Chapter 7

“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.”

“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.