"I just can't understand it, Joan," said Captain Steve Strong, tossing the paper on his circular desk. "The psychographs of Corbett, Manning and Astro fit together like gears. And yet—"
The Solar Guard officer suddenly rose and walked over to a huge window that filled the entire north wall of his office, a solid sheet of glass that extended from the high domed ceiling to the translucent flooring. Through the window, he stared down moodily toward the grassy quadrangle, where at the moment several hundred cadets were marching in formation under a hot sun.
"—And yet," continued Strong, "every morning for the last three weeks I've got a report from McKenny about some sort of friction between them!"
"I think it'll work out, Steve," answered the pretty girl in the uniform of the Solar Guard, seated in an easy chair on the other side of the desk.
Joan Dale held the distinction of being the first woman ever admitted into the Solar Guard, in a capacity other than administrative work. Her experiments in atomic fissionables was the subject of a recent scientific symposium held on Mars. Over fifty of the leading scientists of the Solar Alliance had gathered to studyher latest theory on hyperdrive, and had unanimously declared her ideas valid. She had been offered the chair as Master of Physics at the Academy as a result, giving her access to the finest laboratory in the tri-planet society.
Now facing the problem of personality adjustment in Unit 42-D, she sat across the desk from her childhood friend, Steve Strong, and frowned.
"What's happened this time?"
"Manning." He paused. "It seems to be all Manning!"
"You mean he's the more aggressive of the three?"
"No—not necessarily. Corbett shows signs of being a number-one spaceman. And that big cadet, Astro"—Strong flashed a white smile that contrasted with his deep space tan—"I don't think he could make a manual mistake on the power deck if he tried. You know, I actually saw him put an auxiliary rocket motor together blindfolded!"
The pretty scientist smiled. "I could have told you that after one look at his classification tests."
"How?"
"On questions concerning the power-deck operations, he was letter perfect—"
"And on the others? Astrogation and control deck?"
"He just skimmed by. But even where the problem involved fuel, power, supply of energy, he offered some very practical answer to the problem." She smiled. "Astro is as much an artist on that power deck as Liddy Tamal doing Juliet in the stereos."
"Yes," mused Strong. "And Corbett is the same on the control deck. Good instinctive intelligence. That boy soaks up knowledge like a sponge."
"Facile mind—quick to grasp the essentials." She smiled again. "Seems to me I remember a few years back when a young lieutenant successfully put down a mutiny in space, and at his promotion to captain, thecitation included the fact that he was quick to grasp the essentials."
Strong grinned sheepishly. A routine flight to Titan had misfired into open rebellion by the crew. Using a trick picked up in ancient history books of sea-roving pirates in the seventeenth century, he had joined the mutiny, gained control of the ship, sought out the ring-leaders and restored discipline.
"And Manning," asked Strong. "What about Manning?"
"One of the hardest, brightest minds I've come across in the Academy. He has a brain like a steel trap. He never misses."
"Then, do you think he's acting up because Corbett is the nominal head of the unit? Does he feel that he should be the command cadet in the control deck instead of Corbett?"
"No," replied Dr. Dale. "Not at all. I'm sure he intentionally missed problems about control deck and command in his classification test. He concentrated on astrogation, communications and signal radar. He wanted to be assigned to the radar deck. And he turned in the best paper I've ever read from a cadet to get the post."
Strong threw up his hands. "Then what is it? Here we have a unit, on paper at least, that could be number one. A good combination of brains, experience and knowledge. Everything that's needed. And what is the result? Friction!"
Suddenly a buzzer sounded, and on Steve Strong's desk a small teleceiver screen glowed into life. Gradually the stern face of Commander Walters emerged.
"Sorry to disturb you, Steve. Can you spare me a minute?"
"Of course, Commander," replied Strong. "Is anything wrong?"
"Very wrong, Steve. I've been looking over the daily performance reports on Unit 42-D."
"Dr. Dale and I have just been discussing that situation, sir." A relieved expression passed over the commander's face.
"Good! I wanted to get your opinions before I broke up the unit."
"No, sir!" said Strong quickly. "Don't do that!"
"Oh?" replied the commander. On the screen he could be seen settling back in his chair.
"And why not?"
"Well, Joan—er—Dr. Dale and myself feel that the boys of Unit 42-D make it potentially the best in the Academy—if they stay together, sir."
Walters considered this for a moment and then asked thoughtfully, "Give me one good reason why the unit shouldn't be washed out."
"The academy needs boys like this, sir," Steve answered flatly. "Needs their intelligence, their experience. They may be a problem now, but if they're handled right, they'll turn out to be ace spacemen, they'll—"
The commander interrupted. "You're pretty sold on them, aren't you, Steve?"
"Yes, sir, I am."
"You know, tomorrow all the units will be assigned to their personal instructors."
"Yes, sir. And I've selected Lieutenant Wolcheck for this unit. He's tough and smart. I think he's just the man for the job."
"I don't agree, Steve. Wolcheck is a fine officer and with any other unit there'd be no question. But I think we have a better man for the job."
"Whom do you suggest, sir?"
The commander leaned forward in his chair.
"You, Steve."
"Me?"
"What do you think, Joan?"
"I wanted to make the same suggestion, Commander," smiled Joan. "But I didn't know if Steve really would want the assignment."
"Well, what about it, Steve?" asked the commander. "This is no reflection on your present work. But if you're so convinced that 42-D is worth the trouble, then take them over and mold them into spacemen. Otherwise, I'll have to wash them out."
Strong hesitated a moment. "All right, sir. I'll do my best."
On the screen the stern lines in Commander Walters' face relaxed and he smiled approvingly.
"Thanks, Steve," he said softly. "I was hoping you'd say that. Keep me posted."
The screen blacked out abruptly and Captain Strong turned to Joan Dale, a troubled frown wrinkling his brow.
"Huh. I really walked into that one, didn't I?" he muttered.
"It isn't going to be easy, Steve," she replied.
"Easy!" He snorted and walked over to the window to stare blankly at the quadrangle below. "I'd almost rather try a landing on the hot side of Mercury. It would be icy compared to this situation!"
"You can do it, Steve. I know you can." Joan moved to his side to place a reassuring hand on his arm.
The Solar Guard officer didn't answer immediately. He kept on staring at the Academy grounds and buildings spread out before him. When he finally spoke, his voice rang with determination.
"I've got to do it, Joan. I've got to whip those boys into a unit. Not only for their sakes—but for the sake of the Academy!"
The first three weeks of an Earthworm's life at Space Academy are filled with never-ending physical training and conditioning to meet the rigors of rocket flight and life on distant planets. And under the grueling pressure of fourteen-hour days, filled with backbreaking exercises and long forced marches, very few of the boys can find anything more desirable than sleep—and more sleep.
Under this pressure the friction in Unit 42-D became greater and greater. Roger and Astro continually needled each other with insults, and Tom gradually slipped into the role of arbiter.
Returning from a difficult afternoon of endless marching in the hot sun with the prospect of an evening of free-fall wrestling before them, the three cadets dragged themselves wearily onto the slidestairs leading to their quarters, their muscles screaming for rest.
"Another day like this," began Astro listlessly, "and I'm going to melt down to nothing. Doesn't McKenny have a heart?"
"No, just an asteroid," Tom grumbled. "He'll never know how close he came to getting a space boot in the face when he woke us up this morning. Oh, man! Was I tired!"
"Stop complaining, will you?" snarled Roger. "AllI've heard from you two space crawlers is gripes and complaints."
"If I wasn't so tired, Roger," said Astro, "I'd give you something to gripe about. A flat lip!"
"Knock it off, Astro," said Tom wearily. The role of keeping them apart was getting tiresome.
"The trouble with you, Astro," pursued Roger, "is that you think with your muscles instead of your head."
"Yeah, I know. And you've got an electronic calculator for a brain. All you have to do is push a button and you get the answers all laid out for you."
They had reached their quarters now and were stripping off their sweat-soaked uniforms in preparation for a cool shower.
"You know, Roger," continued Astro, "you've got a real problem ahead of you."
"Any problem you think I have is no problem at all," was the cool reply.
"Yes, it is," insisted Astro. "When you're ready for your first hop in space, you won't be able to make it!"
"Why not?"
"They don't have a space helmet in the Academy large enough to fit that overinflated head of yours!"
Roger turned slowly and spoke to Tom without looking at him. "Close the door, Corbett!"
"Why?" asked Tom, puzzled.
"Because I don't want any interruptions. I'm going to take that big hunk of Venusian space junk apart."
"Anything you say, you bigmouthed squirt!" roared Astro.
"Hey—knock it off!" yelled Tom, jumping between them and grabbing Astro's arm. "If you guys don't lay off each other, you're going to be thrown out of the Academy, and I'll be thrown out with you! I'll be blasted if I'll suffer for your mistakes!"
"That's a very interesting statement, Corbett!" A deepvoice purred from the doorway and the three boys whirled to see Captain Strong walk into the room, his black and gold uniform fitting snugly across the shoulders betraying their latent strength. "Stand to—all of you!"
As the boys quickly snapped to attention, Strong eyed them slowly and then moved casually around the room. He picked up a book, looked out of the window port, pushed a boot to one side and, finally, removed Tom's sweat-stained uniform from a chair and sat down. The cadets held their rigid poses, backs stiff, eyes looking straight ahead.
"Corbett?" snapped Strong.
"Yes, sir?"
"What was the meaning of that little speech I heard a moment ago?"
"I—ah—don't quite understand what you mean, sir," stumbled Tom.
"I think you do," said Strong. "I want to know what provoked you to make such a statement."
"I'd rather not answer that, sir."
"Don't get cute, Corbett!" barked Strong. "I know what's going on in this unit. Were Manning and Astro squaring off to fight?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom slowly.
"All right. At ease all of you," said Strong. The three boys relaxed and faced the officer.
"Manning, do you want to be a successful cadet here at Space Academy?"
"Yes, sir," answered Roger.
"Then why don't you act like it?" asked Strong.
"Is there something wrong with my work, sir?" Tom recognized the smooth Manning confidence begin to appear, and he wondered if Captain Strong would be taken in.
"Everything's wrong with your work," barked Strong."You're too smart! Know too much!" He stopped short and then added softly with biting sarcasm, "Why do you know so much, Cadet Manning?"
Roger hesitated. "I've studied very hard. Studied for years to become a Space Cadet," he replied.
"Just to be a cadet or a successful cadetanda Solar Guard officer?"
"To be successful at both, sir."
"Tell me, Manning, do you have any ideas on life?"
"That's a pretty general question, sir. Do you mean life as a whole or a specific part of life?" They're fencing with each other, thought Tom. He held his breath as Strong eyed the relaxed, confident cadet.
"A spaceman is supposed to have but one idea in life, Manning. And that idea isspace!"
"I see, sir," replied Roger, as a faraway look came into his eyes.
"Yes, sir, I have some ideas about life in space."
"I'd like to hear them!" requested Strong coldly.
"Very well, sir." Roger relaxed his shoulders and leaned against the bunk. "I believe space is the last frontier of man—Earthman. It's the last place for man to conquer. It is the greatest adventure of all time and I want to be a part of that adventure."
"Thank you, Manning." Strong's voice was even colder than before. "But as it happens, I can read too. That was a direct quote from the closing paragraph of Jon Builker's book on his trip to the stars!" He paused. "Couldn't you think of anything original to say?"
Roger flushed and gritted his teeth. Tom could hardly keep himself from laughing. Captain Strong had scored heavily!
The Solar Guard officer then turned his attention to Astro.
"Astro, where in the name of the universe did you get the idea you could be an officer in the Solar Guard?"
"I can handle anything with push in it, sir!" Astro smiled his confidence.
"Know anything about hyperdrive?"
"Uhh—no, sir."
"Then you can't handle everything with, as you say, push in it!" snapped Strong.
"Er—no, sir," answered Astro, his face clouding over.
There was a long moment of silence while Strong lifted one knee, swung it over the arm of his chair, and looked steadily at the two half-naked boys in front of him. He smiled lazily.
"Well, for two Earthworms, you've certainly been acting like a couple of space aces!"
He let that soak in while he toyed with the gleaming Academy ring on his finger. He allowed it to flash in the light of the window port, then slipped it off and flipped it over to Corbett.
"Know what that is?" he asked the curly-haired cadet.
"Yes, sir," replied Tom. "Your Academy graduation ring."
"Uh-huh. Now give it to our friend from Venus." Tom gingerly handed Astro the ring.
"Try it on, Astro," invited Strong.
The big cadet tried it on all of his fingers but couldn't get it past the first joint.
"Give it to Manning."
Roger accepted the ring and held it in the palm of his hand. He looked at it with a hard stare, then dropped it in the outstretched hand of the Solar Guard officer. Replacing it on his finger, Strong spoke casually.
"All units design their own rings. There are only three like this in the universe. One is drifting around in space on the finger of Sam Jones. Another is blasting a trail to the stars on the finger of Addy Garcia." He held up his finger. "This is the third one."
Strong got up and began to pace in front of the boys.
"Addy Garcia couldn't speak a word of English when he first came to the Academy. And for eight weeks Sam and I sweated to figure out what he was talking about. I think we spent over a hundred hours in the galley doing KP because Addy kept getting us fouled up. But that didn't bother us because we were a unit. Unit 33-V. Class of 2338."
Strong turned to face the silent cadets.
"Sam Jones was pretty much like you, Astro. Not as big, but with the same love for that power deck. He could always squeeze a few extra pounds of thrust out of those rockets. What he knew about astrogation and control, you could stick on the head of a pin. On long flights he wouldn't even come up to the control deck. He just sat in the power hole singing loud corny songs about the Arkansas mountains to those atomic motors. He was a real power-deck man. But he was aunitman first! The only reason I'm here to tell you about it is because he never forgot the unit. He died saving Addy and myself."
The room was still. Down the long hall, the lively chatter of other cadets could be heard as they showered and prepared for dinner. In the distance, the rumble of the slidewalks and test firing of rockets at the spaceport was dim, subdued, powerful.
"The unit is the backbone of the Academy," continued Strong. "It was set up to develop three men to handle a Solar Guard rocket cruiser. Three men who could be taught to think, feel and act as one intelligent brain. Three men who would respect each other and who could depend on each other. Tomorrow you begin your real education. You will be supervised and instructed personally.
"Many men have contributed to the knowledge thatwill be placed in front of you—brave, intelligent men, who blasted through the atmosphere with a piece of metal under them for a spaceship and a fire in their tail for rockets. But everything they accomplished goes to waste if the unit can't become a single personality. It must be a single personality, or it doesn't exist. The unit is the ultimate of hundreds of years of research and progress. But you have to fight to create it and keep it living. Either you want it, or you get out of the Academy!"
Captain Strong turned away momentarily and Tom and Astro looked at Roger significantly.
"Stand to!"
The three boys snapped to attention as the wide-shouldered captain addressed them again.
"Tomorrow you begin to learn how to think as a single brain. To act with combined intelligence as one person. You either make up your minds to start tomorrow or you report to Commander Walters and resign. There isn't any room here for individuals."
He stepped to the door and paused.
"One more thing. I've been given the job of making you over into spacemen. I'm your unit commander. If you're still here in the morning, I'll accept that as your answer. If you think you can't take"—he paused—"what I'm going to dish out, then you know what you can do. And if you stay, you'llbethe best unit, or I'll break you in two in the attempt. Unit dis ... missed!" And he was gone.
The three cadets stood still, not knowing quite what to do or say. Finally Tom stepped before Astro and Roger.
"Well," he said quietly, "how about it, you guys? Are you going to lay off each other now?"
Astro flushed, but Roger eyed Corbett coolly.
"Were you really taken in with that space gas, Tom?" He turned to the shower room. "If you were, then you're more childish than I thought."
"A man died to save another man's life, Roger. Sam Jones. I never knew him. But I've met Captain Strong, and I believe that he would have done the same thing for Jones."
"Very noble," commented Roger from the doorway.
"But I'll tell you this, Manning," said Tom, following him, fighting for self-control, "I wouldn't want to have to depend on you to save my life. And I wouldn't want to be faced with the situation where I would have to sacrifice mine to save yours!"
Roger turned and glared at Tom.
"The Academy regs say that the man on the control deck is the boss of the unit. But I have my private opinion of the man who has that job now!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Tom.
"Just this, spaceboy. There's a gym below where I'll take youoryour big friend on—together—or one at a time." He paused, a cold smile twisting his lips. "And that offer is good as of right now!"
Tom and Astro looked at each other.
"I'm afraid," began Astro slowly, "that you wouldn't stand much of a chance with me, Manning. So if Tom wants the chore of buttoning your lip, he's welcome to it."
"Thanks, Astro," said Tom evenly. "It'll be my pleasure."
Without another word, the three cadets walked out of the door.
"Will this do, Manning?" asked Tom.
The three boys were in a secluded corner of the gym, a large hall on the fourteenth floor of the dormitory building. At the far end of the gym, a group of cadets had just finished a game of mercuryball and were sauntering to the showers. When the last boy had disappeared, the floor was deserted except for Tom, Roger and Astro.
"This will do fine, Corbett," said Roger.
The boxing ring had been taken down the week before to make room for drills and the physical exercises of the Earthworms, so the three boys had to improvise a ring. They dragged four large tumbling mats together, spreading them side by side to form a square close to the size of an actual ring. Astro went to one of the small lockers under the balcony and returned with two pairs of boxing gloves.
"Here," offered Astro, "put these on."
"Gloves?" asked Roger, in a voice of mock surprise. "I thought this was going to be a battle of blood."
"Any way you want it, Manning. Any way at all," said Tom.
"You're going to use gloves," growled Astro. "I don't want anybody killed." He threw a pair at each of them.
"There'll be three-minute rounds, with one minuterest," he continued. "Go off the mats and you'll be counted out. Usual rules otherwise. Any questions?"
"Clear to me, Astro," said Tom.
"Let's go," nodded Roger.
"One more thing," said Astro. "I hope Tom pins your ears back, Manning. But I'm going to see that both of you get a fair deal. So keep the punches up—and fight it out. All right—time!"
The two boys moved carefully to the center of the improvised ring, their guards up, while Astro stood off the edge of the mat and watched the sweeping second hand of his wrist chronograph.
Shuffling forward Tom pushed out a probing left and then tried to cross his right, but Manning stepped back easily, countering with a hard left to Tom's heart.
"I forgot to tell you, Corbett," he called out, "I'm considered a counterpuncher. I always—"
He was cut off with a sharp left to the face that snapped his head back, and his lips curled in a smile of condescension.
"Good—very good, Corbett."
Then with lightning speed and the grace of a cat, Roger slipped inside Tom's guard, punching hard and true. A left, a right and a left pounded into Tom's mid-section, and as he gave way momentarily Tom's face clouded over.
They circled. Tom kept leading with sharp lefts that popped in and out like a piston, always connecting and keeping Roger off balance. Roger concentrated on penetrating Tom's defense, methodically pounding his ribs and heart and trying to wear him down.
"Time!" bawled Astro.
The two boys dropped their hands and turned back to their corners. They squatted on the floor breathing slowly and easily. Astro stood in the middle of the ring, glaring at both of them in turn and shaking his head.
"Huh. I expected to see you two try to wallop each other into meteor dust! Keep fighting like that and we'll be here all night!"
"Talk to Corbett," sneered Roger. "Looks like he's afraid to mix it up!"
"You fight your way, Roger, and I'll fight mine," replied Tom, his voice cold and impersonal.
"Time!" suddenly yelled Astro and stepped back off the mat.
The two cadets jumped to their feet and met in the center of the ring again. With a bull-like rush, Roger changed tactics and began to rain punches all over Tom's body, but the curly-haired cadet stood his ground coolly, picking some off in mid-air with his gloves and sliding under the others. Then, as Roger slowed down, Tom took the offensive, popping his left into his opponent's face steadily and methodically, while keeping his right cocked for a clear opening to the chin.
Roger danced in and out, watching Tom's left as though it was a snake and trying unsuccessfully to get through his guard. But the sharp lefts kept snapping his head back and his face began to redden, not only from the sting of the blows but with the mounting fury of his frustration.
Suddenly, as Astro raised his arm to call time for the end of the round, Roger jumped forward and rained another series of harmless blows on Tom's shoulders and arms. But then, as the big Venusian called time, he stepped back and Tom dropped his guard. Instantly, Roger threw a right with all his weight behind it. It landed flush on Tom's jaw and he dropped, sprawling full length on the mats and lying still.
Smiling, Roger sauntered to his corner while Astro charged in and bent over the fallen cadet.
"None of that, Astro!" snapped Roger. "Since whendoes a referee take sides? Leave him alone! If he doesn't come out for the next round, you have to count him out!"
The big Venusian straightened and walked menacingly toward Roger's corner. "You hit him after I called time," he growled.
"So I have to take you on too, huh?" Roger jumped to his feet. "All right—come on, you big blast of space gas!"
"Wait, Astro ... wait!"
Astro suddenly wheeled around to see Tom shaking his head weakly and trying to rise up on his elbows. He rushed back to the fallen boy's side.
Roger shouted at him angrily, "Leave him alone!"
"Ahhh—go blow your jets!" was Astro's snarling reply as he bent over Tom, who was now sitting up. "Tom, are you O.K.?"
"Yeah—yeah," he replied weakly. "But stay out of this. You're the referee. How much time left?"
"Twenty seconds," said Astro. "Roger smacked you after I called time."
"If he did, I didn't know a thing about it. I was out." Tom managed a cold smile. "Nice punch, Roger."
"Ten seconds," said Astro, stepping back off the mat.
"Thanks for the compliment, Corbett." Roger eyed the other cadet speculatively. "But are you sure you want to go on?"
"I was saved by the bell, wasn't I?"
"Yeah—sure—but if you'd rather quit—"
"Time!" cried Astro.
Tom rose to his feet—shook his head—and brought up his hands. He wasn't a moment too soon. Roger had rushed across the mat, trying to land another murderous right. Tom brought up his shoulder just in time, slipping with the punch, and at the same time, bringing up a terrific left to Roger's open mid-section. Manninglet out a grunt and clinched. Tom pursued his advantage, pumping rights and lefts to the body, and he could feel the arrogant cadet weakening. Suddenly, Roger crowded in close, wrestling Tom around so that Astro was on the opposite side of the mat, then brought up his head under Tom's chin. The pop of Tom's teeth could be heard all over the great hall. Roger quickly stepped back, and back-pedaled until Astro called time.
"Thanks for teaching me that one, Roger. Learned two tricks from you today," said Tom, breathing heavily, but with the same cold smile on his face.
"That's all right, Corbett. Any time," said Manning.
"What tricks?" asked Astro. He looked suspiciously at Manning, who was doubled over, finding it hard to breath.
"Nothing I can't handle in time," said Tom, looking at Roger.
"Time!" called Astro and stepped off the mat.
The two boys got to their feet slowly. The pace was beginning to show on them and they boxed carefully.
The boys were perfectly matched, Tom constantly snapping Roger's head back with the jolting left jabs and following to the head or heart with a right cross. And Roger counterpunching, slipping hooks and body punches in under Tom's long leads. It was a savage fight. The three weeks of hard physical training had conditioned the boys perfectly.
At the end of the twelfth round, both boys showed many signs of wear. Roger's cheeks were as red as the glow of a jet blast deflector from the hundreds of lefts Tom had pumped into his face, while Tom's ribs and mid-section were bruised and raw where Roger's punches had landed successfully.
It couldn't last much longer, thought Astro, as he called time for the beginning of the thirteenth round.
Roger quickened his pace, dancing in and out, tryingto move in under Tom's lefts, but suddenly Tom caught him with a right hand that was cocked and ready. It staggered him and he fell back, covering up. Tom pressed his advantage, showering rights and lefts everywhere he could find an opening. In desperation, his knees buckling, Roger clinched tightly, quickly brought up his open glove and gouged his thumb into Tom's eyes. Tom pulled back, instinctively pawing at his eye with his right glove. Roger, spotting the opening, took immediate advantage of it, shooting a hard looping right that landed flush on Tom's jaw. Tom went down.
Unaware of Roger's tactics, Astro jumped into the ring and his arm pumped the deadly count.
"One—two—three—four—"
It was going to be tough if Roger won, Astro thought, as he counted.
"Five—six—"
Arrogant enough now, he would be impossible to live with.
"Seven—eight—"
Tom struggled up to a sitting position and stared angrily at his opponent in the far corner.
"Nine—"
With one convulsive effort, Tom regained his feet. His left eye was closed and swollen, his right bleary with fatigue. He wobbled drunkenly on his feet. But he pressed forward. This was one fight he had to win.
Roger moved in for the finish. He slammed a left into Tom's shell, trying to find an opening for the last finishing blow. But Tom remained in his shell, forearms picking off the smashes that even hurt his arms, as he waited for the strength to return to his legs and arms and his head to clear. He knew that he couldn't go another round. He wouldn't be able to see. It would have to be this round, and he had tobeatRoger.Notbecausehe wanted to, but because Roger was a member of the unit. And he had to keep the unit together.
He circled his unit-mate with care, shielding himself from the shower of rights and lefts that rained around him. He waited—waited for the one perfect opening.
"Come on! Open up and fight, Corbett," panted Roger.
Tom snapped his right in reply. He noticed that Roger moved in with a hook every time he tried to cross his right. He waited—his legs began to shake. Roger circled and Tom shot out the left again, dropped into a semicrouch and feinted with the right cross. Roger moved in, cocking his fist for the left hook and Tom was ready for him. He threw the right, threw it with every ounce of strength left in his body. Roger was caught moving in and took the blow flush on the chin. He stopped as if poleaxed. His eyes turned glassy and then he dropped to the mat. He was out cold.
Astro didn't even bother to count.
Tom squatted on the mat beside Roger and rubbed the blond head with his glove.
"Get some water, Astro," he said, gasping for breath. "I'm glad I don't have to fight this guy again. And I'll tell you something else—"
"What?" asked Astro.
"Anybody that wants to win as much as this guy does, is going to win, and I want to have him on my side!"
Astro merely grunted as he turned toward the water cooler.
"Maybe," he called back. "But he ought to read a book of rules first!"
When he came back to the mat with the water, Roger was sitting up, biting the knots of the laces on his gloves. Tom helped him, and when the soggy leather was finally discarded, he stuck out his hand. "Well,Roger, I'm ready to forget everything we've said and start all over again."
Roger looked at the extended hand for a moment, his eyes blank and expressionless. Then, with a quick movement, he slapped it away and lurched to his feet.
"Go blow your jets," he snarled, and turning his back on them, stumbled across the gym.
Tom watched him go, bewilderment and pain mirrored on his face.
"I thought sure this would work, Astro," he sighed. "I thought he'd come to his senses if—"
"Nothing'll make that space creep come to his senses," Astro broke in disgustedly. "At least, nothing short of an atomic war head! Come on. Let's get you cleaned up!"
Putting his arm around Tom's shoulder, the big Venusian led him across the floor of the deserted gym, and as they disappeared through the automatic sliding doors, a tall figure in the uniform of the Solar Guard stepped out of the shadows on the balcony above. It was Captain Strong.
He stood silently at the rail, looking down at the mats and the soggy discarded boxing gloves. Tom had won the fight, he thought, but he had lost the war. The unit was now farther apart than it had ever been.
im057.png
"Well, Steve, how's everything going?"
Captain Steve Strong didn't answer right away. He returned the salute of a Space Cadet passing on the opposite slidewalk and then faced Commander Walters who stood beside him, eyeing him quizzically.
"Things are shaping up pretty well, Commander," he replied, finally, with an air of unconcern.
"The Earthworm units buckling down to business?" Commander Walters' voice matched Strong's in nonchalance.
"Yes, I'd say so, sir. Speaking generally, of course." Strong felt the back of his neck begin to flush as Walters kept eyeing him.
"And—speaking specifically, Steve?"
"Why—ah—what do you mean, sir?"
"Let's stop fencing with each other, Steve." Walters spoke kindly but firmly. "What about Manning and Unit 42-D? Are those boys learning to work together or not? And I want facts, not hopes!"
Strong hesitated, trying to word his reply. In these weeks that had followed Tom's fight with Roger in the gym, there had been no further incidents of open warfare. Roger's attitude, once openly defiant, had now subsided into a stream of never-ending sarcasm. The sting had been taken out of his attack and he seemed satisfied merely to annoy. Astro had withdrawn into ashell, refusing to allow Roger to bother him and only an occasional rumble of anger indicated his true feelings toward his troublesome unit-mate. Tom maintained his role of peacemaker and daily, in many ways, showed his capacity for leadership by steering his unit-mates away from any storm-provoking activities.
Strong finally broke the silence. "It's difficult to answer that question with facts, Commander Walters."
"Why?" insisted Walters.
"Well, nothing's really happened," answered Steve.
"You mean, nothing since the fight in the gym?"
"Oh—" Strong flushed. "You know about that?"
Commander Walters smiled. "Black eyes and faces that looked like raw beef don't go unnoticed, Steve."
"Uhh—no, sir," was Strong's lame reply.
"What I want to know is," pursued Walters, "did the fight prove anything? Did the boys get it out of their systems and are they concentrating on becoming a unit?"
"Right now, Commander, they're concentrating on passing their manuals. They realize that they have to work together to get through this series of tests. Why, Dr. Dale told me the other day that she's sure Tom's been giving Roger a few pointers on control-deck operation. And one night I found Manning giving Astro a lecture in compression ratios. Of course, Manning's way of talking is a way that would confuse the Venusian more than it would help him, but at least they weren't snarling at each other."
"Hmm," Walters nodded. "Sounds hopeful, but still not conclusive. After all, they have to help each other in the manuals. If one member of the unit fails, it will reflect on the marks of the other two and they might be washed out too. Even the deadliest enemies will unite to save their lives."
"Perhaps, sir," replied Strong. "But we're not dealingwith deadly enemies now. These are three boys, with three distinct personalities who've been lumped together in strange surroundings. It takes time and patience to make a team that will last for years."
"You may have the patience, Steve, but the Academy hasn't the time." Commander Walters was suddenly curt. "When does Unit 42-D take its manuals?"
"This afternoon, sir," replied Strong. "I'm on my way over to the examination hall right now."
"Very well. I won't take any action yet. I'll wait for the results of the tests. Perhaps they will solve both our problems. See you later, Steve." Turning abruptly, Commander Walters stepped off the slidewalk onto the steps of the Administration Building and rapidly disappeared from view.
Left alone, Strong pondered the commander's parting statement. The implication was clear. If the unit failed to make a grade high enough to warrant the trouble it took keeping it together, it would be broken up. Or even worse, one or more of the boys would be dismissed from the Academy.
A few minutes later Strong arrived in the examination hall, a large, barren room with a small door in each of the three walls other than the one containing the entrance. Tom Corbett was waiting in the center of the hall and saluted smartly as Strong approached.
"Cadet Corbett reporting for manual examination, sir!"
"Stand easy, Corbett," replied Strong, returning the salute. "This is going to be a rough one. Are you fully prepared?"
"I believe so, sir." Tom's voice wasn't too steady.
A fleeting smile passed over Strong's lips, then he continued. "You'll take the control-deck examination first. Manning will be next on the radar bridge and Astro last on the power deck."
"They'll be here according to schedule, sir."
"Very well. Follow me."
Strong walked quickly to the small door in the left wall, Tom staying a respectful step behind. When they reached the door, the officer pressed a button in the wall beside it and the door slid open.
"All right, Corbett. Inside." Strong nodded toward the interior of the room.
The boy stepped in quickly, then stopped in amazement. All around him was a maze of instruments and controls. And in the center, twin pilot's chairs.
"Captain Strong!" Tom was so surprised that he could hardly get the words out. "It's—it's a real control deck!"
Strong smiled. "As real as we can make it, Corbett, without allowing the building to blast off." He gestured toward the pilot's chairs. "Take your place and strap in."
"Yes, sir." His eyes still wide with wonder, Tom stepped over to the indicated chair and Strong followed him, leaning casually against the other.
He watched the young cadet nervously adjust his seat strap and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Nervous, Corbett?"
"Yes, sir—just a little," replied Tom.
"Don't worry," said Strong. "You should have seen the way I came into this room fifteen years ago. My cadet officer had to help me into the control pilot's seat."
Tom managed a fleeting smile.
"Now, Corbett"—Strong's voice became businesslike—"as you know, these manual tests are the last tests before actually blasting off. In the past weeks, you cadets have been subjected to every possible examination, to discover any flaw in your work that might later crop up in space. This manual operations test of the controlboard, like Manning's on the radar bridge and Astro's on the power deck, is designed to test you under simulated space conditions. If you pass this test, your next step is real space."
"Yes, sir."
"I warn you, it isn't easy. And if you fail, you personally will wash out, and if other members of the unit do not get a high enough mark to average out to a passing grade for all of you, you fail as a unit."
"I understand, sir," said Tom.
"All right, then we'll begin. Your crew is aboard, the air lock is closed. What is the first thing you do?"
"Adjust the air circulating system to ensure standard Earth conditions."
"How do you do that?"
"By pressing this button which will activate the servo units. They automatically keep the circulating pumps in operation, based on thermostatic readings from the main gauge." Tom pointed to a black clock face, with a luminous white hand and numbers.
"All right, carry on," said Strong.
Tom reached over the huge control board that extended around him for some two feet on three sides. He placed a nervous finger on a small button, waited for the gauge below to register with a swing of the hand, and then released it. "All pressures steady, sir."
"What next?"
"Check the crew, sir—all departments—" replied Tom.
"Carry on," said Strong.
Tom reached out and pulled a microphone toward him.
"All hands! Station check!" said Tom, and then was startled to hear a metallic voice answer him.
"Power deck, ready for blast-off!" And then another voice: "Radar deck, ready for blast-off!"
Tom leaned back in the pilot's seat and turned to the captain. "All stations ready, sir."
"Good! What next?" asked Strong.
"Ask spaceport tower for blast-off clearance—"
Strong nodded. Tom turned back to the microphone, and without looking, punched a button in front of him.
"Rocket cruiser—" He paused and turned back to Strong. "What name do I give, sir?"
Strong smiled. "Noah's Ark—"
"Rocket cruiserNoah's Arkto spaceport control! Request blast-off clearance and orbit."
Once again a thin metallic voice answered him and gave the necessary instructions.
On and on, through every possible command, condition or decision that would be placed in front of him, Tom guided his imaginary ship on its imaginary flight through space. For two hours he pushed buttons, snapped switches and jockeyed controls. He gave orders and received them from the thin metallic voices. They answered him with such accuracy, and sometimes with seeming hesitation, that Tom found it difficult to believe that they were only electronically controlled recording devices. Once, when supposedly blasting through space at three-quarters space speed, he received a warning from the radar bridge of an approaching asteroid. He asked for a course change, but in reply received only static. Believing the recording to have broken down, he turned inquiringly to Captain Strong, but received only a blank stare in return. Tom hesitated for a split second, then turned back to the controls. He quickly flipped the teleceiver button on and began plotting the course of the approaching asteroid, ignoring for the moment his other duties on the control deck. When he had finished, he gave the course shift to the power deck and ordered a blast on the starboard jet. Hewaited for the course change, saw it register on the gauges in front of him, then continued his work.
Strong suddenly leaned over and clapped him on the back enthusiastically.
"Good work, Corbett. That broken recording was put there intentionally to trap you. Not one cadet in twenty would have had the presence of mind you showed in plotting the course of that asteroid yourself."
"Thank you, sir," stammered Tom.
"That's all—the test is over. Return to your quarters." He came over and laid a hand on Tom's shoulder. "And don't worry, Corbett. While it isn't customary to tell a cadet, I think you deserve it. You've passed with a perfect score!"
"I have, sir? You mean—I really passed?"
"Next step is Manning," said Strong. "You've done as much as one cadet can do."
"Thank you, sir"—Tom could only repeat it over and over—"thank you, sir—thank you."
Dazed, he saluted his superior and turned to the door. Two hours in the pilot's chair had made him dizzy. But he was happy.
Five minutes later he slammed back the sliding door and entered the quarters of 42-D with a lusty shout.
"Meet Space Cadet Corbett—an Earthworm who's just passed his control-deck manual operations exam!"
Astro looked up from a book of tables on astrogation and gave Tom a wan smile.
"Congratulations, Tom," he said, and turned back to his book, adding bitterly, "but if I don't get these tables down by this afternoon for my power-deck manual, you're sunk."
"Say—what's going on here?" asked Tom. "Where's Roger? Didn't he help you with them?"
"He left. Said he had to see someone before takinghis radar-bridge manual. He helped me a little. But when I'd ask him a question, he'd just rattle the answer off so fast—well, I just couldn't follow him."
Suddenly slamming the book shut, he got up. "Me and these tables"—he indicated the book—"just don't mix!"
"What's the trouble?"
"Ah—I can get the easy ones about astrogation. They're simple. But it's the ones where I have tocombineit with the power deck."
"Well—I mean—what specifically?" asked Tom softly.
"For instance, I've got to find the ratio for compression on the main firing tubes, using a given amount of fuel, heading for a given destination, and taking a given time for the passage."
"But that's control-deck operations—as well as astrogation and power!" exclaimed Tom.
"Yeah—I know," answered Astro, "but I've still got to be able to do it. If anything happened to you two guys and I didn't know how to get you home, then what?"
Tom hesitated. Astro was right. Each member of the unit had to depend on the other in any emergency. And if one of them failed ...? Tom saw why the ground manuals were so important now.
"Look," offered Tom. "Suppose we go over the whole thing again together. Maybe you're fouled up on the basic concept."
Tom grabbed a chair, hitched it close to the desk and pulled Astro down beside him. He opened the book and began studying the problem.
"Now look—you have twenty-two tons of fuel—and considering the position of your ship in space—"
As the two boys, their shoulders hunched over the table, began reviewing the table of ratios, across thequadrangle in the examination hall Roger Manning stood in a replica of a rocket ship's radar bridge and faced Captain Strong.
"Cadet Manning reporting for manual examination, sir." Roger brought up his arm in a crisp salute to Captain Strong, who returned it casually.
"Stand easy, Manning," replied Strong. "Do you recognize this room?"
"Yes, sir. It's a mock-up of a radar bridge."
"A workable mock-up, cadet!" Strong was vaguely irritated by Roger's nonchalance in accepting a situation that Tom had marveled at. "You will take your manuals here!"
"Yes, sir."
"On these tests you will be timed for both efficiency and speed and you'll use all the tables, charts and astrogation equipment that you'd find in a spaceship. Your problems are purely mathematical. There are no decisions to make. Just use your head."
Strong handed Roger several sheets of paper containing written problems. Roger shuffled them around in his fingers, giving each a quick glance.
"You may begin any time you are ready, Manning," said Strong.
"I'm ready now, sir," replied Roger calmly. He turned to the swivel chair located between the huge communications board, the adjustable chart table and the astrogation prism. Directly in front of him was the huge radar scanner, and to one side and overhead was a tube mounted on a swivel joint that looked like a small telescope, but which was actually an astrogation prism for taking sights on the celestial bodies in space.
Roger concentrated on the first problem.
" ... you are now in the northwest quadrant of Mars, chart M, area twenty-eight. You have been notified by the control deck that it has been necessary tojettison three quarters of your fuel supply. For the last five hundred and seventy-nine seconds you have been blasting at one-quarter space speed. The four main drive rockets were cut out at thirty-second intervals. Making adjustment for degree of slip on each successive rocket cutout, find present position by using cross-fix with Regulus as your starboard fix, Alpha Centauri as your port fix."
Suddenly a bell began to ring in front of Roger. Without hesitation he adjusted a dial that brought the radar scanner into focus. When the screen remained blank, he made a second adjustment, and then a third and fourth, until the bright white flash of a meteor was seen on the scanner. He quickly grabbed two knobs, one in each hand, and twisted them to move two thin, plotting lines, one horizontal and one vertical, across the surface of the scanner. Setting the vertical line, he fingered a tabulating machine with his right hand, as he adjusted the second line with his left, thus cross-fixing the meteor. Then he turned his whole attention to the tabulator, ripped off the answer with lightning moves of his fingers and began talking rapidly into the microphone.
"Radar bridge to control deck! Alien body bearing zero-one-five, one-point-seven degrees over plane of the ecliptic. On intersecting orbit. Change course two degrees, hold for fifteen seconds, then resume original heading. Will compensate for change nearer destination!"
Roger watched the scanner a moment longer. When the rumbling blast of the steering jets sounded in the chamber and the meteor flash shifted on the scanner screen, he returned to the problem in his hand.
Seven minutes later he turned to Strong and handed him the answer.
"Present position by dead reckoning is northwestquadrant of Mars, chart O, area thirty-nine, sir," he announced confidently.