“I’ll say! And the way you can map orbits in your head, without doing any paper work! Incredible.”
“Yes. At the Aca — uh, sometime ago, I was told that was unusual. Maybe it’s intuition and split-second reasoning instead of the accepted procedure. There are maybe a handful of men all over the planet who can do that, but . . .”
“I’ve heard of them,” Captain Saunders grinned. “But I’ve never been lucky enough to work with one, until you came along. Tell me, Wilson, do guys like you have to use radar?”
“Sure. Of course we use radar. Only we can interpret it directly in our heads. That saves a lot of time . . .”
“And,” Captain Saunders nodded enthusiastically, “it could also save lives. Wilson, when split-second decisions have to be made, I’d like to see you around to make them.”
By demonstrating that special ability, Pete had been hired quite readily at the Spaceport. White Sands always needed orbit men, for most of the good ones would become astrogators and leave for space. The result was that the Spaceports had to settle for overage astrogators who had lost some of their quick reflexes with the waning years. Yet paradoxically, the orbiteers were as important as the star-pilots themselves, for they had to plan the orbits, had to change them on a moment’s notice and then perhaps change them again, had to do the actual blasting-off. Yes, even that — and it never ceased to amaze Pete. Only the smallest ships blasted off on their own accord. All the larger ones began their great elliptical flights almost like guided missiles, fired into space by the orbiteers sitting in their tower.
“. . . so,” Captain Saunders was saying, “it indicates one of two things. Either you spent twenty years as an astrogator, which is impossible, or else you had some terrific training, like what they give at the Academy.”
Pete’s face turned white. He must never let them suspect anything about the Academy! Otherwise everything might be uncovered and Big Pete would come running. “No,” Pete laughed nervously, “nothing like that. As I’ve told you, sir, it was a hobby of mine. But that’s all.”
“A hobby, eh?” Saunders’ eyebrows arched quizzically. Then he shrugged, smiling broadly. “Well, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, Wilson. I don’t care if you tell me you were born that way!”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I think I’ll get something to eat.”
“Go right ahead. Oh, and about this afternoon. We’ll be firing the Tropic of Capricorn II at Venus, sunset time. Better start plotting an orbit after lunch — no, never mind! I can’t get used to you, Wilson! Probably, you’ll figure out the entire orbit ten minutes before the sun sets, and you’ll get it right, too.”
“What’s on the docket, sonny?”
“Huh? Oh, Gus.” Pete had known this meeting would have to occur sooner or later, but a few days in the wonderful complexity of the Spaceport tower had driven all such thoughts from his mind. Now, strolling around the port after breakfast, he encountered the gnarled ex-spaceman.
“I said, what’s on the docket? Specifically, sonny, we know the Tropic of Capricorn II will be leaving for Venus soon. We don’t know when, and we don’t know the orbit. That’s your department.”
“That ship’s loaded with currency for the Venusport treasury!” Pete cried. “I thought you said you had nothing to do with piracy.”
“Sure, sure. Don’t go jumping to conclusions. It also has farming machinery, and my associates want to be at Venusport first, to buy it at rock-bottom prices. Now, what’s the orbit, sonny?” And, when Pete said nothing: “Remember, I know your father’s address —”
“All right,” Pete answered numbly, “you don’t have to threaten me. I made a bargain with you.”
“That’s better. Now, talk.”
“Sunset tonight. The orbit will touch the Venusian ellipse without crossing it. It’s a little longer, but we save fuel that way. Distance of trip, forty-eight million miles. I guess you can figure the time of arrival from that.”
“Sure can!” Gus slapped Pete’s back happily, then ambled off down the roadway. He called back over his shoulder, “See you soon, sonny.”
Late that afternoon, Pete entered Captain Saunders’ office. The officer looked up from his desk, nodded a curt acknowledgment to Pete’s salute, then laughed. “You sure take yourself seriously, Wilson! You even salute like a product of the Academy. Anyway, have you got that Capricorn orbit ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let’s have it.”
“Well, I figure we might let the orbit cross the Venusian ellipse. That’ll shave seven or eight million miles off the trip, and . . .”
Saunders frowned. “Generally, we like to touch orbits instead of crossing ‘em.”
“I know,” Pete agreed hastily. “Generally, I like to do that, too.” He’d had a change of heart at the last minute, deciding to alter the orbit and send Ganymede Gus’ associates, whoever they were, off in the wrong direction. He licked his lips nervously, clenched and unclenched his fists, That might cause more trouble than he could handle,, but there were five million dollars in negotiable currency aboard the Tropic of Capricorn II.
“Well,” Saunders said at last, “that’s your department. You’re my orbiteer, Wilson. And these last few days sure indicate you’re a good one. If you say so, the Capricorn will cross Venus. . . .”
Pete felt a lot better about things after blast-off on the new orbit. He had a hunch it wouldn’t last, for Ganymede Gus would eventually find out, but meanwhile Pete had some time to think. He could not live only from day to day, doing anything Ganymede Gus demanded of him in the hope that Big Pete wouldn’t find out about him. For if Gus did fly the modern version of the Jolly Roger, Pete knew he would be an accomplice. And that would be worse for Big Pete. One son killed in space, another washed out of the Academy and turned criminal.
Several days later, Gus met him on the roadways leading to the blasting pits. Gus wasn’t laughing. “I been looking for you, sonny,” he said.
“I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t been looking for you. No more, Gus — we’re through, understand?”
“Through?” Ganymede Gus mocked indignation. “Through? Why, we haven’t even started. You want to hear something peculiar, sonny? No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Remember the Tropic of Capricorn?”
Pete nodded, said he remembered.
“It didn’t fly on the orbit you predicted. Now, ain’t that funny. Some friends of mine wasted their time looking for a ship that wasn’t there. You can’t blame them for being sore, can you?”
“I don’t care one way or the other?”
“I do. I got a reputation to maintain, sonny. You lied to me. You shouldn’t have lied.”
“Nothing you say will do any good,” Pete told him. “I’m quitting. If you keep on bothering me, I’ll report you to the police. And that’s a promise.”
“Sonny! Is that any way to act?” Ganymede Gus came closer, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jumper. He moved in close enough to touch Pete, and then something hard was prodding Pete’s stomach.
Ganymede Gus whispered, “That’s a blaster you feel. I press the little button, and it kills you. Just walk ahead of me — there, that’s right. Now you feel it in your back. It’ll stay there, so don’t try any tricks.”
As he walked, Pete could feel the hard round bore of the blaster against the small of his back. He did not look behind him once, but after they left the Spaceport and reached the crowded streets of White Sands, Ganymede Gus began a meaningless, animated conversation, and the crowds of passers-by did not give them a second glance.
It was a hot summer night, still early, but darkness had covered the Carnival area by the time they reached it. Pete was drenched with sweat.
They entered a small sideshow several blocks off the Midway, walked quickly past the phony freaks on exhibit, then climbed a dingy flight of stairs.
In the darkness, Gus knocked on a door, three taps in quick succession, then a fourth after an interval of perhaps
two seconds. A muffled voice told them to come in.
The door swung open, and the harsh light within the room momentarily blinded Pete. When he could see, a huge figure of a man was looking at him, a six-foot giant with beady little eyes, a much battered nose and a very grim expression on his face.
Gus said cheerfully, “Sonny, I want you to meet Sam Smith. Sam is one of our strong-arm boys. When any of our associates balk, he keeps them in line. Sam, this is Pete Hodges; you know all about him.”
Sam Smith nodded his huge head, offered a big hand to Pete. Doubtfully, Pete shook it. Without warning, the hulking figure pulled him forward. Pete stumbled, cried out, saw the left fist coming at him from some place behind the man’s belt buckle. He tried to duck under it, but the fist exploded against his jaw, tumbling him over flat on his back.
Chapter 6 — Reunion
Shaking his head sadly, Ganymede Gus helped Pete to his feet. “You can’t blame Sam,” he said. “Sam was mighty disappointed when the Capricorn didn’t turn up. Weren’t you, Sam?”
Sam nodded, grunted something which Pete could not quite hear. There was a ringing in his ears and his jaw felt numb. He broke loose from Gus’s grip and ran for the door. He got one hand on it and threw it open, lunging out into the hallway. He didn’t make it.
Something big and muscular circled his neck, and he knew it was Sam’s arm. He was spun around savagely, and he heard the door close again. He scrambled loose, hammered with his fists at Sam’s face. The big man looked surprised. He blinked his eyes rapidly, took a step backward and shook his head. But the blows had done no harm!
“Sam used to be a heavyweight fighter,” Ganymede Gus explained, “You need a club to hurt him, sonny.”
This couldn’t he happening, Pete thought wildly. Not here in this modern age. Only it was, and what was the expression? They had him good.
Sam hit him again, harder. He crashed back against the wall, slumped down to the floor. He got up slowly, felt the warm, salty taste of blood in his mouth. He plodded grimly forward, trying to raise his arms and swing them.
Ganymede Gus sounded genuinely sorry this time. “Quit, sonny! Don’t come back for more. Why don’t you just lay down and quit? The boss wanted us to teach you a lesson, but you don’t have to stand and take it. . . .”
Sam hit him again — and again. He did not feel the blows — a numbness had taken their place. But he remembered falling down and then climbing wearily to his feet. Falling down and getting up. . . .
He lay on his back and someone was applying a cold, wet towel to his face. He moaned and tried to sit up, but a hand pushed him down again. “Just rest, sonny. Sam is all through, and you’ll have time enough to get up later. Sonny, I got to hand it to you. A lot of spacemen I knew wouldn’t have taken it like that. I think even Sam would hate to fight with you five years from now — when you’re all grown up.” Then Ganymede Gus sounded like he was pleading. “I like you, Pete. Yeah, I got room for things like that. I like you. I don’t want to see you hurt, but the boss said . . .”
“Get to the point!” Sam growled from some place off across the room.
“You’ve got to play ball, sonny. Don’t you see? First place, Sam here will try to twist your arm any time you balk. Also, we’ll tell your father . . .”
“Go ahead!” Pete cried through swollen lips. “Go ahead, tell him. I’m all finished with that. You can tell him anything you want.”
“Oh, yeah?” This was Sam. “Did you like what I done to you? Remember this, wise guy: I can do the same thing to that family of yours, only I can make it worse. Better play ball!”
Ganymede Gus nodded. “He isn’t fooling, Pete. He doesn’t know how. If he starts to work on your folks. . .”
Pete sat up groggily. He was going to ignore the threat. Heck, his family could take care of itself, especially if he warned them. Also, there were police for things like this. But he looked at Sam’s face, at the utter lack of expression on it, and he said:
“All right, Gus. All right, I’m your man. Now can I go?”
Gus nodded, almost happily, but Sam held Pete down with a big hand. “Just a minute. You can go, yeah — but remember, this was only a warning. Next time we move in on the family, and Gus here will also do some blabbing.”
A wave of dizziness swept over him, but somehow Pete made it to the door. “Don’t you forget it,” Sam called after him. “Gus will be after you for information every now and then. You better give it to him, see?”
Pete said he saw, and left.
He felt shot, felt as if he wanted to sleep for a week, but he was at the tower before sunrise. Captain Saunders did a double take when he entered.
“Your face!” he shouted. “What happened to you?”
Pete’s lips were still swollen, and one of his eyes was blackened and tightly shut. He smiled ruefully. “I — I got into a fight last night.”
“I’ll say! It doesn’t look as if you won.”
“No, I didn’t,” Pete admitted. “I — I’d rather forget about it, sir.”
“There you go again,” said Saunders. “If that isn’t Academy training, I’ll eat my hat. Every other kid I know would talk about his fight and say something like ‘you should see the other guy.’ But not you. You make no excuses, and you want to forget all about it. That’s exactly what they’d drum into you at the Academy.”
Pete changed the subject quickly. “Are there any blast-offs today?”
“No. No, I thought I’d told you. No clearance for a couple of days. After that, though, they’ll be going out fast and furiously! The new Academy graduates will be arriving, and they’ll be taking off for all the training posts around the Solar System. Three shiploads for Mars, three for Venus, two for Ceres out in the asteroids, half a dozen for the Jovian moons.
“You’ll have plenty to do, Wilson. I think you’ll get a kick out of those Academy boys, too. I always do. They’re so eager and so full of fire and — well, there’s just nothing like them. They own all space, and they know it. The planets are theirs today, and tomorrow, maybe the stars. They turn this place into a mess every time they come, but the officers love it, I wish I were a young man again, Wilson, I’d — say, why didn’t you ever try to enter the Academy?”
“Physically unfit,” Pete mumbled, stalking tight lipped from the room. After he had gone, Captain Saunders stood for a long while staring at the closed door. Then he sat down at his desk and asked for long distance on his video-phone. “I want the Cadet Academy in Des Moines,” he said.
In twos and threes the graduate Cadets began to trickle into White Sands. Pete realized he would have to be careful; naturally, he was known by every graduate of the Academy. But at times he found himself fighting a wild impulse to shout his greetings to his former companions, to join in their raucous singing, to slap them soundly on their backs and wish them luck.
That was impossible, and he knew it. He’d be letting the cat out of the bag entirely if even one Cadet recognized him. But the familiar lump had come to his throat, for when they sang ho! for the void and far away this time, they meant it. All their lives they had been looking forward to it, and now they were skyward bound. . . .
The Cadets were everywhere — out on the field, weaving in and out among the blasting pits, filling the cafeterias with their boisterous, happy laughter, wearing their shiny new uniforms in every nook and cranny of White Sands. Some of them even invaded the tower from time to time, carrying with them a youthful haughtiness which was not meant to be snobbish.
At such times, Pete huddled off in a corner, his back turned, tinkering meaninglessly with the dials and levers which kept the Spaceport going. More than once, curious Cadets asked him questions. With his face still averted, he would answer them in monosyllables, putting on a “heck-fellows-I’m-busy” attitude. His heart never stopped its nervous thumping until long after they were gone.
One day Captain Saunders had a word with him about that. “Pete,” he said, “there’s been a complaint register
ed against you.”
“A complaint? My work is satisfactory, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that.” Captain Saunders shook his head. “The Cadets feel that you resent them for some reason. Oh, they make jokes about it, but they keep asking about the ornery guy who works in the tower and brushes off all their questions. Why, Pete?”
Resent them? Anything, but that! All Pete wanted to do was keep his identity unknown, but to the Cadets it indicated resentment. There wasn’t much he could do about it, either. “I — I don’t know, sir. I’m busy, and. . .”
“Busy! You? When you can plot an orbit in ten minutes, inside that rapid-fire head of yours! No, that’s not it, Pete, but if they have a legitimate gripe, I’d like to know what it is.”
“Maybe they do have one, sir, but I can’t answer it. I —”
“It’s something in your past, isn’t it, Pete? Wait, don’t answer. You know, I could know more about this than you think. I could know a great deal more about it than you think.”
“I’d rather not discuss it, sir,” Pete said, and left the room in a hurry.
After that, the Cadet ships began to blast off. Each day at sunrise and sunset Pete would watch them go. The Cadets filing out to their waiting ships, trailing a thunderous chorus of the Spaceman’s Chant, the officers calling roll near the blasting pits, speech making by some local political figures — and then the tense moments in the tower while Pete sent each ship flashing off into the void on its carefully calculated orbit.
And each day, additional Cadets came into White Sands to start the whole thing all over again. It might be many weeks before all of them had been cleared off into space.
This caused a lot of commotion, and it kept Pete busy, so busy that for a time he almost forgot about Ganymede Gus. But one night he found a letter waiting in his room. He read:
Sonny: No need for us to meet from now on. That might be dangerous. When I want some information, you just mail it to Sam Smith (you remember Sam, don’t you?) care of General Delivery in White Sands. It looks to me like the Crape Ring should be blasting off for Mars within the week. Suppose you tell me when, and on what orbit. And no tricks this time — that’s friendly advice, sonny, because I have a little story to tell your father otherwise, and Sam might even decide to give him something like what you got, only worse.
Earthbound (Winston Science Fiction Book 1) Page 4