"Space freighter _Antares_ from Venus space station. Your approach
course is one-nine-seven--corrected. Reduce speed to minimum thrust and
approach spaceport nine--landing-deck three. End transmission!"
Tom stood on the dais of the traffic-control room and switched the
_Antares_ beam to one of his assistants at the monitors in the control
room. In less than two weeks he had mastered the difficult
traffic-control procedure to the point where Captain Stefens had allowed
him to handle the midnight shift. He checked the monitors and turned to
see Roger walk through the door.
"Working hard, Junior?" asked Roger in his casual drawl.
"Roger!" exclaimed Tom. "What are you fooling around down here for?"
"Ah, there's nothing to do on the radar deck. Besides, I've got the
emergency alarm on." He wiped his forehead. "Brother! Of all the crummy
places to be stuck!"
"Could be worse," said Tom, his eyes sweeping the monitors.
"Nothing could be worse," groaned Roger. "But nothing. Think of that
lovely space doll Helen Ashton alone on earth--and me stuck here on a
space station."
"Well, we're doing an important job, Roger," replied Tom. "And doing it
well, or Major Connel wouldn't leave us alone so much. How're you making
out with the new equipment?"
"That toy?" sneered Roger. "I gave it a look, checked the circuits once,
and knew it inside out. It's so simple a child could have built one!"
"Oh, sure," scoffed Tom. "That's why the top scientists worked for years
on something small, compact, powerful enough to reach through deep
space--and still be easy to repair."
"Quit heckling me, Junior," retorted Roger, "I'm thinking. Trying to
figure out some way of getting to the teleceiver set on board the
_Polaris_."
"Why can't you get on the _Polaris_?" asked Tom.
"They're jazzing up the power deck with a new hyperdrive unit for the
big hop to Tara. So many guys buzzing around you can't get near it."
"What do you need a teleceiver for?" asked Tom.
"To give me company," replied Roger sourly. "Say!" He snapped his
fingers suddenly. "Maybe if I just changed the frequency--"
"What frequency? What are you talking about?"
"Spaceboy, I'm getting a real hot-rocket idea! See ya later!" And the
blond cadet ran for the door.
Tom watched his unit-mate disappear and shook his head in amused
despair. Roger, he told himself, might be difficult, but he was
certainly never dull.
Then his attention was brought back to the monitors by the warning of
another approaching spaceship.
"... jet liner _San Francisco_ to Venus space-station traffic control
..." the metallic voice crackled over the speaker.
"Jet liner _San Francisco_, this is Venus space-station traffic
control," replied Tom. "You are cleared for landing at port
eleven--repeat--eleven. Make standard check for approach orbit to
station landing. End transmission!"
From one side of the circular dais, Tom saw Major Connel enter the room.
He snapped to attention and saluted smartly.
"Morning, Corbett," said Connel, returning Tom's salute. "Getting into
the swing of the operation?"
"Yes, sir," said Tom. "I've handled about twenty approaches since
Captain Stefens left me alone, and about fifty departures." Tom brought
his fist up, with the thumb extended and wiped it across his chest in
the traditional spaceman's signal that all was clear. "I didn't scratch
one of 'em, sir," he said, smiling.
"Good enough," said Connel. "Keep it that way." He watched the monitor
screen as the liner _San Francisco_ settled into landing-port eleven.
When she was cradled and secure, he grunted his satisfaction and turned
to leave. At the door he suddenly paused. "By the way, isn't Manning on
radar watch?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"Well, it's one forty-eight. How about his standard check-in with
traffic control?"
Tom stammered, "He--uh--he may be plotting some space junk, sir."
"He _still_ must report, regardless of what he's doing!"
"I--uh--ah--yes, sir!" gulped Tom. Blast Roger anyway, he thought,
forgetting the all-important quarter-hour check-in.
"I'd better go up and find out if anything's wrong," said Connel.
"Gosh, sir," suggested Tom, desperately seeking an excuse for his
shipmate. "I'm sure Roger would have notified us if anything had
happened."
"Knowing Manning as I do, I'm not so sure!" And the irascible officer
thundered through the door like a jet-propelled tank!
"Come on, Mason. Hurry and put on that space suit," barked Loring.
"Take it easy," grumbled Mason. "I'm working as fast as I can!"
"Of all the rotten luck," growled Loring. "Who'd ever figure the _Annie
Jones_ would blast off from Venus--and then stop at the space station!"
"Shows you ain't so smart," retorted Mason. "Lots of ships do that. They
carry just enough fuel to get 'em off the surface, so they'll be light
while they're blasting out of Venus' gravity. Then they stop at the
space station to refuel for the long haul."
"All right," barked Loring, "lay off the lecture! Just get that space
suit on in a hurry!"
"Listen, wise guy," challenged Mason, "just tell me one thing. If we
bail out of this tub in space suits, who's going to pick us up?"
"We're not bailing out!" said Loring.
"We're not? Then what are we suiting up for?"
"Just in case," said Loring. "Now listen to me. In a few minutes the
_Annie Jones_'ll make contact with traffic control. Only instead of
talking to the pilot--they'll be talking to us. Because we'll have taken
over."
"But unless we land they'll be suspicious. And if we land ..."
Loring interrupted. "Nobody's going to suspect a thing. I'll tell
traffic control we've got an extra-heavy load. Then they won't let us
land. We follow their orders and blast off into space--find an emergency
fuel station--head for Tara--and nobody suspects anything."
Mason twisted his face into a scowl. "Sounds awful risky to me," he
muttered.
"Sure it's risky," sneered Loring, "but you don't hit the jackpot
without ever taking a _chance_!"
The two men, huddled against a jumble of packing cases in the cargo hold
of the _Annie Jones_, made careful preparations. Checking their weapons,
they opened their way toward the freighter's control deck. Just outside
the hatch they stopped, paralo-ray guns ready, and listened.
Inside, Pilot James Jardine and Leland Bangs, his first officer, were
preparing for the landing at the space station.
"Ought to be picking up the approach radar signal pretty soon," said
Bangs. "Better take her off automatic control, Jardine. Use the manual
for close maneuvering."
"Right," answered his spacemate. "Send out a radar blip for them to pick
up. I'll check the cargo and make sure it's lashed down for landing.
Captain Stefens is tough when it comes to being shipshape."
The freighter blasted evenly, smoothly onward through the darkness of
space in a straight line for the man-made satellite. Jardine got up from
the freighter's dual-control board, picked up a portable light, and
headed for the hatch leading to the cargo deck.
"He's coming," hissed Loring. "We'll take him soon's he reaches us."
There was a sharp clank as the hatch opened, and Jardine's head came
into view.
"Now!" yelled Loring. He swung the heavy paralo-ray gun at Jardine's
head.
"What the--" exclaimed the startled spaceman. "Bangs, look out!"
He tried to avoid the blow, but Loring's gun landed on the side of his
head. Jardine crumpled to the deck.
Bangs was out of his seat in a moment, at his pilot's call. The burly
redheaded spaceman saw at a glance what was wrong and lunged for the
hatch.
Loring stepped toward him, holding his paralo-ray.
"All right, spaceboy!" he grated. "Hold it or I'll freeze you stiff!"
Bangs stopped and stared at the gun and at Jardine who was slumped on
the deck. Mason rushed past him to the controls.
"What is this?" demanded Bangs.
"An old game," explained Loring with a sneer. "It's called 'You've got
it and I take it.' And if you don't like it, you get it." He gestured
with his gun. "You get it--with this."
Bangs nodded. "O.K.," he said. "O.K. But how about letting me take care
of my buddy. He's hurt."
[Illustration]
"Just a bump on the head," said Loring. "He'll come out of it soon
enough."
"Hey," shouted Mason, "I can't figure out these controls!"
Loring growled angrily. "Here, lemme at them!" He forced Bangs to lie
down on the deck, and then, keeping the gun trained on the redheaded
spaceman, stepped quickly to the control board. He handed Mason the gun.
"Keep an eye on them while I figure this baby out."
"Least you coulda done is steal a decent ship," grumbled Mason. "This
tub is so old it creaks!"
"Just shut your mouth and keep your eye on those guys," said the other.
He began to mutter to himself as he tried to figure out the complicated
controls.
[Illustration]
Jardine was now conscious but had the presence of mind not to move. His
head ached from the blow. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw his two
attackers bending over the board. He saw that Bangs was lying on the
deck facing him. Jardine winked at Bangs, who returned the signal. Then
he began, carefully, methodically to send a Morse-code message to his
companion via his winking eyes.
"O-N-L-Y--one--gun--between--them. You--take--big--fellow.
I'll--charge--gun ..."
"Can't you figure this thing out either?" asked Mason, leaning over
Loring's shoulder.
"Ah, this wagon is an old converted chemical burner. These controls are
old as the sun. I've got to find the automatic pilot!"
"Try that lever over there," suggested Mason.
Loring reached over to grasp it, turning away from his prisoners.
"Bangs, get 'em!" shouted Jardine. The two men jumped to their feet and
lunged at Loring and Mason. Loring dove to one side, losing the gun in
the scramble, but as he fell, he reached for the acceleration control
lever. He wrenched it out of its socket and brought it down on Bang's
head, and the officer slid to the floor. Jardine, meanwhile, had Mason
in a viselike grip, but again Loring used the lever, bringing it down
hard on the neck of the freighter pilot. Jardine dropped to the deck.
"Thanks, Loring," gasped Mason. "That was close! Good thing we had on
these space suits, or we'd have been finished. They couldn't grab onto
the smooth plastic."
"Finished is right!" snarled Loring. "I told you to keep an eye on them!
If they'd nabbed us we woulda wound up on the prison asteroid!"
"Loring," shouted Mason, "look!" He pointed a trembling finger at the
thrust indicator. "We're blasting at full space speed--right for the
station!"
"By the rings of Saturn," cried Loring, "I must've jammed the thrust
when I yanked the lever out of the control board!"
"Put it back! Slow this ship down!" cried Mason, his face ashen with
fear. Loring jumped to the control board and with trembling fingers
tried to replace the lever in the socket.
"I can't--can't--" he panted. "We gotta pile outta here! We're heading
for the station. We'll crash!"
"Come on! This way! We left the space helmets back in the cargo hold!"
shouted Mason. He ran toward the open hatch leading to the companionway.
Suddenly he stopped. "Hey, what about those two guys?"
"Never mind them!" shouted Loring. "Keep going. We can't do anything for
them now!"
And as the two men raced toward the stern, the freighter, her powerful
rockets wide open, arrowed straight toward the gleaming white structure
of the space station.
"It was easy, honey," cooed Roger into the microphone on the main
control panel of the space-station radar bridge.
"I switched the frequency on the station, beamed to a teleceiver trunk
line on Earth, and called you up, my little space pet! Smart, huh? Now
remember we have a date as soon as I get back from this important and
secret mission. I could've got out of it, but they needed me badly. As
much as I like you, baby, I had to go along to give the boys a break and
..."
"_Cadet Manning!_" An infuriated roar echoed in the small chamber.
"Yeah, whaddaya wan--" growled Roger, turning to see who had interrupted
him. He suddenly gulped and turned pale. "Ohhhhhhhhh--good-by, baby!" He
flipped the switch and stood up.
"Uh--ah--good morning, Major Connel," he stammered.
"What's going on here, Manning?" barked Connel.
"I--was--talking, sir," replied Roger.
"So I heard! But talking to whom?"
"To whom, sir?"
"That's what I said, Manning." Connel's voice dropped to a deep
sarcastic purr. "To whom?"
"I was--ah--talking to Earth, sir."
"Official business, I presume?"
"You mean--official--like here on the station, sir?"
"Official, like here on the station, Manning," replied Connel in almost
a kindly tone.
"No, sir."
"You failed to make your quarter-hour check to the traffic-control
center, I believe?"
"Yes, sir," gulped Roger. The full realization of what he had done was
beginning to dawn on him.
"And you've tampered with vital station equipment for your own personal
use," added Connel. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach,
Roger noticed the major was strangely quiet in his interrogation. It
felt like the calm before the storm.
"Yes, sir," admitted Roger, "I changed several circuits."
"Are you aware of the seriousness of your negligence, Manning?" Connel's
voice began to harden.
"Yes--yes--I guess so, sir," stumbled Roger.
"Can you repair that radar so that it can be used as it was intended?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then do so immediately. There are ships in flight depending on your
information and signals."
"Yes, sir," said Roger quietly. Then he added quickly, "I'd like the
major to know, sir, that this is the first time this has happened."
"I have only your word for that, Manning!" Connel finally began blasting
in his all too familiar roar. "Since you've done it once, I see no
reason to think you couldn't have done it before or that you might not
do it again!" The officer's face was now almost purple with rage. "When
you've repaired that set, return to your quarters! You are confined
until I decide on disciplinary action!"
Turning abruptly, Connel stormed out of the room, slamming the hatch
closed behind him.
With a sigh Roger turned back to the set. With trembling fingers he
reconnected the terminals and made delicate adjustments on the many
dials. Finally, as power began to flow through the proper chain of
circuits, the radar scanner glowed into life and the hair-thin line of
light swept around the dull green surface of the scope. It had been left
on a setting covering two hundred miles around the space station, and
seeing the area was clear, Roger increased the range to five hundred
miles. The resulting scan sent a sudden chill down his spine. A
spaceship was roaring toward the station at full thrust!
Cold sweat beaded Roger's forehead as he grabbed for the microphone and
called Tom.
"Radar bridge to control deck!" The words tumbled out frantically. "Tom!
Tom! There's a ship heading right for the station! Bearing 098! Distance
450 miles! Coming in on full thrust! Tom, acknowledge! Quick!"
Down on the control deck, Tom had been watching a space freighter easing
out of the station when Roger's voice came over the speaker in a thin
scream.
"What?" he yelled. "Give me that again, Roger!"
"Spaceship bearing 098--full thrust! Range now four twenty-five!"
"By the craters of Luna," shouted Tom, "why didn't you pick her up
sooner, Roger?"
"Never mind that. Contact that guy and tell him to change course! He
can't brake in time now!"
"All right! Sign off!" Without waiting for a reply, Tom cut Roger off
and switched to a standard space band. His voice quivering, the young
cadet spoke quickly and urgently into the microphone. "Space station to
spaceship approaching on orbit 098. Change course! Emergency! Reduce
thrust and change course or you will crash into us!"
As he spoke, Tom watched the master screen of his scanner and saw the
ship rocketing closer and closer with no change in speed or course. He
realized that any action, even now, would bring the craft dangerously
close to the station. Without hesitation, he flipped on the master
switch of the central station communicator, opening every loud-speaker
on the station to his voice.
"Attention! Attention! This is traffic-control center! Emergency!
Repeat. Emergency! All personnel in and near landing ports five, six,
seven, eight, and nine--decks A, B, and C--evacuate immediately to
opposite side of the station. Emergency crews stand by for crash!
Spaceship heading for station! May crash! Emergency--emergency!"
On the endangered decks, men began to move quickly, and in a moment the
great man-made satellite was prepared for disaster. On the control
deck, Tom stayed at his station, sounding the warning.
"Emergency! Emergency! All personnel prepare for crash! All personnel
prepare for crash!"
[Illustration]