Danger in Deep Space Part 11

Not s.h.i.+nny." He got up. "Come on, Mason. We haven't got much time before the _Annie Jones_ blasts off."

"What are we gonna do?" the shorter man wanted to know.

"Stow away on the cargo deck. Then, when we get out into s.p.a.ce, we dump the pilots and head for Tara, for our first load of copper."

"But a job like this'll take money!"

"We'll make enough to go ahead on the first load."

Mason began to get up, hesitated, and then sat down again.

"Come on," snapped Loring. His hand dropped toward his belt. "I'm going to make you rich, Mason," he said quietly. "I'm going to make you one of the richest men in the universe--even if I have to kill you first."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER 7

"s.p.a.ce freighter _Antares_ from Venus s.p.a.ce station. Your approach course is one-nine-seven--corrected. Reduce speed to minimum thrust and approach s.p.a.ceport 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 a.s.sistants 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 s.h.i.+ft. 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 s.p.a.ce doll Helen Ashton alone on earth--and me stuck here on a s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce--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?"

"s.p.a.ceboy, 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 s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p.

"... jet liner _San Francisco_ to Venus s.p.a.ce-station traffic control ..." the metallic voice crackled over the speaker.

"Jet liner _San Francisco_, this is Venus s.p.a.ce-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 s.p.a.ceman'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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.h.i.+pmate. "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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce station!"

"Shows you ain't so smart," retorted Mason. "Lots of s.h.i.+ps 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 s.p.a.ce station to refuel for the long haul."