Stand by for Mars! Part 11

"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, trying to move in under Tom's lefts, but suddenly Tom caught him with a right hand that was c.o.c.ked 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 sh.e.l.l, trying to find an opening for the last finis.h.i.+ng blow. But Tom remained in his sh.e.l.l, 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 to _beat_ Roger.

_Not_ because he 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, s.h.i.+elding 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, c.o.c.king 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 gla.s.sy 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 s.p.a.ce 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER 6

"Well, Steve, how's everything going?"

Captain Steve Strong didn't answer right away. He returned the salute of a s.p.a.ce Cadet pa.s.sing 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!"