Moon of Mutiny

by Lester Del Rey

  "Because I let a couple of reporters know about . . ."

  "No!" Wickman interrupted quickly. "Not at all, though that was a lack of respect for the Academy on your part. I disliked you before you ever came here. I disliked you for a fool kid who could risk the lives of all the good men in space, and maybe risk ruining our whole chance to reach the Moon properly. And when you came here I disliked you for acting like a spoiled brat. Space means something to me, Mr. Halpern, and I don't like to see the wrong man get out into space just because his father heads the Station and because he has friends on the Moon."

  Fred tried to hold back the anger rising in him, but it was too strong. "If space means so much, why aren't you a real pilot instead of an instructor?"

  Commandant Olson leaned forward, and there was no longer any sign of friendliness on his face.

  "Major Wickman has remained at the Academy for four years only because I've pleaded with him to stay," he said. "He's here because I need him. He's the best instructor I have. And he's already told me he can't remain any longer and has applied for a piloting berth. I'm sorry to say that I think he may have found a very fine job and be leaving us soon. He's a man who does respect discipline, and you're totally out of order, Mr. Hal-pern."

  "I'm sorry, sir," Fred muttered, but he couldn't face Wickman to make an apology. Wickman shrugged. "Let it go, sir. The boy is under pressure, and there's his background which should be considered. I take no offense."

  There was a moment of silence then, while Olson stared at Fred thoughtfully. Fred braced himself for what the decision must be now. He'd made a complete fool of himself; he'd played squarely into Wickman's hands and confirmed every doubt about his insubordination and lack of discipline.

  "Very well," Olson said at last, and there was genuine regret in his voice. "I'm afraid, Mr. Halpern, that I'll have to ask . . ."

  The buzzer on the intercom broke into his words, and he flipped up a lever quickly. The receptionist's voice came through tinnily. "There's a call for you from Colonel Halpern on Stanley Station, sir."

  Olson glanced quickly at the two others. Then he shrugged. "All right, put it through. And you two might as well stay to hear it, since it probably concerns both of you."

  A few seconds later, the face of Fred's father appeared on the tiny screen of the videophone on the desk, relayed from the Station a thousand miles out in space. Olson had the little pickup pointed at himself with the screen turned so the others could see it.

  There were brief greetings, and then Colonel Halpern got down to business. To Fred's surprise, it wasn't about the dismissal from the Academy.

  "Olson, I've been going over that dossier on the pilot you recommended for our special job, and he looks like the man. But one question. Why do you want to let him

  S°f'

  "I don't," the Commandant said. "I can't hold him.

  Wickman's the best pilot I've had, but after four years, he's itching to get out into real space."

  In his chair, Wickman had tensed and leaned forward, a curiously eager look to his whole body.

  Olson motioned with his hand to cut off whatever Colonel Halpern was about to say. "Colonel, I'm afraid there's some bad news I'm going to have to break first, though. It's about your son . . ."

  Pain lanced across the features on the screen—pain and disappointment—and gave place to a dead, wooden expression. "You're expelling him?"

  "We're expelling him," Olson agreed.

  Fred's stomach seemed to come up into his throat, and he lost the next few words. Knowing he was to be eliminated and actually hearing it were two different things. Somehow, until that second, some shred of hope had remained.

  His father's voice from the speaker broke his shock and brought his mind back into focus. "Did Major Wickman know he was being considered for special assignment when he preferred charges against my son?"

  "He knew, of course," Olson admitted.

  Wickman sighed softly, and the expression went out of his eyes, to snap back suddenly at the next words.

  "Then convey my respects to him," Colonel Halpern was saying. "I congratulate him on his honesty. Tell him to report here to me on the first ship up. I want to interview him for the assignment before he goes to Ground Command."

  "And the boy?" Olson reminded him.

  Halpern sighed wearily. "I'll arrange passage on the same ship."

  When the screen went dark, the Commandant turned back to the others. "I'll want to talk to you, Major. Fred, I'm sorry, but I couldn't take a chance on you. I really couldn't."

  Fred nodded and got up, to go outside and back along the walks, guided by habit, hardly seeing where he was going. On one of the tall poles, a speaker broke into a loud series of orders.

  "Attention, all cadets! Attention, all cadets . . ."

  He faced sharply toward it. A second later, he choked and turned back to the path, realizing that it no longer applied to him.

  He wasn't a cadet. He was washed out.

  Chapter d Return to Space

  there wasn't much to pack. Most of the things used on Earth were too heavy to ship up to the Station, and the usual weight restrictions limited Fred to fifteen pounds of luggage, including his clothes. He could probably get by with more, since he was Colonel Halpern's son and wouldn't be checked, but he had no desire to break any more rules. Most of his property was piled on the bed, and he pinned a note to it, offering it to any lower classmen who might wander by.

  Finally, he stripped off his cadet uniform, taking a long time at it. He folded it neatly and stored it in the closet, before putting on the thin nylon shirt and shorts that were the standard dress for space. The few things he was going to take with him went quickly into a light bag, but he spent a long time checking before he closed it at last.

  There was a knock on the door and he jerked around as Bill Fallon came in. The big man glanced around the room in surprise. "All alone?"

  "Yeah." There probably had been a party of some kind in Fallon's room before duty called the other cadets away. "Come on in."

  Fallon shook his head as he sat down on the loaded bed. "I thought they'd let you stick it out," he said. "I never really expected I could make it, but you're a born pilot."

  "They told me I lacked discipline," Fred answered, trying to sound flippant. "Besides, the instructors don't like me either."

  Fallon caught the emphasis on the last word and stood up to face the other. "Cut it out, kid. A lot of guys here didn't like you, but a lot did. They got a general assembly call, that's all. My room's been as empty as this one."

  It might be true, Fred realized. Some of the cadets might have come to see him off. Then he realized that he didn't deserve the attention. He'd known Fallon was leaving, but he'd forgotten him. Fallon had come to see him, instead. And maybe that was why Fallon was the best-liked guy at the Academy.

  "What are you going to do now?" Fred asked him.

  Fallon shrugged. "Go back to my father's real estate office, get rich and fat, and forget all this if I can. I dunno. You're lucky. You can get over what they found wrong with you. But I guess I never could learn to use mathematics fast enough to be a pilot, even with Wickman staying up all night to help me."

  Fred had no desire to discuss Wickman. He hefted his bag, decided it was light enough, and fastened the little lock. "When are you pulling out?"

  "Now. No use hanging around making the other guys feel bad about me. They have troubles enough. I suppose you're going by the main Space Base down the Cape? Maybe we can share a taxi into town, at least."

  He went out while Fred gave the room a last look, then came back with a big suitcase in his hand. They went down the steps and out of the hall, heading toward the front gate, where they could call a cab. Neither one could think of anything to say.

  The sound of a horn beside them made them stop and turn. It was one of the little staff cars, driven by a first-year cadet. Wickman, who was riding beside the driver, motioned to Fallon. "Want a ride, Bill? I can go right b
y the station."

  "Sure, Sid." Fallon heaved the bag into the back and crawled in beside it. "Come on, kid. This beats having to hire a cab."

  Fred shook his head. "No, thanks. I think a walk will do me good."

  "Don't be a fool, Moon-boy," Wickman shouted. "We're headed for the same place."

  Fred hesitated, hearing Fallon mutter something. Then he shrugged. They wanted discipline and didn't find it while he was here; he'd give it to them on the way out, at least. He climbed in beside Fallon, trying not to notice the chuckle from Wickman.

  It was only a few miles to the little town near the Academy, and Fred sat quietly while Wickman and Fallon carried on a lagging conversation. At the bus station, they all got out to shake hands with Fallon and wish him luck—a bitter thing for a man who had just run out of luck, but all they could do. Fred picked up his bag again to head for the local bus that would carry him through the main town and out to the rocket launching field.

  As he turned, he heard his name, and a hand grabbed his arm. "Halpern. I thought it was you. What's the idea of the civvies? Hey, wait a minute—you don't mean they busted you out?"

  The man was a reporter for the local wire service office. He had interviewed Fred several times before. This time, Fred wanted no story. He pulled away tensely. "No comment," he said, as he'd read of politicians brushing off reporters.

  "Til handle this, Fred." It was Wickman's voice, filled with a warmth and good-fellowship Fred had never heard. "I'll handle this for you."

  He watched the Major draw the reporter aside and say something briefly. He stood hesitating about his own course now. Finally he climbed back into the staff car, as Wickman headed back to it.

  "Never say no comment' to a reporter," the older man said flatly. "That's what the big shots say when they want to stir up interest. Tell anything—even the truth— to the press, but don't tell them to use their own imagination." Then he laughed. "And don't think I did it for you, Moon-boy. I still don't like false stories being printed about the Academy. So save your thanks."

  Fred hadn't meant to thank him. He had his own suspicions about what Wickman might have said, but he kept them to himself. The car swung out on a back road away from the thickly settled area and headed for the rear entrance to the main field. Wickman let him out in front of the largest building.

  "See you topside," he said.

  Fred muttered a reluctant thanks for the ride and went in to arrange for the flight on which his father would have him booked. Waiting on their launching pads were four of the big multiple-stage rockets. He found none was due to leave until early the next morning, when the Station orbit would lie closer to their normal take-off path. However, there was an official hotel on the field, and a room had been reserved for him.

  The room was small, but it had an excellent view of much of the field. Fred glanced out casually, then whistled. He could see the huge rockets far across the field, but something closer held his attention. It was less than a hundred feet high, with fins huge enough to be wings. It looked something like one of the little high-jump rocketships, grown much bigger and fatter. It must be the Cosmic Egg, he decided, the first of the real spaceships designed to use the new monopropellant fuel. Supposedly, it could take off from Earth and make the round trip to the Moon, using only a single-stage motor, and carrying more freight than the older ships could carry to the Station.

  Fred had read countless articles on the ship in the technical magazines. He hadn't realized it was so nearly completed. Since it had been drawn from the hangar, it must be nearly ready for its first tests.

  Those tests must be Wickman's special assignment.

  Fred had always dreamed that somehow after graduation he could talk his father into getting him the test pilot's job for the Cosmic Egg. It had been the dream of every cadet, but he had felt fairly sure that he could swing it. Now, of course, without any chance for a license, it was impossible for him. And in Ins place, Wickman would be trying it out.

  He started to turn back in disgust, but the beauty of the ship called to him, even if he would never ride in it. This was a ship which could be the turning point in man's exploration of space; with a booster stage added, it might even carry men to Mars or Venus, though its development had come too late for the next Moon expedition. Probably the expedition couldn't have used such a ship, anyhow. The first models of the Cosmic Egg would be far too expensive for purchase by this expedition, at least. However there were rumors that three ships already were being built for sale to the World Congress, the international legislative body which had evolved from the old United Nations.

  Fred turned away finally and dropped onto the bed. He'd gotten little sleep the night before; the strain and letdown of the day had tired him far more than he expected. He reminded himself that he should have the switchboard call him in the morning, but sleep hit him before he could take care of it.

  The room was dark when he wakened, and he saw by the luminous hands of the clock that he'd slept far longer than he'd wanted to. It was still several hours before take-off time. It must have been hunger that wakened him. He bathed and dressed quickly, instinctively reaching for the buttons on what should have been his cadet uniform. With a mutter of disgust at himself, he picked up his bag and went toward the dining room.

  One corner of it was open, with a few men sitting at the tables. Wickman was among them, busily talking to a man in the uniform of a co-pilot. Fred found a table some distance away, barely nodding at Wickman's grin. Then he busied himself giving an order for a steak to the bored waitress. Once he got back into space, he'd have no chance to eat good food again. The hydroponic gardens on the Station provided some fresh food and kept the air breathable, but most of the standard diet came from dehydrated meats and vegetables. Such food was edible, but hardly delicious.

  The steak wasn't as good as it should have been, either; probably most of the kitchen staff were off for the night. He ate it without complaints. He took time over it, and over a piece of pie. There was nothing else to do until the take-off time arrived.

  Wickman passed his table on the way out with the co-pilot. As a fully licensed pilot, naturally Wickman would be permitted aboard ship during the fueling and preliminary checks. Fred might have obtained the same privileges because his father was the head of the Station, but Colonel Halpern frowned on his taking advantage of such position.

  "Paper, Moon-boy?" Wickman asked. He was carrying a folded copy of the local Cape paper. Before Fred could reply, he dropped it onto the table and went on across the dining room.

  Fred stared at the paper, then reached for it. There was more rocket and space news in this edition than usual, he saw—and this paper specialized in space affairs, since so many of its readers worked on some space project.

  He'd been out of touch during the last two weeks of getting ready for the Elimination tests, and he was surprised to read that the Moon expedition was already completed and ready for take-off in three days. Unlike the first and second expeditions, which had been official United States projects, this one was being financed from the private funds of a group of scientific foundations. There were hints, too, that the funds provided barely enough to pay for the trip. Shipping even thirty men and supplies across space to the Moon and back was a tremendously expensive proposition.

  Three days, he thought. Something nagged at the back of his mind, suggesting the time until the expedition left was important to him, but he couldn't straighten out his thoughts.

  Another headline caught his eye. This was smaller, further down the page:

  Moon Hero Sacked by Academy

  He usually received very favorable notices in the press. The first paragraph told him this was different. It was short and filled with ugly half-truths and hints that were almost completely wrong. The reporter must have talked to someone at the school, but the story was based on rumors and guesses. It gave the impression that he'd gone temporarily insane on a test flight, nearly wrecked the ship, and been discharged as totally un
fit for space. There were implications that for some time he'd been going progressively psychotic and megalomanic.

  He read it twice before the suspicion came that Wickman had deliberately told the reporter such a story while pretending to cover up. He couldn't really believe that—Wickman had never lied, so far as he knew—but the suspicion lurked in his mind. Maybe Wickman had said something which the reporter then distorted.

  There were no accounts in the other papers at the newsstand, but the late editions were not yet off the press. So far only the local paper had run the story.

  He found Wickman on the field, watching the final loading of one of the rocketships. This was an old model, using separate fuel and oxidizer, with a huge bottom stage, a smaller middle stage, and the final stage which carried the passengers and freight into space. It was almost unchanged from the models first used during the building of the Station. Now it towered two hundred feet into the air, its great bulk surrounded by the big gantry cranes.

  "Thanks for the paper!" Fred told Wickman bitterly. "I don't know what I'd do without your help."

  Wickman turned half smiling, but with no sign of real interest. "Find anything for your clipping file?"

  "You should know."

  Wickman frowned. "I never got around to reading the paper, so I don't know. What's on your mind, Moon-boy?"

  Fred held out the sheet, pointing to the story. Wickman read it through, chuckling once at some line. Then he ripped it up slowly.

  "I didn't know it was there. And I didn't have anything to do with it, if that's what you're thinking. Forget it. The Academy will release an official denial and cover-up later, once Olson sees this junk."

  Fred grimaced. "Sure. A lot of good that will do, after people read this."

  "True. Nothing people like better than seeing a real life hero turn out to be worse than they are. They remember the bad longer than the good. Tough. I guess this will just about ruin all your lecture appearances."