Tom Corbett Space Cadet

by Carey Rockwell

  "Where do we get our safari gear, Astro?" asked Roger.

  "In the secondhand shops along Spaceman's Row," replied the big Venusian. "We can get good equipment down there at half the price."

  The cab turned abruptly off the main highway and began twisting through a section of the city shunned by the average Venusian citizen. Spaceman's Row had a long and unsavory history. For ten square blocks it was the hide-out and refuge of the underworld of space. The grimy stores and shadowy buildings supplied the needs of the countless shadowy figures who lived beyond the law and moved as silently as ghosts.

  Leaving the jet cab, the three cadets walked along the streets, past the cheaply decorated store fronts and dingy hallways, until they finally came to a corner shop showing the universal symbol of the pawnshop: three golden balls. Tom and Roger looked at Astro who nodded, and they stepped inside.

  The interior of the shop was filthy. Rusted and worn space gear was piled in heaps along the walls and on dusty counters. An old-fashioned multiple neon light fixture cast an eerie blue glow over everything. Roger grimaced as he looked around. "Are you sure we're in the right place, Astro?"

  Tom winked. Roger had a reputation for being fastidious.

  "This is it," nodded Astro. "I know the old geezer that runs this place. Nice guy. Name's Spike." He turned to the back of the shop and bawled, "Hey, Spike! Customers!"

  Out of the gloomy darkness a figure emerged slowly. "Yeah?" The man stepped out into the pale light. He dragged one foot as he walked. "Whaddaya want?"

  Astro looked puzzled. "Where's Spike?" he asked. "Doesn't Spike Freyer own this place?"

  "He died a couple months ago. I bought him out just before." The crippled man eyed the three cadets warily. "Wanna buy something?"

  Astro looked shocked. "Spike, dead? What happened?"

  "How should I know," snarled the little man. "I bought him out and he died a few weeks later. Now, you wanna buy something or not?"

  "We're looking for jungle gear," said Tom, puzzled by the man's strange belligerence.

  "Jungle gear?" the man's eyes widened. "Going hunting?"

  "Yeah," supplied Roger. "We need complete outfits for three. But you don't look like you have them. Let's go, fellas." He turned toward the door, anxious to get out into the open air.

  "Just a minute! Just a minute, Cadet," said the proprietor eagerly. "I've got some fine hunting gear here! A little used, but you won't mind that! Save you at least half on anything you'd buy up in the city." He started toward the back of the store and then paused. "Where you going hunting?"

  "Why?" asked Tom.

  "So I'll know what kind of gear you need. Light—heavy—kind of guns—"

  "Jungle belt in the Eastern Hemisphere," supplied Astro.

  "Big game?" asked the man.

  "Yeah. Tyrannosaurus."

  "Tyranno, eh?" nodded the little man. "Well, now, you'll need heavy stuff for that. I'd say at least three heavy-duty paralo-ray pistols for side arms, and three shock rifles. Then you'll need camping equipment, synthetics, and all the rest." He counted the items off on grubby little fingers.

  "Let's take a look at the blasters," said Tom.

  "Right this way," said the man. He turned and limped to the rear of the shop, followed by the three cadets. Opening a large cabinet, he pulled out a heavy rifle, a shock gun that could knock out any living thing at a range of a thousand yards, and stun the largest animal at twice the distance.

  "This blaster will knock the scales off any tyranno that you hit," he said, handing the weapon over to Tom who expertly broke it down and examined it.

  As Tom checked the gun, the proprietor turned to the other cadets casually.

  "Why would three cadets want to go into that section of the jungle belt?"

  "We just told you," said Roger. "We're hunting tyranno."

  "Uh, yes, of course." He turned away and pulled three heavy-duty paralo-ray pistols out of the cabinet. "Now these ray guns are the finest money can buy. Standard Solar Guard equipment…"

  "Where did you get them?" demanded Roger sharply.

  "Well, you know how it is, Cadet." The man laughed. "One way or another, we get a lot of gear. A man is discharged from the Solar Guard and he can keep his equipment, then he gets hard up for a few credits and so he comes to me."

  Tom closed the shock rifle and turned to Astro. "This gun is clean enough. Think it can stop a tyranno, Astro?"

  "Sure," said the big cadet confidently. "Easy."

  "O.K.," announced Tom, turning back to the proprietor. "Give us the rest of the stuff."

  "And watch your addition when you make out the bill," said Roger blandly. "We can add, too."

  A half-hour later the three cadets stood in front of the shop with all the gear they would need and hailed a jet cab. They stowed their newly purchased equipment inside and started to climb in as Astro announced, "Spaceport, driver!"

  "Huh?" Roger paused. "Why back there?"

  "How do you think we're going to get to the jungle belt?" asked Astro. "Walk?"

  "Well, no, but—"

  "We have to rent a jet launch," said Astro. "Or try to buy a used one that we can sell back again. Pile in, now!"

  As the cab shot away from the curb with the three cadets, the proprietor of the pawnshop stepped out of the doorway and watched it disappear, a puzzled frown on his face. Quickly he re-entered the shop, and limping to a small locker in the rear, opened it, exposing the screen of a teleceiver. He flipped on the switch, tuned it carefully, and in a moment the screen glowed to life.

  "Hello, this is the shop," called the little man. "Lemme speak to Lactu! This is urgent!" As he waited he stared out through the dirty window to the street where the cadets had been a moment before and he smiled thinly.

  * * * * *

  Arriving at the spaceport, Astro led his unit mates to a privately owned repair hangar and dry dock where wealthier Venusian citizens kept their space yachts, jet-powered craft, and small runabouts. Astro opened the door to the office with a bang, and a young girl, operating an automatic typewriter, looked up.

  "Astro!" she cried. "How wonderful to see you!"

  "Hiya, Agnes," replied Astro shyly. The big cadet was well known and liked at the repair hangar. His early life had been spent in and around the spaceport. First just listening to the stories of the older spacemen and running errands for them, then lending a helping hand wherever he could, and finally becoming a rigger and mechanic. This all preceded his years as an enlisted spaceman and his eventual appointment to Space Academy. His big heart and honesty, his wild enthusiasm for any kind of rocket power had won him many friends.

  "Is Mr. Keene around?" asked Astro.

  "He's with a customer right now," replied Agnes. "He'll be out in a minute." Her eyes swept past Astro to Tom and Roger who were standing in the doorway. "Who are your friends?"

  "Oh, excuse me!" mumbled Astro. "These are my unit mates, Cadet Corbett and Cadet Manning."

  Before Tom could acknowledge the introduction, Roger stepped in front of him and sat on the edge of the desk. Looking into her eyes, he announced, "Tell you what, Astro, you and Tom go hunting. I've found all I could ever want to find right here. Tell me, my little space pet, are you engaged for dinner tonight?"

  Agnes looked back into his eyes innocently. "As a matter of fact I am." Then, grinning mischievously, she added, "But don't let that stop you."

  "I wouldn't let a tyranno stop me," bragged the blond-haired cadet. "Tell me who your previous engagement is with and I'll get rid of him in nothing flat!"

  The girl giggled and looked past Roger. He turned to see a tall, solidly built man in coveralls scowling at him.

  "Friend of yours, Agnes?" the newcomer asked.

  "Friend of Astro's, Roy," said Agnes. "Cadet Manning, I'd like you to meet my brother, Roy Keene."

  Roger jumped up and stuck out his hand. "Oh—er—ah—how do you do, sir?"

  "Quite well, Cadet," replied Keene gruffly, but with a slight twinkle in
his eye. He turned to Astro and gripped the big cadet's hand solidly. "Well, Astro, it's good to see you. How's everything going at Space Academy?"

  "Swell, sir," replied Astro, and after introducing Tom and bringing Keene up to date on his life history, he explained the purpose of their visit. "We're on summer leave, sir, and we'd like to go hunting tyrannosaurus. But what we need most right now is a jet boat. We'd like to rent one, or if you've got something cheap, we'd buy it."

  Keene rubbed his chin. "I'm afraid I can't help you, Astro. There's nothing available in the shop right now. I'd lend you my Beetle, but one of the boys has it out on a three-day repair job."

  Astro's face fell. "Oh, that's too bad." He turned to Tom and Roger. "Well, we could drop in from a stratosphere cruiser and then work our way back to the nearest colony in three or four weeks."

  "Wait a minute!" exclaimed Keene. "I've got an idea." He turned and called to a man standing on the other side of the hangar, studying a radar scanner for private yachts. "Hey, Rex, mind coming over here a minute."

  The man walked over. He was in his late thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair was almost snow-white, contrasting sharply with his deeply tanned and handsome features.

  "This is the Polaris unit from Space Academy, Rex," said Keene. "Boys, meet Rex Sinclair." After the introductions were completed, Keene explained the cadets' situation. Sinclair broke into a smile. "It would be a pleasure to have you three boys as my guests!"

  "Guests!" exclaimed Tom.

  Sinclair nodded. "I have a plantation right on the edge of the jungle belt. Things get pretty dull down there in the middle of the summer. I'd be honored if you'd use my home as a base of operations while you hunt for your tyrannosaurus. As a matter of fact, you'd be helping me out. Those brutes destroy a lot of my crops and we have to go after them every three or four years."

  "Well, thanks," said Tom, "but we wouldn't want to impose. We'd be happy to pay you—"

  Sinclair held up his hand. "Wouldn't think of it. Do you have your gear?"

  "Yes, sir," replied Astro. "Arms, synthetics, the works. Everything but transportation."

  "Well, that's sitting out on the spaceport. That black space yacht on Ramp Three." Sinclair smiled. "Get your gear aboard and make yourselves at home. I'll be ready to blast off in half an hour."

  Astro turned to Keene. "Thanks a lot, sir. It was swell of you to set us up this way."

  Keene slapped him on the shoulder. "Go on. Have a good time."

  Shaking hands all around and saying quick good-bys, the three boys hurried out to stow their gear aboard Sinclair's luxurious space yacht. While Roger and Tom relaxed in the comfortable main cabin, Astro hurried below to inspect the power deck.

  Roger laughed as the big cadet disappeared down the hatch. "That guy would rather play with a rocket tube than do anything else in the universe!"

  "Yes," said Tom. "He's a real lucky guy."

  "How?"

  "Ever meet anyone that didn't love that big hick?"

  "Nope," said Roger with a sly grin. "And that goes for me too! But don't you ever tell him!"

  * * * * *

  Major Connel had been waiting to see the Solar Alliance Delegate from Venus for three hours. And Major Connel didn't like to wait for anyone or anything. He had read every magazine in the lavish outer office atop the Solar Guard Building in downtown Venusport, drunk ten glasses of water, and was now wearing a path in the rug as he paced back and forth in front of the secretary who watched him shyly.

  The buzzer on the desk finally broke the silence and the girl answered quickly as Connel stopped and glared at her expectantly. She listened for a second, then replacing the receiver, turned to the seething Solar Guard officer and smiled sweetly. "Delegate James will see you now, Major."

  "Thank you," said Connel gruffly, trying hard not to take his impatience out on the pretty girl. He stepped toward an apparently solid wall that suddenly slid back as he passed a light beam and entered the spacious office of E. Philips James, Venusian Delegate to the Grand Council of the Solar Alliance.

  E. Philips James was a small man, with small hands that were moving nervously all the time. His head was a little too large for his narrow body that was clothed in the latest fashion, and his tiny black mustache was carefully trimmed. As Connel stalked into the room, James bounced out of his chair to meet him, smiling warmly.

  "Major Connel! How delightful to see you again," he said, extending a perfumed hand.

  "You could have seen me a lot sooner," growled Connel. "I've been sitting outside for over three hours!"

  James lifted one eyebrow and sat down without making any comment. A true diplomat, E. Philips James never said anything unless it was absolutely necessary. And when he spoke, he never really said very much. He sat back and waited patiently for Connel to cool off and get to the point of his call.

  In typical fashion, Connel jumped to it without any idle conversational prologue. "I'm here on a security assignment. I need confidential information."

  "Just one moment, Major," said James. He flipped open his desk intercom and called to his secretary outside. "Record this conversation, please."

  "Record!" roared Connel. "I just told you this was secret!"

  "It will be secret, Major," assured James softly. "The record will go into the confidential files of the Alliance for future reference. A precaution, Major. Standard procedure. Please go on."

  Connel hesitated, and then, shrugging his shoulders, continued, "I want to know everything you know about an organization here on Venus known as the Venusian Nationalists."

  James's expression changed slightly. "Specific information, Major? Or just random bits of gossip?"

  "No rocket wash, Mr. James. Information. Everything you know!"

  "I don't know why you've come to me," replied James, visibly annoyed at the directness of the rough spaceman. "I know really very little."

  "I'm working under direct orders of Commander Walters," said Connel grimly, "who is also a delegate to the Solar Council. His position as head of the Solar Guard is equal to yours in every respect. This request comes from his office, not out of my personal curiosity."

  "Ah, yes, of course, Major," replied James. "Of course."

  The delegate rose and walked over to the window, seemingly trying to collect his thoughts. After a moment he turned back. "Major, the organization you speak of is, so far as I know, an innocent group of Venusian farmers and frontier people who meet regularly to exchange information about crops, prices, and the latest farming methods. You see, Major"—James's voice took on a slightly singsong tone, as though he were making a speech—"Venus is a young planet, a vast new world, with Venusport the only large metropolis and cultural center. Out in the wilderness, there are great tracts of cultivated land that supply food to the planets of the Solar Alliance and her satellites. We are becoming the breadbasket of the universe, you might say." James smiled at Connel, who did not return the smile.

  "Great distances separate these plantations," continued James. "Life is hard and lonely for the Venusian plantation owner. The Venusian Nationalists are, to my knowledge, no more than a group of landowners who have gotten together and formed a club, a fraternity. It's true they speak the Venusian dialect, these groups have taken names from the old Venusian explorers, but I hardly think it is worth while investigating."

  "Do they have a headquarters?" Connel asked. "A central meeting place?"

  "So far as I know, they don't. But Al Sharkey, the owner of the largest plantation on Venus, is the president of the organization. He's a very amiable fellow. Why don't you talk to him?"

  "Al Sharkey, eh?" Connel made a mental note of the name.

  "And there's Rex Sinclair, a rather stubborn individualist who wrote to me recently complaining that he was being pressured into joining the organization."

  "What kind of pressure?" asked Connel sharply.

  James held up his hand. "Don't get me wrong, Major. There was no violence." The delegate suddenly becam
e very businesslike. "I'm afraid that's all the information I can give you, Major." He offered his hand. "So nice to see you again. Please don't hesitate to call on me again for any assistance you feel we can give you."

  "Thank you, Mr. James," said Connel gruffly and left the office, a frown creasing his forehead. Being a straightforward person himself, Major Connel could not understand why anyone would hesitate about answering a direct question. He didn't for a moment consider the delegate anything but an intelligent man. It was the rocket wash that went with being a diplomat that annoyed the ramrod spaceman. He shrugged it off. Perhaps he would find out something from Al Sharkey or the other plantation owner, Rex Sinclair.

  When he crossed the slidewalk and waited at the curb for a jet cab, Connel suddenly paused and looked around. He felt a strange excitement in the air—a kind of tension. The faces of passing pedestrians seemed strained, intense, their eyes were glowing, as though they all were in on some huge secret. He saw groups of men and women sitting in open sidewalk cafes, leaning over the table to talk to each other, their voices low and guarded. Connel shivered. He didn't like it. Something was happening on Venus and he had to find out what it was before it was too late.

  CHAPTER 5

  "Wow!" exclaimed Roger.

  "Jumping Jupiter!" commented Tom.

  "Blast my jets!" roared Astro.

  Rex Sinclair smiled as he maneuvered the sleek black space yacht in a tight circle a thousand feet above the Titan crystal roof of his luxurious home in the heart of the wild Venusian jungle.

  "She's built out of Venusian teak," said Sinclair. "Everything but the roof. I wanted to keep the feeling of the jungle around me, so I used the trees right out of the jungle there." He pointed to the sea of dense tropical growth that surrounded the house and cleared land.

  The ship nosed up for a thousand yards and then eased back, smoothly braked, to a concrete ramp a thousand yards from the house. The touchdown was as gentle as a falling leaf, and when Sinclair opened the air lock, a tall man in worn but clean fatigues was waiting for them.