet cab on the way to the Atom City spaceport.
"What's this all about?" demanded Quent, settling back in his seat. "Why
the rush call?"
"I didn't get the contract to haul the crystal," replied Brett grimly.
"All the bids were so close the Solar Council decided to have a space
race out to Titan to pick the outfit that would get the job."
Quent turned toward him, surprised. "But I thought you had all that
sewed up tight!" he exclaimed. "I thought after you got your hands on
the--"
"Shut up!" interrupted Brett. "The details on the specifications leaked
out. Now the only way I can get the contract is to win the race."
"And I'm the guy to do it?" asked Quent with a smile.
"That's what you're here for. If we don't win this race, we're finished.
Washed up!"
"Who else is in the race?"
"Every other major space-freight outfit in the system," replied Brett
grimly. "And Kit Barnard."
"Has Barnard got that new reactor of his working yet?"
"I don't think so. But I have no way of telling."
"If he has, you're not going to win this race," said Quent, shaking his
head. "Nor is anyone else."
"You are here for one reason," said Brett pointedly.
"I know." Quent grinned. "To win a race."
"Right."
Quent laughed. "With those heaps you've fooled people into thinking are
spaceships? Don't make me laugh."
"There are going to be time trials before the race," said Brett. "The
three fastest ships are going to make the final run. I'm not worried
about the race itself. I've got a plan that will assure us of winning.
It's the time trials that's got me bothered."
"Leave that to me," said Quent.
The jet cab pulled up to the main gate of the spaceport and the two men
got out. Far across the field, a slender, needle-nosed ship stood poised
on her stabilizer fins ready for flight. She was black except for a red
band painted on the hull across the forward section and around the few
viewports. It gave her the appearance of a huge laughing insect. Quent
eyed the vessel with a practiced eye.
"I'll have to soup her up," he commented. "She wouldn't win a foot race
now."
"Don't depend too heavily on your speed," said Brett. "I would just as
soon win by default. After all," he continued, looking at Miles with
calculating eyes, "serious accidents could delay the other ships."
"Sure. I know what you mean," replied the spaceman.
"Good!" Brett turned away abruptly and headed for the ship. Quent
following him. In a little while the white-hot exhaust flare from the
rocket tubes of the sleek ship splattered the concrete launching apron
and it lifted free of the ground. Like an evil, predatory bug, the ship
blasted toward the Academy spaceport.
* * * * *
"Well, blast my jets!" Astro gasped, stopping in his tracks and
pointing. Tom and Roger looked out over the quadrangle toward the
Academy spaceport where ship after ship, braking jets blasting, sought
the safety of the ground.
"Great galaxy," exclaimed Tom, his eyes bulging, "there must be a
hundred ships!"
"At least," commented Roger.
"But they can't all be here for the trials," said Astro.
"Why not?" asked Roger. "This is a very important race. Who knows what
ship might win? It pays the company to enter every ship they have."
[Illustration: _"Great galaxy! There must be a hundred ships!"_]
"Roger's right, Astro," said Tom. "These fellows are playing for big
stakes. Though I don't think there'll be more than thirty or forty ships
in the actual speed trials. See those big-bellied jobs? They're repair
ships."
"I hadn't thought about that," acknowledged the big Venusian cadet.
"They'll probably be jazzing up those sleek babies and that takes a lot
of repair and work."
"Come on," said Tom. "We've got to get over to the meeting. Captain
Strong said he wanted us to be there."
The three cadets turned back toward the nearest slidewalk and hopped on.
None of them noticed the black ship with the red band around its bow
which suddenly appeared over the field, rockets blasting loudly as it
began to drop expertly to the ground.
From early morning the skies over the Academy had been vibrating to the
thunderous exhausts of the incoming fleet of ships. Painted with company
colors and insignia, the ships landed in allotted space on the field,
and almost immediately, mechanics, crew chiefs, and specialists of all
kinds swarmed over the space vessels preparing them for the severest
tests they would ever undergo. The ships that actually were to make the
trial runs were stripped of every spare pound of weight, while their
reactors were taken apart and specially designed compression heads were
put on the atomic motors.
The entire corps of Space Cadets had been given a special three-day
holiday to see the trials, and the Academy buildings were decorated with
multicolored flags and pennants. A festive atmosphere surrounded the
vast Solar Guard installation.
But in his office in the Tower of Galileo, Captain Strong paced the
floor, a worried frown on his face. He stepped around his desk and
picked up a paper to re-read it for the tenth time. He shook his head
and flipped open the key of his desk intercom, connecting him with the
enlisted spaceman in the next office.
"Find Kit Barnard, spaceman!" Strong called. "And give him an oral
message. _Personal._ Tell him I said he can't use his reactor unit
unless he changes it to more standard operational design." Strong paused
and glanced at the paper again. "As it stands now, his reactor will not
be approved for the trials," he continued. "Tell him he has until
midnight tonight to submit new specifications."
As Strong closed the intercom key abruptly, the three members of the
_Polaris_ unit stepped into his office and saluted smartly. Strong
looked up. "Hello, boys. Sit down." He waved them to nearby chairs and
turned back to his desk. The drawn expression of their unit commander
did not go unnoticed.
"Is there something wrong, sir?" asked Tom tentatively.
"Nothing much," replied Strong wearily. He indicated the sheaf of papers
in front of him. "These are reactor-unit specifications submitted by the
pilots and crew chiefs of the ships to be flown in the time trials. I've
just had to reject Kit Barnard's specifications."
"What was the matter?" asked Astro.
"Not enough safety allowance. He's running too close to the danger point
in feeding reactant to the chambers, using D-18 rate of feed and D-9 is
standard."
"What about the other ships, sir?" asked Tom. "Do they all have safety
factors?"
Strong shrugged his shoulders. "They all specify standard reaction rates
without actually using figures," he said. "But I'm certain that their
feeders are being tuned up for maximum output. That's where your job is
going to come in. You've got to inspect the ships to make sure they're
safe."
"Then Kit Barnard put down his specifications, _knowing_ that there was
a chance they wouldn't pass," Tom remarked.
Strong nodded. "He's an honest man."
The door opened and several men stepped inside. They were dressed in the
mode of merchant space officers, wearing high-peaked hats, trim jackets,
and trousers of a different color. Strong stood up to greet them.
"Welcome, gentlemen. Please be seated. We will begin the meeting as soon
as all the pilots are here."
Roger nudged Astro and whispered, "What's the big deal about a D-18 rate
and a D-9 rate? Why is that so important?"
"It has to do with the pumps," replied the power-deck cadet. "They cool
the reactant fuel to keep it from getting too hot and wildcatting. At a
D-9 rate the reactant is hot enough to create power for normal flight.
Feeding at a D-18 rate is fine too, but you need pumps to cool the
motors, and pumps that could do the job would be too big."
"Kit's problem," commented Tom, "is not so much building the reactor,
but a cooling system to keep it under control."
"Will that make a big difference in who wins the race?" asked Roger.
"With that ship of Kit's," said Astro, shaking his head, "I doubt if
he'll be able to come even close to the top speeds in the trials unless
he can use the new reactor."
The room had filled up now and Strong rapped on the desk for attention.
He stared at the faces of the men before him, men who had spent their
lives in space. They were the finest pilots and crew chiefs in the solar
system. They sat quietly and attentively as Strong gave them the details
of the greatest race of spaceships in over a hundred years.
After Strong had outlined the plans for the time trials, he concluded,
"Each of you competing in the time trials will be given a blast-off time
and an orbital course. Only standard, Solar-Guard-approval equipment
will be allowed in the tests. I will monitor the trials, and Space
Cadets Corbett, Manning, and Astro will be in complete charge of all
inspections of your ships." Strong paused and looked around. "Are there
any questions?"
"When will the first ship blast off, Captain Strong?" asked a lean and
leathery-looking spaceman in the back of the room.
"First time trial takes place at 0600 hours tomorrow morning. Each ship
has a designated time. Consult your schedules for the blast-off time of
your ships."
"What if a ship isn't ready?" asked Kit Barnard, who had slipped into
the room unnoticed.
"Any ship unable to blast off at scheduled time," said Strong, finding
it difficult to look at his old friend, "will be eliminated."
There was a sudden murmur in the room and Quent Miles rose quickly.
"That's not much time to prepare our ships," he said. "I don't know
who's going to be first, but I can't even strip my ship by tomorrow
morning, let alone soup up the reactant." His voice was full of
contempt, and he glanced around the room at the other pilots. "Seems to
me we're being treated a little roughly."
There were several cries of agreement.
Strong held up his hand. "Gentlemen, I know it is difficult to prepare a
ship in twelve hours for a race as important as this one," he said. "But
I personally believe that any spaceman who really wants to make it can
make it!"
"Well, I'm not going to break my back to make a deadline," snarled
Quent. "And I don't think any of the other fellows here will either."
"If you are scheduled to blast off tomorrow at 0600 hours, Captain
Miles," Strong announced coldly, "and you are unable to raise ship, you
will be eliminated."
Stifling an angry retort, Quent Miles sat down, and while Strong
continued to answer questions, Astro, a worried frown on his face,
stared at the spaceman dressed in black. Tom noticed it. "What's wrong
with you, Astro?" he asked.
"That spaceman Miles," replied Astro. "I could swear I know him, yet I'm
sure that I don't."
"He's not a very ordinary-looking guy," observed Roger. "He's plenty big
and he's so dark that it wouldn't be easy to mistake him."
"Still," said Astro, screwing up his forehead, "I know I've seen him
before."
"If there are no further questions, gentlemen," said Strong, "we'll
close this meeting. I know you're anxious to get to your ships and begin
work. But before you go, I would like to introduce the cadet inspectors
to you. Stand up, boys."
Self-consciously, Tom, Roger, and Astro stood up while Strong addressed
the pilots.
"Cadet Manning will be in charge of all electronics inspections, Cadet
Astro in charge of the power deck, and Cadet Corbett will cover the
control deck and over-all inspection of the ship itself."
Quent Miles was on his feet again, shouting, "Do you mean to tell me
that we're going to be told what we can and can't do by those three
kids!" He turned and glared at Tom. "You come messing around my ship,
buster, and you'll be pitched out on your ear!"
"If the cadets do not pass on your ship," said Strong, with more than a
little edge to his voice, "it will not get off the ground."
The two men locked eyes across the room.
"We'll see about that!" growled Miles, and stalked from the room, his
heavy shoulders swinging from side to side in an exaggerated swagger.
"I believe that's all, gentlemen," announced Strong coldly, "and
spaceman's luck to each of you."
After the men had left, the three cadets crowded around Strong. "Do you
think we'll have any trouble with Miles, sir?" asked Tom.
"You have your orders, Tom," said Strong. "If any ship does not meet
standards established for the race, it will be disqualified!"
Astro stared at the doorway through which Quent Miles had disappeared.
He scratched his head and muttered, "If it wasn't for just one thing,
I'd swear by the stars that he's the same spaceman who--" He stopped and
shook his head.
"Who what?" asked Strong.
"Nothing, sir," said Astro. "I _must_ be mistaken. It can't be the same
man."
"I suggest that you sleep out at the spaceport tonight," said Strong.
"The first ship will have to be inspected before she blasts off, and
that means you will have to look her over before six."
"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"And watch out for Quent Miles," warned Strong.
"Yes, sir," said the curly-haired cadet. "I know what you mean."
[Illustration]