Treachery in Outer Space Part 4

"And I'm the guy to do it?" asked Quent with a smile.

"That's what you're here for. If we don't win this race, we're finished.

Washed up!"

"Who else is in the race?"

"Every other major s.p.a.ce-freight outfit in the system," replied Brett grimly. "And Kit Barnard."

"Has Barnard got that new reactor of his working yet?"

"I don't think so. But I have no way of telling."

"If he has, you're not going to win this race," said Quent, shaking his head. "Nor is anyone else."

"You are here for one reason," said Brett pointedly.

"I know." Quent grinned. "To win a race."

"Right."

Quent laughed. "With those heaps you've fooled people into thinking are s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps? Don't make me laugh."

"There are going to be time trials before the race," said Brett. "The three fastest s.h.i.+ps are going to make the final run. I'm not worried about the race itself. I've got a plan that will a.s.sure us of winning.

It's the time trials that's got me bothered."

"Leave that to me," said Quent.

The jet cab pulled up to the main gate of the s.p.a.ceport and the two men got out. Far across the field, a slender, needle-nosed s.h.i.+p stood poised on her stabilizer fins ready for flight. She was black except for a red band painted on the hull across the forward section and around the few viewports. It gave her the appearance of a huge laughing insect. Quent eyed the vessel with a practiced eye.

"I'll have to soup her up," he commented. "She wouldn't win a foot race now."

"Don't depend too heavily on your speed," said Brett. "I would just as soon win by default. After all," he continued, looking at Miles with calculating eyes, "serious accidents could delay the other s.h.i.+ps."

"Sure. I know what you mean," replied the s.p.a.ceman.

"Good!" Brett turned away abruptly and headed for the s.h.i.+p. Quent following him. In a little while the white-hot exhaust flare from the rocket tubes of the sleek s.h.i.+p splattered the concrete launching ap.r.o.n and it lifted free of the ground. Like an evil, predatory bug, the s.h.i.+p blasted toward the Academy s.p.a.ceport.

"Well, blast my jets!" Astro gasped, stopping in his tracks and pointing. Tom and Roger looked out over the quadrangle toward the Academy s.p.a.ceport where s.h.i.+p after s.h.i.+p, braking jets blasting, sought the safety of the ground.

"Great galaxy," exclaimed Tom, his eyes bulging, "there must be a hundred s.h.i.+ps!"

"At least," commented Roger.

"But they can't all be here for the trials," said Astro.

"Why not?" asked Roger. "This is a very important race. Who knows what s.h.i.+p might win? It pays the company to enter every s.h.i.+p they have."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"Great galaxy! There must be a hundred s.h.i.+ps!"_]

"Roger's right, Astro," said Tom. "These fellows are playing for big stakes. Though I don't think there'll be more than thirty or forty s.h.i.+ps in the actual speed trials. See those big-bellied jobs? They're repair s.h.i.+ps."

"I hadn't thought about that," acknowledged the big Venusian cadet.

"They'll probably be jazzing up those sleek babies and that takes a lot of repair and work."

"Come on," said Tom. "We've got to get over to the meeting. Captain Strong said he wanted us to be there."

The three cadets turned back toward the nearest slidewalk and hopped on.

None of them noticed the black s.h.i.+p with the red band around its bow which suddenly appeared over the field, rockets blasting loudly as it began to drop expertly to the ground.

From early morning the skies over the Academy had been vibrating to the thunderous exhausts of the incoming fleet of s.h.i.+ps. Painted with company colors and insignia, the s.h.i.+ps landed in allotted s.p.a.ce on the field, and almost immediately, mechanics, crew chiefs, and specialists of all kinds swarmed over the s.p.a.ce vessels preparing them for the severest tests they would ever undergo. The s.h.i.+ps that actually were to make the trial runs were stripped of every spare pound of weight, while their reactors were taken apart and specially designed compression heads were put on the atomic motors.

The entire corps of s.p.a.ce Cadets had been given a special three-day holiday to see the trials, and the Academy buildings were decorated with multicolored flags and pennants. A festive atmosphere surrounded the vast Solar Guard installation.

But in his office in the Tower of Galileo, Captain Strong paced the floor, a worried frown on his face. He stepped around his desk and picked up a paper to re-read it for the tenth time. He shook his head and flipped open the key of his desk intercom, connecting him with the enlisted s.p.a.ceman in the next office.

"Find Kit Barnard, s.p.a.ceman!" Strong called. "And give him an oral message. _Personal._ Tell him I said he can't use his reactor unit unless he changes it to more standard operational design." Strong paused and glanced at the paper again. "As it stands now, his reactor will not be approved for the trials," he continued. "Tell him he has until midnight tonight to submit new specifications."

As Strong closed the intercom key abruptly, the three members of the _Polaris_ unit stepped into his office and saluted smartly. Strong looked up. "h.e.l.lo, boys. Sit down." He waved them to nearby chairs and turned back to his desk. The drawn expression of their unit commander did not go unnoticed.

"Is there something wrong, sir?" asked Tom tentatively.

"Nothing much," replied Strong wearily. He indicated the sheaf of papers in front of him. "These are reactor-unit specifications submitted by the pilots and crew chiefs of the s.h.i.+ps to be flown in the time trials. I've just had to reject Kit Barnard's specifications."

"What was the matter?" asked Astro.

"Not enough safety allowance. He's running too close to the danger point in feeding reactant to the chambers, using D-18 rate of feed and D-9 is standard."

"What about the other s.h.i.+ps, sir?" asked Tom. "Do they all have safety factors?"

Strong shrugged his shoulders. "They all specify standard reaction rates without actually using figures," he said. "But I'm certain that their feeders are being tuned up for maximum output. That's where your job is going to come in. You've got to inspect the s.h.i.+ps to make sure they're safe."

"Then Kit Barnard put down his specifications, _knowing_ that there was a chance they wouldn't pa.s.s," Tom remarked.

Strong nodded. "He's an honest man."

The door opened and several men stepped inside. They were dressed in the mode of merchant s.p.a.ce officers, wearing high-peaked hats, trim jackets, and trousers of a different color. Strong stood up to greet them.

"Welcome, gentlemen. Please be seated. We will begin the meeting as soon as all the pilots are here."

Roger nudged Astro and whispered, "What's the big deal about a D-18 rate and a D-9 rate? Why is that so important?"

"It has to do with the pumps," replied the power-deck cadet. "They cool the reactant fuel to keep it from getting too hot and wildcatting. At a D-9 rate the reactant is hot enough to create power for normal flight.

Feeding at a D-18 rate is fine too, but you need pumps to cool the motors, and pumps that could do the job would be too big."

"Kit's problem," commented Tom, "is not so much building the reactor, but a cooling system to keep it under control."

"Will that make a big difference in who wins the race?" asked Roger.