Get Out of Our Skies! Part 3

_Roger Tenblade, a das.h.i.+ng young rocket pilot in the UN Air Force, yearns to join the s.p.a.ce Expeditionary Force now planning the first landing and colonization of the planet Mars. Despite the protest of his lovely fiancee, Diane, he embarks upon the journey. The trip is fraught with hazards, and the s.h.i.+p is struck by a meteor en route.

Every member of the crew is killed, except Roger, who heroically brings the vessel back to home base. However, Roger is exposed to large amounts of cosmic radiation. When he is so informed by the medical authorities, he realizes that he can never make Diane a normal husband. So rather than return to her and ruin her life, he changes his ident.i.ty and disappears to South America, where he takes a job as a shuttle pilot for a third-cla.s.s airline._

_Meanwhile, Diane marries Harold Farnsworth, scion of one of America's wealthiest families ..._

Tom Blacker chuckled, and slipped the scenario back into the envelope.

He marked the ma.n.u.script "O.K. for Production," and turned to the other mail.

There was the prospectus of a television series that sounded interesting. He looked it over carefully.

_"CAPTAIN TERRA"

Half-hour Television Series written by Craig Comfort_

_Captain Terra, and his Earth Cadets are dedicated to the principle of "Earth Above All" and have sworn their lives to the preservation of Earth and its peoples, and to the protection of Earth against the hostile aliens constantly threatening the planet._

_Program One, Act One_

_Bobby, Captain Terra's youthful aide, is attacked one day by a strange creature which he describes as half-man, half-snake. He reports the incident to Captain Terra, who calls a special session of his Earth Patrol to determine how best to deal with this enemy ..._

Tom read the prospectus through, and then dictated a letter to its producers to call for an appointment.

At the bottom of the mail pile, he found an enthusiastic letter from a theatrical producer named Homer Bradshaw, whom he had dealt with briefly during his career at Ostreich and Company.

_Dear Tom,_

_Great to hear about your new connection! Have a fabulous gimmick that ought to be right down your alley. Am thinking of producing a new extravaganza ent.i.tled: "Be It Ever So Humble."_

_This will be a real cla.s.sy show, with plenty of chorus line and top gags. We plan to kid the pants off this s.p.a.ceman business, until those bright boys in the gla.s.s hats cry uncle. I've already lined up James Hoc.u.m for the top banana, and Sylvia Crowe for the female lead. You know Sylvia, Tom; she'll make s.p.a.ce flight sound about as chic as a debutante's ball on the Staten Island Ferry. This is the way to do the job, Tom--laugh 'em out of it._

_If you're interested in a piece of this, you can always reach me at ..._

He was about to call it a day at five-thirty, when he got a visiphone call from John Andrusco. When he walked into the immense office at the other end of the floor, he saw a gla.s.sy-eyed man standing at Andrusco's desk, twirling his hat with nervous fingers.

"Tom," Andrusco said cheerfully, "want you to meet somebody. This is Sergeant Walt Spencer, formerly of the UN s.p.a.ce Commission."

Tom shook the man's hand, and he could feel it trembling in his own.

"I called Walt in here specially, thanks to that memo you sent me, Tom.

Great idea of yours, about talking to some of the boys who've actually been in s.p.a.ce. Walter here's willing to cooperate a hundred percent."

"That's fine," Tom said uneasily.

"Thought you two ought to get together," Andrusco said, reaching for his hat. "Think he can help a lot, Tom. Talk it over."

"Well--suppose we have a drink, Sergeant? That fit your plans all right?"

"Suits me," the man said, without emotion.

They went down in the elevator together, and slid into a red-leather booth in the Tuscany Bar in the base of the building. The sergeant ordered a double Scotch, and gulped it with the same respect you give water.

"So you've been in s.p.a.ce," Tom said, looking at him curiously. "Must have been quite an experience."

"Yeah."

"Er--I take it you've left the service."

"Yeah."

Tom frowned, and sipped his martini. "How many trips did you make, Sergeant?"

"Just one. Reconnaissance Moon Flight Four. About six years ago. You must have read about it."

"Yes," Tom said. "Sorry."

The man shrugged. "Things happen. Even on Earth, things happen."

"Tell me something." Tom leaned forward. "Is it true about--" He paused, embarra.s.sed. "Well, you hear a lot of stories. But I understand some of the men on that flight, the ones who got back all right, had children.

And--well, you know how rumors go--"

"Lies," Spencer said, without rancor. "I've got two kids myself. Both of 'em normal."

"Oh." Tom tried to hide his disappointment behind the c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s. It would have made great copy, if he could have proved the truth of the old rumor about two-headed babies. But what _could_ Sergeant Spencer do for the PR program? Andrusco must have had something in mind.

He asked him point-blank.

"It's like this," the man said, his eyes distant. "Since I quit the service, I haven't been doin' so good. With jobs, I mean. And Mr.

Andrusco--he said he'd give me five thousand dollars if I'd--help you people."

"Did Mr. Andrusco describe this help?"

"Yeah. He wants me to do a story. About the kid my wife had. The first kid."

"What about the first kid?"

"Well, she died, the first kid did. In childbirth. It was something that happens, you know. My wife's a little woman; the baby was smothered."

"I see. And what kind of story do you want to tell?"

"It's not my idea." A hint of stubbornness glimmered in his dull eyes.

"It's that Andrusco guy's. He wants me to tell how the baby was born a--mutant."

"What?"

"He wants me to release a story saying the baby was a freak. The kid was born at home, you see. The only other person who saw her, besides me and my wife, was this doctor we had. And he died a couple of years back."

Tom slumped in his chair. This was pus.h.i.+ng public relations a little far.