Moon of Mutiny

by Lester Del Rey

  He had already worked out the maneuver in his head and was setting up the controls, but he ran the problem through the computer to be officially correct. The results agreed with his own estimate. The gyroscopes whined faintly as they began twisting the ship around to the proper direction, then stopped. Fred depressed the firing keys briefly for a single blast. Once again, the ship behaved perfectly, setting them on the new course.

  "Excellent, Mr. Halpern," Wickman commented.

  "Thank you, sir," Fred answered properly. But he was frowning now, more certain than ever that something had to go wrong before they landed. There was no point to testing him with such a routine maneuver during Elimination Week. After his experience in handling the little taxi rocket around Stanley Station, he could have operated any ship in such a maneuver before he ever came to Goddard Space Academy. Even without such experience, his three years at the Academy would have qualified him for routine flights without trouble.

  He rechecked his fuel supply, pump and control mechanism, and retested everything he could, but the ship was in top-flight order. Then he studied his instructions again. The landing orbit was unusual, but not difficult. He was to come in very high and lose speed by spiraling down, rather than use the normal direct approach that let atmospheric friction kill his speed. It was needlessly elaborate this way, but nothing he couldn't handle. And still he felt himself tensing up and waiting for trouble.

  Nothing happened. The ship came down, finally touching the so-called top of the atmosphere where air resistance began to slow the ship and heat its outer hull. Here the ship could be handled like a glider and the problem was to keep the glide path flat enough to avoid too much heating and still make full use of the constantly denser air to reduce their speed. The complicated little air-cooling units came on, dissipating the heat that leaked through the hull. Everything seemed normal. They moved down to fifty miles high before he began spiraling over the shadow below that was the finger of Florida. Then they were at forty miles, and the radio beacon was checking the course. Fred called the tower for clearance and got routine assurance. Slowly, their speed and height dropped, until they were only thirty miles up, the wings biting firmly into the thin air.

  The field below was dark, marked only by lights that were faint dots at this height. Suddenly there was a brighter light—a streak that could only be another little ship taking off. Tower should have notified him, of course, but he had expected to find others taking off. A great many of the test assignments were run at night. He estimated the approach against the other ship's vertical take-off and found that there was more than adequate margin of safety.

  Another streak appeared close to the first, indicating a second take-off below. They were apparently running doubles, always tricky, but he still had a margin of safety.

  It was Wickman's stare that gave him a scant second's warning. The instructor was watching the take-offs too intently, as if expecting something to happen. Fred's eyes went from the controls to the ports, in time to see the second ship below tilting far too soon, the streak of its exhaust bent sideways, heading toward the area of his own approach.

  He saw Wickman's fingers dancing over the course-plotting radar controls just as he reached for his own. The strange, intuitive gift in his mind had already told him it would be close, but that a very slight correction to a steeper descent would put him out of all possible danger. By the rules, a landing rocket must take all corrective action, since the take-off maneuver was much harder to change. If the other pilot should panic, he would probably react toward upward evasion, and thus no harm would be done.

  Wickman had swung from the radar to the computer, and he was now tearing off the taped answer. Fred could see only part of the answer Wickman held, but it was wrong. The symbols were for ascent over the other ship, which could mean a collision that would wreck both of them.

  "Mr. Halpern, lift . . ." Wickman began. "I'm going under them, sir," Fred told him sharply, "I order you up! Course . . ." Fred's lips tightened, but he shook his head before the other could finish. "I must refuse, sir."

  Wickman's hand flipped the selector lever to "Instructor," and his other hand was already on the controls of his board. He was grimacing.

  Fred brought his fist down on the lever, snapping it back with a force that broke off the handle and sent a stab of pain up his arm. The delay had brought the two ships closer; there was no time to check his course. He pushed the flight lever forward, risking as sharp a dip as he dared. He heard the servo-motors on the elevator controls groan, and the ship bucked. But its descent steepened sharply. Almost at once, the hull temperature indicator began moving into the red danger zone, but Fred held his course as long as he dared, before leveling off.

  The rising ship went by less than half a mile above him, but with more than adequate clearance. Now the temperature of the hull was falling. The cooling units inside were laboring, yet the air was still comfortable.

  He stole a glance at Wickman. The instructor was staring ahead, not bothering to watch Fred's corrections to bring the ship back into its proper landing course.

  The control tower began barking questions. Fred answered them tersely and confirmed his previously calculated landing time. It meant difficult flying to compensate for the sudden descent; however, he was sure of himself now. He flattened his glide as much as he could. They bucked below supersonic speed and began gliding down like a normal plane, heading for the long landing strip. When the ship touched the runway, the chronometer pointed to the exact second called for in the original tower instructions.

  It wasn't until they had rolled to a stop that Major

  Wickman turned to face Fred. His voice was almost a purr.

  "Mr. Halpern, consider yourself under arrest! You'll return to your quarters and remain in your dormitory until you receive further orders. I'm charging you with insubordination, refusal to obey orders in an emergency, and endangering my life and the lives of the men on the other ship."

  He ripped the recorder out of the locker, sealed its record, and grinned as he looked at Fred again. "Don't bother telling the reporters this time, Moon-boy. They'll hear about your mutiny soon enough," he said, and headed for the exit port, whistling softly.

  ChapUr 2 Washed Out

  breakfast was usually a noisy affair, but this morning the mess hall lay under a pall of gloom. Fred slipped into his seat as the final bell rang, wanting to sink through the floor rather than meet the looks of the other cadets. Under the rules of his house arrest, conversation with him was forbidden, but no rule could stop them from staring at him, either in gloating or pity.

  Then the silence in the hall finally registered, and he looked up, unable to avoid the faces any longer. But no one was looking at him. All eyes were centered on the doorway where red-headed Bill Fallon was entering. A group of cadets started toward the big man, but he waved them back, trying to smile. He looked sick.

  "No dice," he reported to the room. "They didn't like my final course plotting. I'm washed out, officially."

  Fred's own sickness deepened at the news. Fallon had been voted the most popular cadet in the class for three years; even the instructors had liked him. That hadn't helped, though, during the grind of Elimination Week.

  Now there was a mumble of unhappy conversation as Fred tried to go on eating. His hand hurt from the bruise where he'd hit the control lever, and he had no

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  idea of what he was eating. He went on mechanically because there was nothing else to do.

  It was almost a relief when the speaker in the hall made the grating sound that always preceded a message.

  "Cadet Frederick Halpern will report to the office of the Commandant," it announced.

  Now the eyes were centered on him. Fred got up slowly, discovering that his legs would still support him, and started down the aisle toward the door.

  A hand reached out for his suddenly, and he looked down in surprise to see that it belonged to Bill Fallon. The cadet had turned to face him with
genuine sympathy.

  "Good luck," Fallon said. "We'll be rooting for you."

  "Thanks. I—I'm sorry about . . ." Fred tried to shape some expression of regret that would sound right, but the words wouldn't come.

  Fallon shrugged the attempt aside. "Forget about me, kid. Just keep your chin up and remember you've still got a chance."

  Somehow, the words seemed to help a little. Fred braced himself again, marching out of the hall more firmly. Outside, the bright Florida sunshine almost blinded him as he turned down the graveled walk toward the office of Commandant Olson. He began shaping his explanations for the interview. He'd been over them a dozen times already in his mind before getting to sleep, but now he started rehearsing in earnest.

  Then all his speeches evaporated into nothing as the girl in the reception room took his name and ushered him directly into the big oak-lined office.

  He came to an automatic salute. "Cadet Halpern reporting, sir."

  "At ease, Cadet." The heavy face under a shock of iron-gray hair was unsmiling, but it seemed friendly enough. Commandant Olson pointed to a chair beside the big desk. "Take a seat while I finish going over this report on you again. And you might look at the complaint Major Wickman filed."

  Fred sank into the chair, taking the paper in fingers that trembled a little. He had to force his eyes to focus on it, and the first sentences seemed to make no sense until he had read them for the third time.

  The complaint was short and direct. It gave the simplest possible account of the final events of the test flight and Fred's actions. There was nothing that was untrue; the cold, direct report needed no untruth to make it seem like a hopeless condemnation when Fred's own reasons were omitted. The charge was stated against him, with the recommendation that he be dropped from the Academy as unsuitable for graduation.

  Fred was just finishing the report when Major Wickman was ushered into the office, to be waved to a chair on the other side of the desk. The instructor's face was rigidly correct, without a trace of emotion.

  The Commandant shoved the last of the papers back into a folder and turned to Fred. "Well, young man, it seems you're in pretty serious trouble. Do you find anything wrong with Major Wickman's report?"

  "It's correct, as far as it goes," Fred admitted reluctantly.

  Olson tapped the little recorder on his desk. "It seems to agree with the flight tape. What do you think is omitted?"

  It wasn't going the way Fred had rehearsed it. He shook his head slowly, aware that he couldn't prove anything about the badgering Wickman had done before the flight. "The report's correct, sir."

  Wickman leaned forward, a thin smile on his lips. "I think Mr. Halpern meant that I hadn't included his estimation of the dangers of the maneuver in my report, sir," he suggested. "He seemed to believe he understood the situation better than the computer analysis."

  "And what were the results of your computations, Fred?" The Commandant's face broke into a faint smile with the use of the first name, but there was no real reassurance in the gesture.

  Fred swallowed before answering. "I—I didn't make a computation."

  "You didn't?" Olson's face clouded, and he turned to the tape recorder, rerunning the final part of the tape. "No, I see. I missed that. Then just how did you estimate your course?"

  Wickman, Fred decided, had been very clever; he'd managed to bring up new evidence without making it seem like an accusation. This might be more serious than what was already on the report.

  Wickman was speaking, making the explanation for him. "Mr. Halpern believes he can estimate orbits and courses in his head, without using a computer. Or so I gather from what I hear from other students. I've heard that such talents do exist—a few billiard experts seem able to sense the factors affecting a complicated curve. And in all fairness, I must admit the course adopted by

  Mr. Halpern resulted in an excellent landing approach."

  "There was no time to use the computer," Fred explained hastily.

  "But there was time to determine that the course plotted by Major Wickman was wrong, Fred? Is that what you're saying?"

  Fred nodded. "I didn't have to plot it. I could feel it was wrong. You know the rules for take-off maneuvering; the other pilot would have corrected upward, if he did anything. And if he did . . .

  "There's that in your favor, yes," Olson admitted. "I've already considered it. And I suppose you couldn't have known that both other ships were being flown by instructors who were not going to make such a maneuver upward. But without computing a course downward . . ."

  He left the sentence incomplete, frowning again. Then he shrugged. "Perhaps you have such a talent as you feel you do. I'll grant that for the moment, though I don't see how it can be proved. And it might not be reliable every time, even so. But . . ."

  "I can prove it," Fred interrupted. If he could show them, he might still be able to establish the reason for his action. "If you'll let me take a ship up on any course without a computer, I'll prove it. I'll bring it down on schedule without using more than minimum fuel. I want to prove it, sir."

  At once he saw that he'd made a mistake. The smile on Wickman's fact twitched slightly, and the frown deepened on the features of the Commandant.

  Olson shook his head slowly. "I gather that it's very important to you to prove such an ability? And you'd be willing to risk almost anything to prove it? Is that why you deliberately disobeyed your landing instructions from Major Wickman?" He waited, while Fred tried to find an answer, then asked more sharply, "Is it important to you to prove you can be the only pilot here who doesn't need a computer?"

  "I'm not sure it matters how Mr. Halpern lays his course, sir," Wickman suggested. "I must admit that he is without any question the most accomplished pilot I've seen. Perhaps he's better than I am, judging by the accuracy of his course corrections."

  Olson chuckled suddenly. "Are you accusing this young man or defending him, Major? I'm quite aware of the fact that his actual flying record is excellent in every way."

  "Sorry, sir," Wickman said, his face again without expression.

  It was smooth, Fred thought. It was too smooth. Wickman would manage to ruin any defense he might make without actually attacking him. And there was no answer he could find for such tactics.

  Olson glanced at him, and then back to some notes. "Umm. Still, I suppose the question really isn't whether he can pilot without a computer. It's the fact that he chose to do so in direct violation of orders, and in a dangerous situation where lives and ships were hanging on his decision. Fred, didn't it occur to you that Major Wickman might have been acting on more knowledge of the true situation than you had—and that he might have known what the other ships were about to do?"

  "No, sir," Fred admitted. "I didn't have time to think of that. And if I had thought of it, I couldn't have risked it."

  "You've had a number of demerits for lack of discipline, haven't you?"

  Fred nodded. He'd been pretty stupid about discipline when he first came to Goddard. He'd never been used to taking orders; his grandmother raised him during most of his early life, and she'd spoiled him badly. But he'd been trying harder, and most of the past year had gone without trouble over discipline. There'd been the one time with Wickman, but he hadn't really understood his orders that time.

  "I don't want to dismiss you," the Commandant was saying, "I really don't, because we need skilled pilots desperately, and because you could be one of our best. But when we put a man in charge of a ship that costs millions of dollars and human lives which are always in danger out in space, that man must be the best we can find. He must be able to think for himself, and he must be able to take discipline whenever it is called for. You've always worried us on that score. In fact, I'll be honest with you—we almost refused your application for admittance here; that business of making a crazy dash for the Moon may have made you a hero to most people, but it worried us. If it hadn't been for the influence of a lot of fine men out there who felt you'd grow out of it, you
r lack of discipline would have made me reject you. That's why we set up your final test as we did. I asked Major Wickman to suggest . . ."

  Surprise and sudden understanding hit Fred then. "Major Wickman, sir?"

  "That's right," Olson said. "Major Wickman designed this test for you at my suggestion. It wasn't to test your flying ability. It was simply to see whether you'd obey orders in an emergency. Or whether you'd play a lone hand, disregard superior officers, and make some kind of a play for glory."

  "It wasn't a play for glory, sir."

  "I'm sure you feel that now. But I've been over your record very thoroughly, Fred. And it worries me. When you first came here, you acted as if you were far superior to the other cadets. You'd had considerable experience at space, and you let them know it. You made quite a few enemies, you know. And you even argued with your instructors. Now, toward the end here, you seem to have improved. But I wonder. Indeed, I wonder. You still aren't popular with the cadets, and that's something I've learned to consider important; maybe they still think you're a 'glory-hog,' as the expression goes. When an emergency arises, you still feel your judgment is better than that of a more trusted pilot. Can you honestly deny there was no desire to show yourself smarter than Major Wickman?"

  It hurt; nevertheless Fred couldn't honestly deny it. He'd tried to get over his feeling of being better than the others and the compulsion to be a show-off, but he couldn't really be sure. How could anybody be sure what lay behind all his actions?

  "Can Major Wickman deny he's prejudiced against me?" he asked sharply, before he could realize that the words would only make him seem more of a show-off. It wasn't a question to ask about an instructor.

  But Wickman nodded. "You're right, Mr. Halpern. I dislike you, and I told Commandant Olson so before the test was assigned to me. I'm definitely prejudiced against you."