Rocket Jockey

by Philip St John

  Then the rays of lights were over him. The field came up steadily. Below him was the rocket pit from which he had taken off. The exhaust touched it now, forming a cushion under him. He set the ship down into the pit softly, cutting off the big tube just as she touched.

  The clock showed 10:56. He'd beaten the Martians, and he had set a new record for the race.

  Jerry waited until Tod and Dick were beside him before he threw open the big air lock and tossed out the landing ramp to the edge of the pit. There was a noise in the air that kept him from hearing the words they were saying. He finally recognized the sound as the cheers of the crowd. Across the field, held well away from the landing pits by Commission Police, people seemed to be jammed into a solid, cheering mass.

  Jerry put his foot over the side of the port, and then drew it back quickly. The hull was still hot. He saw now why no one had come too close.

  But the official welcoming committee was waiting, just beyond the pit, motioning him out. They were mounted on a big platform behind the most monstrous tractor he had ever seen, and there were five of them, with other men busily handling television cameras. Jerry groaned to himself and jumped down the ramp toward them, too quickly for the heat of the hull to harm him.

  The Commissioner from Earth took his papers and signed them with a flourish. The World Chairman gave him the little piece of ribbon with a dangling bit of metal attached that told him he had officially won first place. The reigning queen of television kissed him soundly on the mouth. He didn't blush, though someone with a bright red light made it seem that way. He wasn't more than half-aware that she was there.

  Dick was shaking hands with the President of Sun Fuels, and he seemed to have that one member of the welcoming committee firmly in hand.

  The fifth one was Commodore Tenn, head of the Space Institute, and it was on him that Jerry's eyes were fixed. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. If the man began telling how good he'd always known Jerry was . . .

  Tenn moved forward slowly, a heavy man with a solid military bearing, but the smile on his face seemed genuine.

  "Hello, Jerry," he said, while the big public address system carried his words back to the crowd. "I guess I can't ask you to come back to the Institute, though we'd like to have you with us next semester. That would be a little silly, though, since we've just granted you your final degree. You're now Captain Gerald Blaine, Master Navigator, Master Pilot. You proved you deserved the titles."

  He paused, and Jerry tried to tell him that he would be back, in spite of his sudden graduation. He'd learned the need for theory, as well as for practice, and one more year of study would help him with the work he wanted to do. But the words seemed to stick in his throat.

  Tenn smiled, as if he understood. "You know, Jerry, when I kicked you out for what I thought were good reasons, I told you it took a man to be a good pilot. All I can say now is that I didn't know a good man when I saw one, by Harry! Shake?"

  Jerry shook, with more feeling than he'd expected.

  It was at that moment that the ship from Mars set down. Jerry tried to climb from the platform, but the Sun Fuels man was holding him back.

  He tried to shake the man off, but it was no use. "Just confirmation," the corporation president was asking against his ear, over the thunder of the landing rocket. "Your brother says you own one half of the rights to the fuel. Are you willing to let him speak for you—we'll make it official later, but I want a go-ahead now."

  "What he says is fine with me," Jerry assured him. Again he tried to climb down, and this time Commodore Tenn's heavy arm came out to help him over the tangle of television cables.

  The Martian ship was down with its port open, and the crew of three were already heading for his ship when he touched the ground. They seemed to be lost on the big field, and there was only a weak and scattered cheer from the crowd for them. Jerry waved to them, and they stopped near their s*hip, waiting uncertainly.

  He started toward them. The Martians were dark, and covered with leather, as all the other Martians had been, though Jerry had never seen these three before. Their faces were composed and stern as they waited for him to reach them.

  Then the captain smiled, as much as any Martian ever did. "Jerry Blaine," he said, "that landing was the dirtiest trick to pull on a poor unsuspecting Martian that I can think of. But it does a man's heart good to see an Earthman who knows how to fight—and to win. We've got a bottle or two of zesto on board, if you aren't too proud to visit a second-placing ship."

  "Wait a minute," Jerry told him. He swung back, his eyes searching for Tod. The old man was still in the air lock of the Last Hope, apparently forgotten. But his head came up quickly when he saw Jerry motion to him, and his old legs carried him toward the boy at a brisk trot.

  By tradition, tonight was Jerry's to do with as he wanted, and die crowd wouldn't be allowed to mob him as they had done in earlier days. After the first night, there'd be a few weeks of tortured tours and ridiculous speeches, until his fame wore thin enough for him to go back to school or to be an honest pilot again. But now there would be no objection raised, no matter what he did.

  It wouldn't do the inhabited planets any harm to see that men could learn to fight by any means they had for what they believed in, without having to hate each other. There was no place he wanted to be more than on the Martian ship.

  He threw his arm over Tod's shoulder and nodded to the Martians. Zesto sounded like a fine idea.