Chapter 3

“Well, looks like we’re big boys now,” said Tom, as the three cadets strolled down the corridor away from Captain Strong’s office. “They don’t hand out secret and important missions to cadet units unless they’re really on the ball!”

“But we’ve got Major ‘Blast-off’ Connel to educate,” grumbled Roger.

“What do you mean ‘educate’?” asked Astro.

“You know he’s the roughest officer in the Academy,” replied the blond-haired cadet. “He eats cadets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And then has an extra one for dessert. He isn’t just tough--his hide’s made of armor plate. But I’ve got a hunch that if we play dumb at first, then smarten up slowly, we can make him feel that he’s done it for us. So he’ll be easier on us.”

“Say, it’s after eleven!” exclaimed Tom. “We’d better hurry!”

Suddenly, as if a rocket cruiser were blasting off in the corridors, a roar, deafening and powerful, filled their ears. And beneath its ferocity there were four unmistakable words:

“Polaris unit--staaaaaaaannnnnndddddd toooooo!“

Every muscle, every bone in their three bodies snapped to rigid attention simultaneously. Eyes straight, chins in, the cadets waited for whatever calamity had befallen them. From behind came quick, heavy footsteps. They drew closer until they passed alongside and then abruptly stopped. There, in front of them, stood the one and only Major “Blast-off” Connel!

Though a few inches shorter than Astro, he was what Astro might become in thirty years, heavily muscular, with a barrel chest that filled the gold-and-black uniform tightly. He stood balanced on the balls of his small feet like a boxer, hands hanging loosely at his sides. A bulldog chin jutted out of his rough-hewn face as if it were going to snap off the head of the nearest cadet. He towered over Tom and Roger, and though shorter than Astro, he made up for this by sheer force of personality. When he spoke, his voice was like a deep foghorn that had suddenly learned the use of vowels.

“So this is the great Polaris unit, eh?” he bellowed. “You’re two minutes late!”

Tom suddenly felt that he and his unit-mates were all alone in the corridor with the major. He glanced to one side, then the other, cautiously, and saw it was empty. And for good reason! No one wanted to be around when “Blast-off” Connel was blasting. Cadets, enlisted men, and even officers were not safe from his sudden outbursts. He drove himself so hard that he became impatient with others who were not able to match his drive. It was not because of ego but rather to get the job at hand finished. More than once he had dressed down a captain of the Solar Guard in the same tone he used on a green Earthworm. It was legend around the Academy that once, believing he was right, he had broken into the Council Chamber itself to argue his point. He won by a unanimous decision. Nothing, but nothing, had been devised or thought of that could stop “Blast-off” Connel. Every waking moment of his adult life had been spent in the pursuit of more and more knowledge about space, space travel, and life on the other planets.

Now, his wrath at fever pitch at their being tardy, he stood in front of the cadets, turning his anger on Roger first.

“Your name’s Manning, isn’t it?” he growled.

“Yes, sir!” replied Roger.

“Father got a medal--used to be a Solar Guard officer?”

“That’s right, sir. He was killed in space.”

“I know. He was a good man. You’ll never be the man he was, if you live ten thousand years. But if you don’t try to be a better man than he was, you won’t live five minutes with me! Is that clear, Cadet Manning?”

“Very clear, sir!” gulped Roger.

Connel turned to Astro.

“And you’re the home-grown atomic-rocket genius, Venusian style, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” choked Astro. “I’m from Venus.”

“Bucked rockets on the old chemical burners as a kid before entering the Academy, eh?” asked Connel. There was less than an inch and a half between Astro’s face and Major Connel’s jaw.

“Yes, sir,” answered Astro, “I was an enlisted man before coming to the Academy.”

“Well, get this, you rocket buster,” roared Connel. “I want a power deck that will give me what I want, when I want it, or you’ll be back in the ranks again. Is that clear, Cadet Astro?”

“Yes, sir! Everything she’s got, when you want it, sir.”

“And I like to have a power deck clean enough to eat off the deck plates!”

“Yes, sir,” stuttered Astro, growing more and more confused. “You like to eat off the deck plates, sir!”

“By the craters of Luna, no! I don’t like to eat off the deck plates, but I want them clean enough to eat there if I want to!“

“Yes, sir!” Astro’s voice was hardly above a whisper.

“And you’re the tactical wizard that won the space maneuvers recently, singlehanded, eh?” asked Connel, bending down to face Tom.

“Our side won, sir. If that answers your question,” replied Tom. He was as nervous as Roger and Astro, but he fought for control. He was determined not to be bullied.

“I didn’t ask you who won!” snapped Connel. “But you’re the one just the same. Control-deck cadet, eh? Well, you work with me. On the control deck there’s only room for one brain, one decision, one answer. And when I’m on the control deck, that decision, answer, and brain will be mine!”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” said Tom tonelessly.

Connel stepped back, fists on his hips, eying the three cadets. He had heard about their difficulty in fitting personalities together when they had first arrived at Space Academy (as described in _Stand By for Mars!_). And he had heard about their triumph over the Martian desert. He was impressed with everything he had learned about them, but he knew that he had a reputation for being tough and that this reputation usually brought out the best in cadets. Early in his long and brilliant career he had learned that his life depended on the courage and ingenuity of his fellow spacemen. When he became an instructor at the Academy, he had determined that no cadet would ever be anything but the best, and that, when they blasted off in later years, they could be depended on.

He looked at the three cadets and felt a tinge of excitement that did not show on his scowling face. “Yes,” he thought, “they’ll make spacemen. It’ll take a little time--but they’re good material.”

“Now listen to this!“ he bawled. “We blast off for the Venus space station in exactly thirty minutes. Get your gear aboard the Polaris and stand by to raise ship.” He dropped his voice and pushed out his jaw a little farther. “This will be the toughest journey you’ll ever make. You’ll either come back spacemen, or you’ll come back nothing. I’m going to try my best to make it”--he paused and added coldly--”nothing! Because if you can’t take it from me, then you don’t belong in space! Unit dis-missed!”

He turned on his heel and disappeared up the slidestairs without another look at the three rigid cadets.

“Yeah--we’ll educate him, all right,” said Astro softly, with a wink at Tom. “Make him think he’s done everything for us.”

“Ah, go blast your jets!” snarled Roger after he had found his voice.

“Come on,” said Tom. “Let’s get the Polaris ready. And, fellows, I mean ready!”

Bill Loring and Al Mason stood near the entrance to the control tower of the Academy spaceport and watched the three cadets of the Polaris scramble into the giant rocket cruiser.

“Every time I think about that Connel kicking us out of space for twelve months I wanta pound his head in with a wrench!” snarled Loring.

Mason snorted. “Well, what’s the use of hanging around here?” he asked. “That Connel wouldn’t have us aboard the Polaris, even if we were cleared and had our papers. There ain’t a thing we can do!”