"The first thing they teach us at the Academy, buddy," said Tom impatiently, "is how to take care of ourselves, and the second thing is to mind our own business."

"Right," said the driver, tight-lipped. He slammed the car into motion and the force hurled Tom back in his seat.

Tom grinned. He hadn't meant to sound so tough. He leaned over and apologized. "I'm looking for an old friend. Someone told me he drives a truck and he might be there."

"Forget it, kid," said the driver. "I wouldn't want you in my cab if you couldn't take care of yourself. We pay taxes to teach guys like you how to protect us. A lot of good it would do if you were scared of a taxi driver."

Tom laughed and settled back in his seat to watch the city flash past.

A half hour later the curly-haired cadet became aware of the change from the magnificent crystal buildings to the dirty and streaked buildings of the poorer section of the city. And with the change, Tom noticed a difference in the people who walked the streets. Here were men who wore their coat collars high and their caps pulled low, and who would duck into the shadows at the approach of the cab and then watch it with dark, silent eyes.

"Here ya are, Cadet," the driver announced, stopping in front of a small, dirty building. "Sloppy Sam's."

The men inside were tough-looking and steely-eyed
Note

"Used to be called Bad Sam's," replied the driver. "As a matter of fact, I think it's still officially Bad Sam's. You see, Sam used to be a real tough fella. Then one day a fella came along that was tougher than he was and beat the exhaust out of him. Sam went to pot after that. He got fat and lazy, and his place here got dirtier and dirtier. Finally everybody started calling him Sloppy Sam and it stuck."

"Quite a story." Tom laughed. "What happened to the fellow that took Sam over the hurdles?"

"He's got a joint on the other side of town called Bad Richard's. But they're friends now. Get along fine."

Tom paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk, watching the silver cab shoot away into the darkness. Then he took a deep breath and slowly moved toward the open door of Sloppy Sam's.

Inside, Tom saw that most of the customers were lined up at the bar, drinking rocket juice, a dark foul-tasting liquid that Tom had sipped once and vowed he would never try again. But as he looked around, he didn't think it was the type of place you could order anything milder, so he walked up to the bar and ordered loudly, "A bucket of juice."

The husky bartender placed the small glass of dark liquid in front of Tom. "Twenty credits," he announced in a hoarse voice.

"Twenty!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't give me that rocket wash! It's five credits a shot."

"To a Space Cadet that wants to keep his reputation, Corbett," replied the burly man, "it's twenty."

Tom realized that the man had seen his picture on the stereo news that afternoon and that it would be impossible to get out of paying this blatant form of blackmail. He handed over the money and picked up the glass. He sipped it to keep up appearances but even the few drops he allowed to trickle down his throat almost made him gag. He gasped for breath. Whatever information he might be able to get here, it wasn't worth another swallow of that stuff.

He stood at the bar for nearly half an hour, watching the stereo and waiting. When the show was over, the men turned back to the serious business of drinking. Two of them drifted over close to Tom and looked him up and down. After a whispered conversation, they turned to him and pointed to his drink, the same one he had bought and had not touched since.

"Drink up, mate," said the nearest man, a tall, heavy-shouldered man with a dark beard, "then join us in another one."

"No, thanks," said Tom. "One's my limit."

"That's right, Cag!" said the other man, laughing.

"What are you doing in here, Cadet?" asked the man called Cag.

"Looking for a guy."

"What's his name? Maybe we know him."

"Yeah, we might," chimed in the other. "We know just about everybody that comes in here."

"Maybe he don't want to tell us, Monty," said Cag.

"I don't know his name," said Tom. "I just met him today and he mentioned this place. I wanted to talk to him about something."

"Where did you see him?"

Tom paused. It was only a chance remark that the driver of the jet truck had made and it was a slim chance that these two men might know him. He decided to risk it. "He's a jet trucker. I saw him out at the spaceport today."

The two men looked at each other. "Little guy, with a sort of funny twitch in his eye?" asked Cag.

"Yes," replied Tom. "That's him. Know him?"

"He hangs out in a joint across the street," said Monty. "Come on outside. I'll show you where it is. And his name's Pistol, in case you want to know."

"Pistol," said Tom. "That's an odd name."

"Not when you consider he carries a pistol all the time," snorted Cag.

"What do you want to see him about, anyway?" asked Monty, as they walked to the corner.

"Just wanted to talk to him about the jet-trucking business."

"What about it? We're truckers, me and Cag, we could probably tell you a lot more than Pistol."

"Maybe," said Tom. "But I want to talk to Pistol."

They stopped at the corner and Monty stepped off the curb into the street. "See that light down there," he said, pointing down the block, "the one just above the door?"

Tom turned to look. "Where—?"

He suddenly felt a sharp jolting pain in the back of his head and then everything went black.

"Nice work, Cag," commented Monty.

"What'll we do with him?" asked Cag.

"Throw him in the back of the truck and get outta here," said Monty, pulling Tom's limp form into the shadows of an alley. "I'll get in touch with the boss and tell him what's happened. And you better send out word to get Pistol. He must know something."

"Right," said Cag. "Gee, Corbett's getting his nice clean uniform messed up."

Dirty gutter water flowed over Tom in the dark Martian alley as the boy lay deathly still.

"I'm well aware of that," replied Connel stiffly. "But it's a personal debt. It has nothing to do with his behavior as a cadet. I ordered him to go to that hotel and rest, not go skylarking all over Marsport. This is typical of the whole unit's attitude."

"But you said that they were the best crew you ever had," insisted Devers.

"I know, but what's worse is that they know it! Blast it, Carter, it isn't easy to say the things I've said about Corbett! He's a fine lad. But look at it this way. I have to return to Atom City immediately. Corbett may be in trouble, right?" Devers nodded. "Well, how do you think I feel, blasting off and leaving him?"

Devers nodded his understanding as Connel continued furiously, "And furthermore, I have more important things to think about than wet-nursing a cadet."

At that moment Connel noticed a jet car racing across the spaceport toward the Polaris. As it drew near, he saw the insigne of the Solar Guard on the hood. His eyes widened hopefully for a second. "Humph," he grunted, "this may be him now!"

"If it is," cautioned Devers, "go easy on the boy."

"We'll see, we'll see."

The car screamed to a stop in front of them, the plastic blister was thrown back, and another Solar Guard messenger climbed out, saluting Connel smartly.

"Message from Solar Guard headquarters, Major Connel," he said.

Dashing up the metal ladder, Connel roared the order to the waiting ground crew. "Stand by to blast off."

Carter Devers scrambled up into the giant ship after the Solar Guard officer, and in less than a minute later, all ports were sealed and the Polaris was ready for space. In the pilot's chair, Connel called traffic control for blast-off, and at the same time prepared to raise ship.

By the time Devers had strapped himself into the copilot's chair next to Connel, the ship was quivering with leashed power. Suddenly Connel roared the familiar call for space.

"Blast off, minus five, four, three, two, one, zero!"

The great ship literally exploded off the ground, and within seconds, was rocketing through the thin atmosphere above Mars on course for Earth, far across the deep black velvet void of space, but leaving Tom Corbett, her true commander, behind.

Captain Steve Strong and Commander Walters watched grimly as the Polaris landed on the Academy spaceport. They had been in contact with Connel during his trip back to Earth and had already told the bluff major of still another incident that had taken place at the Academy while he was gone.

"I don't get it, sir," sighed Strong. "Manning and Astro blowing wide open, Corbett disappearing—" He shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps not," said Walters. "But those three are really in trouble now. Connel won't stand for this kind of behavior."

"Do you think that he'll go so far as to ask for a court-martial?"

Walters hesitated. "I hate to say this, Steve," he said finally, "but if Major Connel doesn't, I will be forced to. No other unit has had more of an opportunity to prove itself than the Polaris unit. And every time, something like this happens."

"But suppose they have good explanations," insisted Strong.

"It would have to be better than anything they've had before," replied Walters. "Frankly, I cannot see how that is possible."

Walters climbed into his jet car and Strong followed, biting his lip.

The car shot across the field to the now grounded Polaris, pulling alongside it just as Major Connel and Carter Devers climbed out of the open hatch. Without even the courtesy of a greeting, Connel roared, "What's this about those two cadets stealing a ship?"

"Let's talk about that later, Lou," said Walters. "Climb in. We've got something more important to discuss. The saboteur."

Connel grunted his acknowledgment and climbed into the car as Strong turned to Devers.

"There was a message for you, Mr. Devers," said the Solar Guard captain. "You're to get in touch with your Atom City office immediately."

"Thanks, Steve," said Devers, and with a wave of his hand to the others walked away.

As the jet car raced back to the Tower of Galileo, Walters brought Connel up to date on the incident at the hangar leading to the arrest of Pat Troy. When they reached Walters' office, high in the tower, Troy was ushered in by two guards.

"Sit down!" barked Connel, taking command of the situation.

Troy walked to the center of the room and sat down in the indicated chair, facing Walters, Connel, and Strong.

"We'd like to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, Troy," began Connel. "So I suggest that you tell us the truth and save us the trouble of pulling it out of you.

"I will answer all of your questions to the best of my ability, sir," said Troy calmly. "And I will tell the truth at all times."

"Very well," snorted Connel. "Now, who are you working for?"

"Professor Hemmingwell," replied Troy.

"Stow that," snarled Connel. "Who paid you to sabotage the ship?"

"I have not committed any sabotage for anyone, sir."

"Yes."

Walters suddenly leaned forward. "But you do not deny that you knew about the special unit that Professor Hemmingwell had created," he said. "A unit that only he and I knew about?"

"I knew about the unit—yes, sir," replied Troy.

"How could you?" demanded Walters.

"I overheard you both discussing it one day."

"Where?"

"In the hangar," said Troy. "You and Professor Hemmingwell were talking on the main deck while I was inside—what will be the radar deck—working. I heard you talking about the unit, and after you left, I happened to find a blueprint on the table. It coincided with what you had been talking about. I looked at it and then thought nothing of it. A few minutes later the professor came running in and took the blueprint away."

"Did he ask you if you had read the print?" asked Connel.

"No, sir," replied Troy. "If he had, I would have told him that I had."

"Now," said Connel, "did you have anything to do with the so-called accident to the oscillating timing device?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know who did?"

"No, sir."

"We can put you under drugs, you know, and get the truth out of you," warned Connel.

"You'll get the same answer, sir," Troy calmly replied.

"Well," said Walters, "do we give him drugs or not?"

"I may be sticking my neck out, Commander," said Steve, "but I think that he's telling the truth."

"Same here," said Connel. "I would suggest that we let him loose, and even let him go back to work, but keep an eye on him."

"And you wouldn't give him drugs now?"

"No. I'd give the benefit of the doubt to a man any time," said the hardened space major.

"All right," said Walters. He turned back and told Troy he was free, but that he was not to leave the restricted area. And he was only permitted to work on less critical projects. "Do you have anything to say?" Walters asked.

Troy smiled at them and shook his head. "No, sir. That's fine with me," he said. "And I'll keep my eye open for the real saboteur—"

"That won't be necessary!" snapped Connel. "We're capable of handling our own detective work."

Troy grinned again. "Very well, sir," he said.

Connel dismissed the guards and the foreman walked out of the office a free man.

Connel and Walters turned to discussing the installation of the receivers on Mars, with Connel lauding young Lieutenant Slick highly. "That boy deserves a promotion in rank," he stated.

Steve Strong stood to one side, waiting impatiently for the two older men to finish their conversation before asking about Tom Corbett. At the same time, he was a little fearful of bringing up the subject of the Polaris unit, in the face of what Astro and Roger had just done. It was not an easy thing to do, but at the first opportunity he broke into the conversation with a direct question to Connel.

"Major, is there any doubt in your mind about Corbett's disappearance being an accident or do you—"

Connel cut him off. "Do I think he's AWOL?"

Strong nodded silently.

"Steve," said Connel patiently, "I know how you feel about those three boys, but tell me, how long can this go on? They constantly take off on their own, without authorization—"

"But they usually have a good reason," Strong interrupted quickly.

"Then why don't they give us the reason first?" Connel shot back.

"What Lou is trying to say," interjected Walters quietly, "is that Corbett, Manning, and Astro have time and time again committed us to take action, to get them out of situations that they initiated. It's time they were stopped! They are only one unit in this Academy, not the whole works."

"Then I guess you mean"—Strong hesitated, a lump in his throat—"it will be the end of the unit when they get back?"

"Very well, Major," said Strong. He rose and addressed the commander. "I request permission for emergency leave, sir, commencing now."

"Permission denied!" said Walters. "This is exactly what I've been talking about, Steve. You want to leave to go to Mars and look for Tom when we need you here on the project."

Strong's face suddenly turned white. And then, for the first time in his career, he ignored military courtesy and turned to leave without the courtesy of a salute or permission to do so. Connel almost called him back, but Commander Walters put a restraining hand on the major's arm.

"I'd very likely do the same thing," snapped the major. "And I'd get my rockets busted for it by my commanding officer!"

Walters grinned and pulled the major back to the desk where they continued their discussion of the receivers on Mars.

They had no sooner begun their discussion when the sliding door opened and Professor Hemmingwell burst into the room, his smock flying behind him, his hair ruffled and eyes wide with fright.

"The ship! The ship!" he cried out. "Someone has blown up the whole control panel of the ship!"

Barret, Commander Walters, Professor Hemmingwell, and Captain Strong watched the major, their teeth clenched, eyes clouded with anger. Where the destruction of the first unit could have been called an accident, here was tangible evidence of a deliberate attempt to stop the whole project. The Space Marine, accompanied by Firehouse Tim Rush, returned five minutes later with the audio recorder and set it up for operation.

Connel took the small needlelike microphone in his hand and spoke into it as the reel of sound tape unwound slowly.

"This is a preliminary inquiry into the sabotage of the control deck of spaceship XX, Operation Space Projectile," he said. "This is Major Lou Connel, interrogator!" He paused and nodded to Barret who stepped forward. "My first witness will be Dave Barret." Holding the microphone close to the young engineer's mouth, Connel said, "Tell us everything you know of this incident."

Barret spoke slowly and carefully, describing how he and Professor Hemmingwell had been at the other end of the hangar when the explosion had occurred. Professor Hemmingwell had immediately run out of the hangar to inform Commander Walters, leaving Barret alone to check the damage. "Then you and Commander Walters and the Space Marines showed up, sir," he concluded. "That's all I know."

"All right," said Connel and turned to the professor. "Your statement, Professor Hemmingwell."

"Why weren't the entrances guarded?" snapped Connel, looking directly at Firehouse Tim Rush.

"Cadets Manning and Astro left their posts without leave, sir," reported the stocky little spaceman.

Captain Strong took an involuntary step forward, his face drained of all color. Connel looked at him, steely-eyed. "Did you hear that, Strong?" he growled.

Strong nodded. "I—I did," he stammered.

"So those two idiots not only stole a rocket scout, but they left their posts."

Strong could only shake his head in utter disbelief. Commander Walters looked at him pityingly.

"I knew they had taken the scout," said Walters, his voice hard and tight. "But I didn't think they were foolish enough to leave their posts."

"Well, they did, sir," declared Rush. "They left about four hours before they were to be relieved. I was making the rounds when I discovered that they were gone. I put two other men on guard right away, but the doors were unguarded for at least an hour. Anyone could have walked in without the slightest trouble."

Connel turned back to Walters. "This is the end! Those two cadets are going up before a general court-martial."

"Commander," protested Strong, "you can't—!"

The tough little enlisted guard stepped up and reported clearly and rapidly and without pause. When he was finished, Connel turned to the guards that had replaced Roger and Astro and each one repeated the story told by Firehouse Tim.

Over and over, Connel heard the same story. No one seemed to have been around the ship when the explosion took place. And it seemed that the only time when a saboteur could have gotten into the hangar and planted the bomb was during the hour the doors were unguarded.

Finally, the interrogation was over and Connel declared, "One thing to remember when you are dealing with sabotage is this: if the saboteur fails, he might return. If our enemy does not know the extent of the damage, then he might return and make another attempt. So, not a word about this to anyone. And that includes your mothers."

"Major, there is one thing I'd like to add," said Barret, stepping forward.

"What's that?" asked Connel.

"It's about the cadets," said Barret. "I talked to them just before they blasted off in the scout. They had a lot to say about your taking Corbett with you on the trip to Mars. They seemed disgruntled and dissatisfied."

"Simply that they didn't feel that they were getting a fair deal with Tom being taken off guard duty, since he was actually responsible for them having it in the first place.

"They said that!" exclaimed Strong. "But how could that—" He suddenly closed his mouth and turned away, frowning.

"But how could what, Steve?" asked Walters.

"Nothing, sir," said Strong. "You have already reprimanded me too often as it is for speaking up in their behalf."

Walters lifted his eyebrows. "It appears to me that you're getting a little touchy!" he barked. "Watch yourself, Steve. Don't let your feelings for those boys get out of hand."

"Blast it!" exclaimed Professor Hemmingwell. "While you continue talking about those stupid cadets, you're just wasting my time. There's plenty of work to do and precious little time to do it in." He turned to Barret. "Come on, Dave, let's get this mess cleared away."

"Yes, sir," said Dave Barret.

As Hemmingwell and Barret turned their attention to the wrecked control panel, Connel, Walters, and Strong climbed out of the ship and left the hangar. On the slidewalk, headed back to the Academy, Commander Walters looked at Connel inquiringly.

"What now, Lou?" he asked.

"All right," said Walters. "And I suppose you'll want to talk to Manning and Astro when they get back."

Connel looked at Captain Strong grimly. "I want to talk to them so badly, I would crawl on my hands and knees to get to them right now."

Strong flushed angrily but said nothing, and as soon as the three officers arrived at the Academy grounds, he excused himself. He walked slowly and thoughtfully along, looking at the dormitories with unseeing eyes and hearing with deaf ears the noise of the cadets getting ready for bed. He could not believe that Roger or Astro had abandoned their posts, or that Tom would run off to disappear on Mars, just for the sake of disappearing. In all his years at the Academy, Strong had never met three boys who so exemplified the true spirit of Space Cadets. Something was wrong somewhere. But what?

Strong paused outside the huge recreation hall, watching the cadets. Tony Richards and the Capella unit walked by, and returning their salutes, Strong could only see Tom, Roger, and Astro.

A figure dressed in the black-and-gold uniform of an officer in the Solar Guard walked toward him. Strong's eyes lighted up with recognition.

"Joan!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she said. She had some papers in her hand and held them out to him.

"Steve," she began, "I was in charge of the psychograph tests taken of all the workers at the projectile operation after the first mishap—"

"How did you know about the second?" Strong interrupted quickly, remembering Connel's admonition about keeping the incident quiet.

"I was ordered to go over the graphs again, to look for any possible clue in a worker's mental make-up that would lead him to a criminal act." She paused and looked up at him squarely. "Do you suspect me too?"

"I'm sorry, Joan," said the young captain. "But this whole business is getting me down. Tom, disappearing on Mars, Roger and Astro walking off guard duty and stealing a scout, and now this latest sabotage attempt." He sighed and shook his head. "I'm tired I guess."

She smiled. "I understand, Steve, and regardless of what Major Connel and Commander Walters have said, I'll bet my last credit there's a good reason for what the boys have done."

Strong looked down at the pretty physicist and smiled. "Thanks, Joan," he said. "Now, what about these papers?"

"It's about the report on Pat Troy," she replied. "When we asked him if he was working with anyone other than the professor, he lied."

"That was his reaction when he was asked if he worked for anyone else."

"Does that mean it's a lie?"

"Yes. All the waves that you see," she continued, pointing to the line, "represent answers to questions about his personal life. Does he shave in the morning? Does he brush his teeth at night, and so forth. They're comparison questions to show his reaction when he tells the truth. That peak indicates a lie."

"Then," said Strong thoughtfully, "he might be the saboteur."

"Or know who it is," said Joan.

"I've got to get this information to Connel right away!" said Strong. "Can I have this paper?"

"Yes. I made copies. I was just going to take one to the commander when I saw you."

"I'll try to locate Major Connel and you go on and tell the commander what you've found. And Joan—" Strong hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Put in a good word for the cadets, will you?" Strong pleaded. "Both Connel and Commander Walters are all set to blast them right out of the service."

"I'll do what I can—" Suddenly Dr. Dale stopped, her eyes widening with fright. She pointed down the walk behind Strong.

"Major," exclaimed Steve, "what—who—?"

"It's getting thicker by the hour, Steve!" said Connel in a low voice. "This is the first time in the history of the Academy that there has been what looks like"—he paused and turned to look at the draped body being carried past them—"an attempt at murder," he finished.

"Murder!" said Strong. "But—"

"Who is it?" demanded Joan.

"A little man who can tell us a great deal if and when he regains consciousness! Pat Troy!"

When Tom tried to stand up, he found that his feet were bound. Again he went through the slow, painful process of restoring circulation in his legs and feet, gritting his teeth against the needles of pain. Finally he felt strong enough to push his back against the wall and inch his way upright.

The noise around him continued. Again and again, he could hear the shattering explosions of the exhausts and the screaming whine of the jets. Looking around carefully for the first time, he saw that the van was empty except for a pile of heavy quilted rugs in one corner which he knew were used to protect and cushion cargo.

Hopping to the corner, he flopped down on the blankets and, one by one, he began dragging them out. There was nothing else in the van that would aid him in cutting the thick ropes around his wrists and he hoped to find something under the heap.

Suddenly he felt something hard and boxlike under the last blanket and he tore it off quickly.

He nearly screamed for joy when he recognized a heavy metal toolbox. Sitting on the floor of the van, he maneuvered the top open, then spun around and hopefully looked inside. There was nothing in the box but a dirty cloth, and Tom slumped back in bitter disappointment.

"The New Sahara," he thought, a vision of the desolate sun-baked wasteland of the Martian desert flashing through his mind.

He looked around again desperately. The only thing in the van that might cut through the rope was the edge of the toolbox. He inched his way back to the box and began rubbing the rope across the edge of the box, but it was too smooth.

Tom knew that he would have to roughen the edge of the box, so that it would cut the thick fibers of the rope, and in sudden inspiration, he inspected the floor of the van. The heavy-gauge metal was scarred and roughened from the many heavy loads dragged across it. He turned the box over, and with great difficulty, rubbed it back and forth across the floor. Every few minutes he tested the edge of the box with his finger. It was losing its slick surface, but there was a long way to go.

It got hotter inside the van and Tom's uniform was soaked with sweat. He found it difficult to breathe and the continuous roar of the jets tortured his ears.

He did not know how long he had worked, but eventually, he felt that the edge of the box was sufficiently rough to try to cut the ropes. He righted the box, placed the ropes on the edge again and, with a silent prayer, began scraping them across the metal.

Tom hastily untied his feet, and giving the toolbox an affectionate pat, rose to his feet to begin the next step in his plan to escape.

The young cadet examined the entire surface of the inside paneling of the van with his finger tips. He could find no opening other than the back door, which he knew was locked by an electronic beam. Without the proper light-key adjustment, the door could not be opened. And the vent high in the wall was much too small to help him.

He sat down, disheartened. He was still no better off than before. And there was no way of telling where he was, whether it was day or night, and how long he had been riding in the jet truck.

He rested on the floor of the van, the bumpy ride cushioned by the soft blankets, and tried to recall the events that had led him into this trap. He remembered the two men, Cag and Monty, and grimly vowed to repay them if he ever met them again.

He really began to hammer in earnest then. And each time the heavy box thudded on the grate, he thanked his lucky stars that he had lived near a garage when he was a boy back in New Chicago. Time and time again, he had slipped inside the huge vans after the produce had been taken out, to find a piece of fruit. He had gotten into the sealed vans, through the refrigerating compartment, a huge unit beneath the van and connected to the cab. Opening the outside hatch to the unit, he had squeezed inside and then unscrewed the grate from the bottom.

With a final hard smash, the grate gave way, clattering into the recesses of the refrigerating unit. Now Tom was grateful for the roar of the jets. It covered the sound of his escape.

Quickly reaching down into the unit, Tom began tearing the mechanism apart; ripping out coils of copper tubing and rubber connections. Disconnecting a pipe, he used it to pry apart the rest of the unit, and finally, after removing the broken parts, there was room enough for his body.

Moving back to the hatch, he eased himself through the opening. There was a ticklish moment when he had to let go of the side of the compartment and swing over on the step. He took a deep breath and lurched forward.

Behind him, the huge thick wheels spun over the road. A slip now would mean instant, crushing death. His fingers reached for and grasped the door handle. Seconds later, he stood balanced on the step, swaying in the wind.

He dared a glance into the window of the cab, wondering why he had not been noticed before. He saw Cag and Monty inside, Cag driving and Monty asleep. The driver was on the opposite side from Tom, and Monty was slumped against the door.

The door swung open and Monty fell out, hitting the pavement and rolling off into the sand to lie still. Tom paid no attention to him. With a mighty effort, he swung into the cab and confronted a startled, wild-eyed Cag.

"You!" cried Cag.

"Stop this crate, or so help me, I'll break your head!" Tom shouted, brandishing the short length of pipe.

In reply, Cag suddenly swerved the big truck to one side of the road, hoping to throw Tom out of the open door. Tom managed to grab hold just in time. He swung back into the cab and struck out with the pipe.

Cag ducked and swung the heavy truck to the opposite side of the road, trying to throw Tom off balance, but the cadet was not to be denied. He swung the heavy pipe again and again, landing hard, telling blows on the arms and shoulders of the burly truck driver. Finally a solid blow caught Cag on the side of the head and he slumped over unconscious. Tom leaned over him, grabbed the wheel, and maneuvered the big truck back onto a straightaway course. A minute later he brought the truck to a stop.

Tom jumped out and pulled Cag after him, taking a bottle of water from the small compartment behind the driver's seat. He splashed some on the man's face, and while Cag moaned and came to, Tom drank his fill. He hadn't realized that he was so thirsty.

Cag was silent. Tom stepped in and slapped the man across the face.

"Come on! Talk!" he snarled.

Dirty, his clothes ripped, his hands bloody, Cadet Tom Corbett did not look like the carefree young cadet that Cag had met a few hours ago. He was frightened and began to whine.

"Talk or I'll slap you silly!" Tom growled.

Cag saw the wild rage in Tom's eyes and began to stutter.

"The trucking outfit! Just find out who owns this trucking outfit and who would gain if the projectiles failed."

Tom was back in the cab in a flash. He started the mighty jets and began to engage the clutch.

Cag leaped up. "You can't leave me here in the desert! I'll die."

Tom looked at the man, threw out the rest of the food and water from the compartment, and gunned the huge truck down the highway.

Eight hours later Tom rolled into Marsport, stopping the big truck at the first Solar Guard substation he could find.

He raced inside without cutting the jets of the truck and reported to a sergeant seated behind the desk, reading.

"Stand where you are, Corbett!" said the sergeant, jumping up and leveling a paralo-ray gun at him. "You're under arrest!"

Tom stared, and then, spinning on his heels, dashed out of the station, the guard's ray blasts spitting at his heels. Jumping into the truck, he gunned the jets and roared off into the dark Martian night.

Astro started to speak to the blond-haired cadet, but Roger waved him off, listening for the signal. Suddenly he looked up at their own chronometer above the control board and took off the audiophones, smiling his satisfaction.

"Right on the split second, Astro," he said.

"O.K.," replied the big Venusian. "Then let's run that test and get it over with."

"Right," said Roger, turning back to the control panel. "Do you want to go outside this time?"

"I might as well," replied Astro. "Give me a change of scenery."

The big Venusian turned to a locker, pulled out a bulky space suit, and climbed into it quickly. Adjusting the space helmet, he nodded at Roger and stepped into the air-lock chamber, pulling the hatch closed behind him. While waiting for the oxygen in the small chamber to be pumped back into the ship and the pressure to be equalized with the vacuum of space outside, he checked his helmet intercom to insure a clear line of communication with Roger.

"I'm outside, Roger," he reported. "On my way down to the exhaust."

"Right," came Roger's voice over the intercom. "Let me know when you're ready."

Without replying, Astro made his way slowly and carefully down the length of the rocket scout toward the main drive rocket assembly. Stopping at the trailing edge of the hull, where it enclosed the four rockets, the big Venusian squatted on his heels, making certain the soles of his space boots stayed in contact with the metal of the hull. He peered over the edge and braced himself in a position where he could observe the individual rocket exhausts.

"O.K., Roger!" he called into his intercom. "Open up number one."

"Number one, aye," replied Roger. "And watch yourself, you big baboon. Don't burn your nose!"

"Go ahead, go ahead!" growled Astro in reply.

A long tongue of flame shot out of the exhaust of the number one tube and, after drawing back momentarily, Astro watched the tube keenly.

"That's how much you know, Astro," snorted Roger. "Dave Barret said they were using a new duralumin alloy in the tubes."

"What do you care? We're out in space, aren't we? Or would you rather be back on guard duty?"

"No, of course not," replied Astro. "But even space gets dull after a while with nothing to do. Barret sure gave us an old crate. Not even a long-range receiver aboard."

"What do you want to listen to?" snorted Roger. "Flight orders and all the rest of that rocket wash?"

"Be a relief to listen to somebody else beside you for a change," snapped Astro. "Anyhow, suppose something important happened. Suppose our orders were changed. How would we know about it?"

"What difference does it make?" replied Roger. "We've got our orders—straight from Barret. As long as we follow them, we won't get into trouble."

"For a change," murmured Astro.

"Now cut the griping and finish up out there!"

"O.K.," sighed Astro. "That's enough on number one. Give me number two."

The ship bucked slightly as one rocket tube was cut out and another flared at full power, but Astro clung to the hull tightly, continuing his observations. With troubled eyes he watched all four rocket tubes in operation, unable to understand the difference between these tubes and the standard makes. Finally he shrugged his shoulders, and rising to his feet, called Roger again.

"That's enough, pal," he said. "I'm coming in."

"O.K.," replied Roger from the control deck. "And don't fall all over your big feet."

"... Order you to cut all power and stand by for a boarding party, or I'll open fire immediately!"

With an exclamation of startled surprise, Astro rushed to the teleceiver screen and saw a man in the uniform of the Solar Guard, his face grim and purposeful. Just as Astro was about to speak, the officer spoke again.

"Did you hear me? This is Captain Newton aboard the cruiser Regulus! I order you to cut all power and stand by or I'll open fire! Acknowledge!"

"Roger," gasped Astro, "what's this all about?"

"I—I don't know," stammered the blond-haired cadet. He grabbed the teleceiver microphone and called into it rapidly.

"Rocket scout 4J9 to Regulus. This is Space Cadet Roger Manning. There must be some mistake, sir. Cadet Astro and I are out here on special assignment for the Space Projectile project."

"I know who you are!" shouted Newton. "If you don't stand by, I'll open fire! This is your last warning!"

Astro grabbed the mike from Roger's hand.

"All right!" he bellowed. "We don't know what it's all about, but for the love of Saturn's rings, don't start shooting."

"Aye, aye, sir," said Astro.

When the Solar Guard captain signed off and his image faded from the teleceiver screen, Astro and Roger numbly complied with Newton's abrupt orders, bringing the ship to a dead stop in space and opening the starboard air lock. Then the two cadets sat in the main deck of the small scout and waited, their faces showing their concern. Neither felt like talking. They were so confused that they didn't know what to say. Finally Roger got up and in a daze walked to the chart table to note the time of the tests in the log. Then he automatically logged the time of Newton's order.

Suddenly he threw the pencil down and turned to Astro.

"Blast it!" he shouted. "What's this all about?"

Astro merely grunted, shrugged his shoulders, and slumped further down in his chair. The big cadet was worried. Anything that threatened his career at the Space Academy made him literally tremble with fear. In his whole life there was never anything that he wanted more than to be an officer in the Solar Guard. And the only way that could be accomplished was by being a Space Cadet. Now he was under arrest. He didn't stop to reason why. All he knew was that it was a direct threat to his future as a power-deck officer in the Solar Guard.

Captain Newton was the first to step through the air-lock hatch and he was followed by six Space Marines, holding their ray guns leveled.

"I am Captain Newton of the Solar Guard, in command of the rocket cruiser Regulus," he announced. "I arrest you in the name of the Solar Alliance." The officer handed over the standard warrant that was used by the Solar Guard.

Roger read it slowly. It was a simple warrant for their arrest, on the grounds of desertion, taking a Solar Guard vessel without permission, and being absent without leave from Space Academy. Stunned, the cadet handed it to Astro who had been reading it over his shoulder, his face white with shock.

"And I warn you, Cadet Manning," continued Newton, "that anything you say from now on may be used against you."

"I understand, sir," said Roger, dazed.

"Then do I have your word," said Newton, "on your honor as Space Cadets, that you will not make any attempt to escape or in any way jeopardize my authority over you?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Roger.

"On my honor, sir," said Astro, gulping, "as a Space Cadet."

"All right," said Newton. "Then I'll let you take the scout back to the Academy yourselves. I'll escort you in the Regulus."

"You'd better be prepared for a rough time, boys," he said. "Major Connel is going to haul you in front of a court-martial as soon as you land."

"But what've we done?" Astro suddenly exploded.

"The charges are listed in the warrant, Cadet Astro!"

"But that's all wrong!" protested Astro. "We were ordered to—"

"Hold it, Astro," Roger interrupted. "Let's stop and figure this out first. We can tell our side at the court-martial!"

Captain Newton looked at the two boys piercingly for a second, then turned and entered the air lock, slamming the hatch closed behind him. Slowly and thoughtfully, Astro and Roger prepared to get their ship under way. They were still stunned by the sudden turn of events.

They had no idea what had happened. But they knew Dave Barret was at the heart of their troubles. They vowed silently that he wouldn't get away with it!

"... I have no idea what they were doing out in that rocket scout," he stated calmly. "I certainly didn't send them up on any such ridiculous tests. If you will examine the exhaust tubes of that ship, you'll see that they're made of standard materials used in all Solar Guard ships." He turned to the board, casually. "No, gentlemen," he continued, "I don't know what these boys are talking about. You can call Professor Hemmingwell in, if you like. I'm sure he'll vouch for what I've said."

As Barret stepped down from the stand, Astro lunged toward him, blind with anger and shouting his fury. It took six Space Marines to force him back to his chair. Roger merely sat, staring blankly into space, a wry smile curling his lips. He clearly saw the trap into which he and his unit mate had fallen, and there was no way out.

The board didn't deliberate very long after the last testimony was taken. When they returned to the chamber, the presiding officer addressed Roger and Astro directly, asking formally whether they had anything to say before sentence was passed. Roger stepped forward.

"Very well," nodded the major.

"Sir," began Roger, with a glance at Astro, "this is not a plea for mercy but understanding. We are, it is true, nothing but boys in training to become officers of the Solar Guard. One of the most important parts of our training is how to take orders without question. Now at this trial, we have been accused of three specific instances of misconduct. We can offer no other defense than what we have already claimed. Major Connel and Warrant Officer Rush have stated that we should have cleared Barret's orders with them first, since Barret is only a civilian and has no right to give us orders. That may very well be true. But I submit this for your consideration, gentlemen—" Roger paused and looked up and down the line of stony-faced officers. "What would have been your judgment," he resumed, "if Dave Barret had asked us to do these things and we had refused? Would you have been less hard on us? That's all, sir."

Roger stepped back abruptly and the officers stirred uncomfortably. They recognized the merit in Roger's statement, and had not the decision been made, there was more than one who might have reconsidered, remembering their own difficulties as Space Cadets. However, the presiding officer picked up a sheet of paper and addressed the boys coldly.

As she flounced off angrily the young cadet smiled. He knew his disguise must be good indeed to fool this young girl, who met hundreds of people at the spaceport every day and could easily recognize a person for what he truly was. Now his only hope was that the disguise would fool the squad of Marines at the gate.

After having abandoned the jet truck, Tom had moved through the glittering city of Marsport carefully, keeping to the dark alleys and shadows. Gradually he had worked his way back to the area around Sloppy Sam's where, for a few credits, he had been able to buy a merchant spaceman's clothes with no questions asked. He buried his cadet uniform in the loose ground near a construction project.

Then, staying in the area, he wandered in and out of the dingy bars and restaurants looking for the man he had seen at the spaceport, the driver of the truck that had crashed the fence.

"Here's your milk!" said the waitress, slopping it down on the counter before the cadet. "And your sandwich!"

Tom saw that the Space Marines were watching the passengers very closely
Note

Tom paid for the order and took his time about chewing the stale sandwich. He knew he had to get aboard the ship that was loading now, but the Space Marines were watching the passengers very closely. Suddenly Tom saw a spaceport attendant race up to the squad and hand a message to the sergeant in command of the squad. Leaving the counter, Tom walked quickly to a newsstand near the gate, where he could stand close to the Marines. The sergeant read the message quickly and turned to his squad. Tom strained his ears to listen.

"We have to move out of here or we'll never get out," he said. "There's a Martian sandstorm coming this way. It should hit in about fifteen minutes. This will be the last flight. Then nothing will get off the ground until it blows over. May last for days."

"But what about that cadet?" asked the man nearest to the sergeant. "What if he shows up?"

Tom turned his back to the troopers quickly and heard the Marine reply, "Naw."

"Then get your gear and pile on the truck outside," ordered the sergeant, "or we'll be living in this station for a couple of days."

The Marines quickly marched away from the gate, through the waiting room, and out the door.

Tom dug into his pocket for the ticket to Atom City and stepped quickly to the gate, presenting his ticket to the steward. "Spaceman Wilson!" Tom growled.

The steward checked his ticket casually and announced, "Seat fourteen, berth twelve!"

Tom walked through the gate, trying to look casual.

"Hey you!" There was a sudden cry of alarm behind Tom and for a moment he was tempted to run. But he turned slowly and looked back. The man at the newsstand was shouting at him.

"Ya tryin' to steal my paper?" he yelled.

Tom looked down and saw that he was still holding the paper he had picked up to hide his face from the Marines. He smiled, reached into his pocket for a coin, and flipped it back to the man.

"Sorry," he called and walked on.

Safely inside the ship, Tom sank into his assigned seat, buckled his acceleration belt, and listened to the voice of the skipper counting off the seconds until blast off.

"Five, four, three, two, one, zero!"

There was very little acceleration shock, since this was a vessel designed for the comfort of the passengers. In fact, Tom found it difficult to determine just exactly when it left the ground. The force of the drive pushed him deep in his seat, to be sure, but it was a gradual pressure and not at all like the sudden violent jerk that came when he gunned the Polaris.

He smiled. There was considerably less power in this ship than in the Polaris!

The thought of the giant rocket cruiser made him think about Roger and Astro. He wondered what they were doing and if they had stayed out of trouble.

During the trip back to Atom City, Tom kept to himself, avoiding the other passengers on the ship as much as possible, taking his meals in his berth. The cadet had a lot of thinking to do. Though temporarily safe, he knew he couldn't dodge the Solar Guard forever. He kept track of his pursuit by stereo newscasts which the ship picked up from both Mars and Earth, and he was pleased to learn that the Marines and Solar Guardsmen were still searching for him in Marsport.

There was one bit of information that was general news to the others on the ship, but of particular interest to Tom. He had sat up in his berth and listened.

Tom switched off his set and settled back in his bunk. He saw through the denial by Commander Walters. There was no need to upset the public and, more important, let the saboteur know how successful he had been.

Though Tom knew who was responsible, this knowledge did not mean much while he was still a fugitive. He would have to have proof. He would have to have more than just his word and accusation to make his charges stick. But how to get it?

"Attention," boomed the voice of the captain over the ship's loud-speaker. "Fasten your deceleration belts, please! We land at Atom City in thirty minutes. Fasten your deceleration belts, please!"

Certain he wouldn't be seen by the passengers and crew strapped in for the landing, Tom slipped out of his berth and down the companionway to the luggage compartment. Safely inside, he examined the contents of several expensive-looking bags, opening them by springing the locks with his knife. Finally he found a set of civilian clothes that would fit him. Leaving a hundred credits in the suitcase, more than the clothes were worth, he returned to his berth where he quickly washed, shaved, and dressed in the stolen clothes, steadying himself against the lurching of the ship as it made its landing approach.

Safe for the time being, at least until the Solar Guard traced him to Earth, Tom moved openly through the streets of Atom City and went directly to the monorail station where he purchased a ticket for Space Academy. He boarded a local train instead of the express and rode the jet-propelled train in the comfort of the dining car where he had a huge meal.

The stop before the Academy was a small village that catered to the wants of the hundreds of civilian workers at the Academy spaceport. Tom had been there many times with Astro and Roger, and knew of a small hotel where he could hide out until he could contact his unit mates.

It was early evening when Tom registered at the hotel under the name of Joseph Cazippi, an engineer from Titan Colony. Safely in his room, Tom turned to the window and stared longingly at the Tower of Galileo in the distance, as it caught the last of the sun's rays and gleamed proudly against the gathering night sky.

He whirled away from the window and froze as someone knocked on the door and a young voice called:

"Lemme in, Tom!"

The young cadet gulped in fear. Someone had recognized him! He wondered if he should open the door or slip out of the window and leave.

"Tiny!" shouted Tom in swift relief. He opened the door and a small boy of about twelve stepped inside.

"Hiya, Tom," greeted the boy enthusiastically.

Tom grinned his welcome. He and Roger and Astro had met the youngster on several of their trips to the village and had become great friends. They always had to tell him stories about the Cadet Corps.

"How did you know I was here, Tiny?" asked Tom.

"I followed you from the monorail station," replied the boy. "You couldn't fool me in those civvies. Where's your uniform?"

"Never mind that now," said Tom, kneeling before him. "Look, Tiny, can you keep a secret?"

"Sure!" said the boy gleefully. "Sure I can, Tom."

"Well, I'm on a secret assignment, see?" whispered the cadet with a conspiratorial air. "And I need someone like you to help me. But you can't tell anyone I'm here!"

"Sure, I understand, Tom. Whatcha want me to do?"

"Go to the Academy and find Astro and Roger. Tell them to come here at nine o'clock tonight. But remember, don't talk to anyone else!"

"O.K.!" replied the youngster. "I getcha! You going to catch spies, Tom?"

"I don't know yet, Tiny. But you do what I told you and then hurry right back to me and tell me what they said!"

The boy nodded and hurried off. From the window, Tom watched him climb on his jet bike and roar off into the gathering darkness toward the Academy.

"Tom!" gasped Tiny, his eyes wide with shock. "You know what happened?"

"What?"

"Roger and Astro—" the boy stopped, seemingly unable to go on.

"Didn't you see them?" demanded Tom.

"Naw, I couldn't. They wouldn't let me."

"Who wouldn't let you?"

"The guards."

"What guards? What are you talking about, Tiny?"

"The guards at the jail! Roger and Astro are on the enlisted man's work gang for six months!" said Tiny.

Hiding his shocked surprise, Tom hurriedly gave the boy a ten-credit note and swore him to silence.

"Now you hurry home, Tiny, and don't tell anyone you've seen me!" he said.

"O.K., Tom," replied the boy. "But what does it all mean?"

"I wish I knew," said Tom grimly. "And when I find out, Tiny, I promise you I'll let you know."

When Tom was finally alone, he stood at the window, staring at the gleaming tower, now lighted and shining brilliantly in the darkness. He suddenly felt that he would never see the tower again.

"Good work, Steve," Connel chimed in.

Strong merely nodded his thanks. He was tired. More tired than he had ever been in his life. Not only had he supervised the construction of the new control panel, but he had been working on a special report to present to the Solar Guard Review Board requesting another trial for Astro and Roger. And he had spent every spare minute haunting the MP headquarters of the Solar Guard for word of Tom. So, he accepted the compliments of Connel and Professor Hemmingwell with little enthusiasm.

"You better get some rest, Steve," said Connel, aware of Strong's attitude. "I know how hard you've been working these past few days. So knock off and I want your word that you will go back to your quarters and get some sleep!"

"Sorry, Major," replied Strong, "I can't give you my word about that."

Connel's face darkened with anger. "All right! Then do what you want. Get out!" he shouted.

Strong merely nodded and left the ship.

"Good morning, Strong," said Barret, as though surprised. "Well, how's the genius? Get the control panel in this morning?"

Barret was annoyed that Strong's plan to replace the control panel had been accepted over his own. The captain returned his cold stare and nodded.

"It's in," he said, and then added, "I would like to ask you a few questions, Barret."

"Sorry, haven't got time!" replied Barret curtly as he tried to brush past Strong. But the young captain grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

Barret glared at Strong. "I suggest that you let go of my arm, Captain," he threatened, "or I will be forced to bring charges of assault against you!"

Realizing an open fight would be useless, Strong released his grip on the man's arm and turned away quickly. Barret's mocking laugh echoed in his ears as he stepped on the slidewalk and glided away toward the Academy. Behind him, the big hangar buzzed with the sound of men working in high gear again. The mighty ship and its specially designed equipment seemed at last to be ready for testing. But Strong felt none of the excitement. It mattered little to the Solar Guard captain whether the project was a success or failure. His thoughts were of the three cadets in his unit, who were, first and foremost, his responsibility.

With double guards around the hangar area and even tighter security restrictions than before, the unknown saboteur was unable to attack the precious ship again. But he struck elsewhere. The single track monorail that Barret had run into the area was blocked by an explosion in the mouth of the tunnel. Nearly a thousand tons of rock and earth had fallen on the hangar side, blocking delivery of vital equipment.

With powerful earth-moving machinery, the tunnel was cleared of the heavy rocks and dirt, and all that remained was a general cleaning up, and the enlisted man's work gangs had been assigned to that job.

When Captain Strong arrived to speak to Roger and Astro, he found them in the tunnel, working as a team of a shoveler and a sweeper. Roger would sweep up a little pile of dirt and Astro would shovel it into a handcart nearby.

"All right, you Venusian pug!" bawled Roger. "Police the joint!"

Astro scooped up the little pile of dirt neatly and deposited it in the truck.

"Manning, what made the spaceship cross to Pluto?" he asked.

"To get to the other side of the universe," said Roger.

"Captain Strong!" yelled Roger. "Hey, fellas! Look!" He turned to the other men on the work gang. "We're special characters! See? We have visitors during working hours!"

Strong laughed with the others, and then motioning for Roger and Astro to follow him, walked to an isolated corner of the tunnel.

"How is it going?" he asked.

"Fine, sir," said Roger. "We have no complaints."

"Yeah," chimed in Astro with a grin. "The food is better here than at the Academy!"

"Give this Venusian bum a good kitchen and he'd go to the Rock!" Roger laughed.

Strong noted their lean, brown bodies and decided that a little work in the sun with a pick and shovel had done them good. But six months of it would interfere with their work at the Academy and could hold them back.

He told them of the work he had been doing to have their case renewed by the Solar Guard Review Board and asked them for any special details in their relationship with Barret that might lend weight to his plea for outright pardon, rather than just a commutation of sentence. He wanted it clear on their records that they had been accused unjustly, and that, therefore, their sentence was an error.

But neither Astro nor Roger could add anything to what the young captain already knew. He finally turned to leave, cautioning them both to stay out of trouble, especially Roger.

"You see?" gloated Astro. "You see who the captain trusts!"

"Listen, you big bum!" began Roger angrily, then stopped and grinned. "O.K., Captain Strong, I'll keep on the ball."

"You'd better," Astro interrupted, "or I'll stand you on your head!"

With a pat on the back, Strong left them. Just as he was about to leave the tunnel, Roger called after him:

"Have you heard anything about Tom, sir?"

"Not a word," replied Strong grimly. "So far as I know, he's still on Mars."

"A—a fugitive?" asked Astro.

"Yes, Astro. The Solar Guard is still looking for him."

Strong watched the two cadets turn back to their work dejectedly, and then, sighing with weariness, he headed back to the slidewalk. In the morning he would check the reports of the Security Section for word of Tom. Then he squared his shoulders determinedly. He would check them now!

He could not go to bed yet. Not while Tom was still missing and while Astro and Roger were on the work gang. He would not sleep until they were free and the Polaris unit was together again out in space!

Tom Corbett was also unable to sleep. He had spent the night in the village hotel tossing and turning, his mind seething with plans to aid Roger and Astro.

After getting close enough to the Academy to use the slidewalk system crisscrossing the huge area, he loitered on the crowded platforms which connected the hangar, the Academy, and the spaceport. He kept his coat collar high and his civilian hat pulled low over his eyes.

He was on the main slidewalk, moving toward the Tower building, when his eyes picked out the familiar close-cropped blond hair of Roger and the unmistakable bulk of Astro on the walk leading to the hangar. Changing at the slidewalk intersection, he took off after them, hoping he would not be noticed in the crowd of civilian workers. Roger and Astro were carrying tools over their shoulders and were lagging behind the main body of workers moving toward a huge tunnel opening. Tom saw his chance and moved up quickly beside them.

"Keep walking and don't show surprise!" he whispered sharply.

"Tom!" exclaimed Roger. "What the devil are you—?"

"Sh!" hissed Tom. "We haven't got much time." He saw one of the guards turn and stare at him. "Listen to me," he continued quickly. "I've got important dope about the saboteur!"

"How?" gasped Astro.

"Never mind," replied Tom. "Now, to nail him, I've got to get him into the act! I need proof!"

"But who is it?" asked Roger.

"I can't tell you now. Here comes the guard. Are you going to be working around here long?"

"At least another three days," said Roger. "But who—?"

Roger noticed the guard move up to them and he suddenly straightened up and snorted derisively, "Yeah. But why a guy should want to join the Solar Guard is more than I can see. You must be wacky, mister!"

He and Astro walked away, and after a hesitant look at Tom, the guard followed the two cadets. Tom boarded the slidewalk heading back toward the Academy. So far, so good. He knew where his unit mates were, but up ahead, in the gleaming Tower of Galileo, was his second target, Captain Strong. His skipper had to listen to him, had to be sympathetic and help him catch the saboteur. It was the only way Tom could clear his own name and free Roger and Astro.

"What stuff?" asked Connel.

"Portable heaters for the crew's space suits, just in case—" Barret paused meaningfully.

"In case of what?" growled Connel.

"Why, ask them!" replied Barret, gesturing toward the group of civilian crewmen who had been selected for the test flight of the spaceship.

Connel turned to look at them, then back at Barret. "Ask them what?" he barked.

"How they feel about making this flight," said Barret.

Connel scowled and turned to the men. "Is there anything to what he says?" he demanded.

The men shuffled their feet nervously but did not reply.

"Well?" exploded Connel.

"See, they're afraid of you, Connel," said Barret, deliberately omitting the courtesy of using the major's title.

Ignoring Barret's thrust, Connel continued to face the men. "Is that right, men?" he shouted. "Are you afraid of me?"

There was a mumble from the group and then the man named Scott, a thick-set individual with black flashing eyes, stepped forward.

"Speaking for myself," he said, looking straight at the major, "I'm not afraid of anything that walks. And that includes you, Major Connel. No offense meant, it's just a statement of fact." He paused and drew a deep breath. Then he added, "But I am afraid of this ship."

"She's junk-jinxed," said the man, using the expression of spacemen who believed a ship with a suspicious accident record should be junked because it was jinxed.

"Junk-jinxed!" cried Connel, amazed.

"Preposterous," snorted Professor Hemmingwell. "Why, you helped build this ship, Scotty! Do you doubt the work you've put into her? Or the work of your friends?"

"That has nothing to do with it," replied Scott stubbornly. "The others feel the same way I do."

Barret stepped forward. Arrogantly and before Connel could stop him, he began addressing the men. "Listen, you men!" he shouted. "You're being childish! Why, you built this ship! How can you possibly allow yourselves to be so stupid as to believe in an idiotic thing like a jinx. Now, why don't you just get aboard and stop being so ridiculously superstitious!"

Connel could have reached out with one of his big hands and squeezed Barret's neck to shut him up. Instead of allaying their fears, which even he would admit were real enough, the man was creating further resentment with his attack on their pride as thinking, reasoning men.

"All right, all right!" he bellowed. "That's enough for now, Mister Barret!" He turned to the men and he could tell by the expressions on their faces that he had lost them. They would not take the ship aloft. But he had to try.

He was met with the stony faces of men who were afraid. Nothing he could say or offer them would get them to take the ship off the ground. He tried a new tack. "I'm offering you double wages!" he roared.

The men were silent.

"Double wages and a bonus!"

Silence.

"All right! Beat it!" he growled. "Don't ever show your faces around here again!"

Connel turned to Professor Hemmingwell. "I'll see if I can't muster a crew from the ranks of the Solar Guard," he said.

"Major," said the professor, his face worn and haggard from the long ordeal of completing the project, "I wouldn't want men ordered to man this vessel."

"They're in the Solar Guard and they take orders," said Connel.

"No," persisted Hemmingwell. "I will not let a man on that ship that does not want to go. Remember, Major, it is still my personal property."

"All right," said Connel grimly. "I'll see if I can recruit a crew from the civilian workers around the Academy."

Connel fumed and ranted, threatened and cajoled, begged and pleaded, but it was no use. There was not a man in the Academy who would set foot inside the "jinxed" ship. Finally, in a last desperate attempt, he ignored Hemmingwell's order and appealed to Commander Walters.

"No, Lou. I cannot order men to take that ship up," Commander Walters replied, "and you know it!"

"Why not?" argued Connel. "You're the commander, aren't you?"

"I most certainly am," asserted Walters, "and if I want to get other things done in the Solar Guard, I can't order men to take a jinxed ship off the ground." He looked at Connel narrowly. "Do you remember the old freighter, the Spaceglow?" he asked.

Connel frowned but didn't reply.

"You were mate on that ship before you enlisted in the Solar Guard," persisted Walters. "And I read the log of your first trip when you wrote, and I quote, 'There seems to be some mysterious and unanswerable condition aboard this vessel that makes her behave as if she had human intelligence....'"

"That has nothing to do with this situation!" roared Connel.

"But we found out what was wrong with her eventually!"

"Yes, but the legend still exists that the Spaceglow had intelligence of its own!" asserted Walters.

"All right," snorted Connel. "So we have to fight superstition! But, blast it, Commander, we're faced with a saboteur. There's nothing supernatural or mysterious about a man with a bomb!"

Connel turned abruptly and walked out of the commander's office, more furious than Walters had ever seen him.

Back at the hangar, Connel faced the professor. It was a tough thing to tell the elderly man, and Connel, for all his hard exterior, could easily appreciate the professor's feelings. After many years of struggle to convince die-hard bankers of the soundness of his Space Projectile plan, followed by sabotage and costly work stoppages, it was heart-rending to have a "jinx" finally stop him.

"I'm sorry," said Connel, "but that's the way things are, Professor."

"I understand, Major," replied Hemmingwell wearily. He turned away, shoulders slumping, and walked back to his tiny office in the shadow of the mighty ship that was anchored on the ground.

"May I speak to you a moment, Major?" a voice broke the silence in the hangar.

Connel turned around slowly. "You!" he exclaimed. "If it hadn't been for you and your big mouth, this ship might be in space right now!"

Connel looked at the young man, immediately recognizing the value of his suggestion. He nodded his head curtly. "All right," he said. "I'll take you up on that."

Barret grinned, stuck out his hand, and after a friendly shake turned and ran to the professor's office. Connel walked back to the outside of the hangar and began bellowing orders for the giant ship to be brought out to the blast ramp and prepared for the blast-off.

But Dave Barret did not go directly to Professor Hemmingwell's office. He made one stop. Looking around quickly to make sure that he was not observed, he slipped into the teleceiver booth and made a hurried call to an Atom City number. When a gruff voice answered, he merely said three words:

"It's all set!"

Roger and Astro were some distance away from the main gang, working at the tunnel mouth overlooking the hangar area.

"Look, Astro," said Roger. "They're bringing out the ship. They must be ready to blast off!"

"I'd sure like to be bucking the power deck on that baby," sighed Astro.

"Yeah, and I'd give my eyeteeth to see that radar deck," said Roger. "It must be really something with all the gear to control those projectiles when they're released."

"Do you believe any of that talk about her being jinxed?" asked Astro.

"Stop being a Venusian lunkhead!" snorted Roger. "The only thing wrong with that ship is a rocket-blasting clever saboteur."

"You know," said Astro, "I've been thinking."

"Don't strain yourself," snorted Roger. But when Astro failed to reply in kind, the blond-haired cadet realized he was serious. "What is it?" he asked.

"Why, in the name of the moons of Mars, would Barret want to do the things he did to us?"

"Simple," said Roger, beginning to sweep industriously as he saw the guard walking toward them. "He didn't like the way we manhandled him."

"You think he was just getting even with us?" asked Astro, also resuming work.

"What else?" asked Roger. "We made him look pretty silly. And that was no love tap I gave him that night we caught him in the hangar."

"You'll get it in the neck if you don't watch out," said Roger. "Here comes Spike and he doesn't like to see us loafing!"

The two cadets worked steadily for ten minutes, and when the guard finally walked away, they paused to watch the big ship again.

"I wonder what Tom is up to?" said Roger thoughtfully. "He said he knew who the saboteur was, but he needed help to prove it."

"I'd give a full year's leave just to get my hands on that guy for ten minutes," said Astro.

"Yeah," grunted Roger. "Well, come on, hot-shot, we still got a lot of cleaning to do."

They returned to their work, but even then, as they watched the preparations for the take-off of the big ship, they both thought about Tom. They knew his problems were as difficult as their own, and with much more at stake. If Tom failed in his efforts to catch the saboteur, it could very well mean the end of the Polaris unit.

The Tower building had been quiet for over an hour. Tom had not heard any voices or movement other than the evenly paced steps of the guards patrolling their lonely beats outside.

Tom was in great danger of discovery. No civilian was allowed on Academy grounds after taps. And he was still wearing the civilian clothes he had taken from the suitcase on the passenger ship from Mars. Silently but swiftly, he made his way from level to level toward the seventy-fifth floor.

He knew that there would be a guard stationed in the halls outside the officers' apartments and it would be impossible to elude him. He would simply have to brazen it out.

At the seventy-fifth floor the young cadet stepped off the slidestairs noisily, his heels clicking on the dark crystal floor, and strode down the hall. He was immediately seen by the guard who advanced to meet him, his ray gun at the ready. Tom was prepared.

"Guard!" he yelled.

The guard stopped in front of him, a puzzled look on his face. "Yes?" he replied.

"Sir!" snapped Tom. "Show me where Captain Strong's quarters are and be quick about it!"

"But who are—?" The guard started to protest, but Tom did not give him the chance to finish.

"Don't stand there like an idiot, man! Move!"

"Uhh—yes, sir," stammered the guard, obviously taken aback.

"Lead the way," continued Tom loudly. "I haven't much time."

"Yes, sir, but would you mind lowering your voice, sir? Some of the officers are asleep, sir."

"Well, get on then and stop jabbering!"

They stopped at the door to Captain Strong's quarters and the guard rapped softly.

"Yes?" came a muffled voice from inside.

"Someone to see you, sir," called the guard.

"Just a moment."

The guard stepped to one side and stood at rigid attention. When the door opened and Captain Strong was revealed, Tom brushed past the guard and stepped into the room, talking quickly.

"My name is Hinkleworth, Captain," he announced. "I am here at the request of Commissioner Jessup to discuss the installation of new radar equipment on all Solar Guard rocket cruisers!"

Tom slammed the door closed behind him and turned to face the astonished Solar Guard officer.

"What in the star-blazing—?" Strong began angrily.

"It's me, Captain Strong!" Tom said quickly, pulling his hat off and lowering his collar.

"Corbett!" gasped Strong, taking an involuntary step back, his face mirroring his disbelief.

"Sh!" whispered the boy, motioning to the door. Recovering his composure, Strong swept past him, opened the door, and found the guard still standing there at attention.

"All right, Corporal," said Strong. "Resume your station."

"All right, spaceboy," said Strong, flopping in the nearest chair. "Start at the beginning and give it to me. All of it!"

Tom began his story with the incident of the runaway truck at Marsport, told of his abduction and escape from the two truckers, Cag and Monty, his efforts to reach Space Academy, and finally revealed the identity of the man he thought was responsible for the whole effort to stop the projectile operation.

At this, Strong jumped to his feet. "That's the most fantastic thing I've ever heard, Corbett!" he snapped. "What kind of proof do you have?"

"None, sir," replied Tom. "The only reason I came here tonight is to ask you to help me get that proof."

When Strong was silent, shaking his head, Tom tried again.

"Sir, you do believe me, don't you?" asked the boy with a sinking feeling in his heart. "What about all the things that have happened to me and to Roger and Astro?"

"I can explain them away just as easily as you can explain your theory," replied Strong. He walked over and patted the cadet on the shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Tom," he said gently. "Your story is just too fantastic and you haven't even the slightest shred of evidence. Just a few words an unreliable witness said under duress."

Strong turned to the window, looked out thoughtfully for a moment, and then turned back to the boy. "How do you think I can help you?" he said, a more sympathetic note in his voice.

His eyes bright with hope again, Tom spoke quickly and eagerly. The Solar Guard captain calmly packed his pipe and lighted it, stopping the boy now and then to ask a question. Finally, when Tom was finished, Strong nodded and silently puffed at his pipe.

"Well, sir?" asked Tom eagerly.

"I don't know, Tom," replied Strong. "It's a pretty wild idea. And it leaves me way out on a limb."

"Only if we fail, sir," said Tom.

"Which is more than likely," Strong commented dryly.

"Captain Strong," said Tom, "if you really don't think it can work, then I suggest that you call the guard and turn me in. I've put you in enough trouble already." Tom moved to the door.

"Stop playing the hero, Corbett," said Strong. "I didn't say I wouldn't help you. But we have to think this thing out."

Tom sat down, eying Strong hopefully.

"Now, let me get this straight," said Strong. "First you want me to help Astro and Roger escape from the work gang. All right, that may work easily enough. But why?"

"So we can get aboard the projectile ship and go through her tests with her."

"Yes, sir," Tom replied, grinning. "That's why I want to go along. To make sure no more accidents happen."

"I could send a squad of Space Marines for that kind of job," mused Strong.

"But that would alert Barret," protested Tom. "He might not try anything. If he doesn't suspect he's being watched, we may be able to catch him in the act. And he certainly wouldn't think the three of us are aboard."

"Hum. Maybe you're right," nodded Strong. "Then after I get you three on the ship, I'm supposed to spend my time trailing your prize suspect, right?"

"Yes, sir," nodded the young cadet.

"I'll have to give it consideration, Tom," said Strong after a momentary pause. "As much as I admire your plan and as much as I want to help you, this places me in a highly untenable position. Have you stopped to think what would happen to me if it were ever known that I had sheltered you here in my quarters and aided in the escape of two convicted cadets from the work gang?"

"Yes, sir," replied Tom soberly. "And—all I can say is I'll do whatever you think is best."

"Well, get some sleep now," sighed Strong. "I've got to make a tour of the guard."

Without another word, Tom went into Captain Strong's bedroom and fell asleep thirty seconds after his head hit the pillow. His last waking thought was that if his plan had any merit Captain Strong would help him.

Strong glanced up at the sky. He counted the stars he could see and he remembered that as a boy of eight he knew the names and positions of every one. He recalled his entrance to the Academy as a cadet and how his unit instructor had guided him and taught him the many things a spaceman must know. He thought of his long tour as a line officer in the Solar Guard fleet under Commander Walters, then a major, and he remembered his brother officers, many of whom were now dead. There was one thing they all had in common, one thing that overshadowed all personal differences. One thing that was almost like a religion. Comradeship. A feeling of belonging, a knowledge that there was always someone who would believe in you and your ideas.

One thing. Friendship.

Captain Strong spun on his heel, walked back into the Tower, and rode the slidestairs back to his quarters. He had made up his mind.

"Power deck," Connel called into the intercom, "check in!"

"Power deck, aye!" reported Barret.

"Radar deck, check in!"

"Radar deck, aye!" Professor Hemmingwell acknowledged in a thin voice.

"Feed reactant!" Connel ordered.

"Reactant feeding at D-9 rate," said Barret after a split-second pause.

"Energize cooling pumps!"

"Cooling pumps, aye!"

"Cut in take-off gyros!"

"Gyros on," repeated Barret.

"All clear forward and up!" replied the elderly man.

"Right!" bawled Major Connel. "Stand by!"

Tensely he watched the red hand crawl up the face of the chronometer and he gripped the intercom microphone tightly. "Blast off," he began, "minus five, four, three, two, one, zero!"

A moment later, on the control deck of the ship, Major Connel swung forward in his chair, shook off the effects of the tremendous acceleration, and called into the intercom, "Switch on the gravity generators!"

As soon as the artificial gravity was in effect, the officer put the ship on standard cruising speed, changed course slightly to put them on a direct heading to Mars, and then ordered Barret and Hemmingwell to the control deck.

"Well, Professor," he said as he gave the old man a hearty handshake, "so far so good. She handles like a baby carriage. If the projectiles work half as well, you'll really have yourself something!"

Professor Hemmingwell smiled appreciatively and turned to Barret, who was just climbing through the hatch from the power deck. "You've done as much as anyone to help this ship get into space, Dave," he said. "Thank you!"

"Think nothing of it, Professor," replied Barret airily.

"Well, shall we begin the first series of tests?" asked Connel.

"By all means!" said the professor enthusiastically. "If you and Dave will check the firing stations, I'll take care of the paper work!"

"Right," replied Connel. "Let's go, Barret!"

"I'll work outside, Major," said Barret, turning toward the air lock. "You see that all the firing chambers are properly loaded."

"Anything you say, Barret."

In two minutes the young scientist was out on the odd-looking blisters that marked the exterior of the firing chambers ringing the hull.

At each blister Barret examined the hollow firing tube carefully. In several he made delicate adjustments to a small metallic ring extending from the opening of the tube. The ring was one of the most important parts of the firing unit, emitting the long-range electronic beam controlling the flight of the projectile.

Meanwhile, inside the ship, Connel checked the loading of each of the chambers, making certain that each of the ten-foot-long torpedolike projectiles was properly secured in its blasting cradle. After fifteen minutes and a complete trip around the ship, the major was satisfied that all was in readiness. He returned to the control deck, meeting Barret on the way, and they found Professor Hemmingwell just completing his calculations for the initial test. He turned to them, waving a paper in front of their eyes.

"Gentlemen," he said proudly, "we are almost ready. If you will adjust course fifteen degrees to port, we'll be in proper position for the test!"

"Right," nodded Connel. "Stand by below, Barret."

"On my way," replied Barret, disappearing through the hatch.

"Well, Professor," said Connel, walking to the controls, "this is the big moment!"

"Power deck to control deck, check in!" Barret's voice suddenly crackled over the intercom.

"Control deck, aye," replied Connel. "Ready to blast?"

"All set!"

"Give me a ten-second burst on the starboard steering rockets," ordered Connel, gripping the steering vane control tightly.

"Coming up!"

There was a sudden, jolting blast from the stern and Connel and Hemmingwell hung on grimly as the mighty ship turned in space. Watching the control panel instruments carefully, Connel slammed home the switch that opened the powerful nose braking rockets and brought the ship to a dead stop in space.

"On course, Professor, ready to fire!" Connel announced triumphantly, and Hemmingwell took his station before the giant projectile control board.

"Stand by to fire one!" said the professor, making a minute adjustment on the panel. Behind him, Connel unconsciously crossed his fingers.

"Fire one!" shouted Hemmingwell.

Connel pressed a red button on the panel and waited, holding his breath. There was a distinct hissing and then the great ship lurched slightly. On the teleceiver overhead a white flash appeared, streaked across the screen, and then disappeared in the darkness of space.

Again there was a hissing sound and another white burst of light faded into the millions of other pinpoints of lights in the black void.

Over and over again, at one-minute intervals, the projectiles were fired, until all twelve of the firing chambers had discharged their fire-tailed missiles.

The professor sat back and smiled weakly at Connel. The gruff major winked encouragingly and they both turned to watch the teleceiver screen anxiously. The gyros on each projectile had been preset for a circular flight of fifteen minutes' duration. Soon they would be returning and the delicate job of bringing them safely aboard would begin.

"Here comes number one," shouted Connel, as a small pinpoint of light appeared on the screen.

"I'm ready!" said the professor. He watched the teleceiver screen carefully, made a minute adjustment of the dial controlling the directional beam emitted by the ring in the number-one firing chamber, and at the last possible moment, snapped the remote-control switch that cut the power in the approaching test projectile. It hung dead in space, immediately over the chamber. Gently the professor increased the power of the electro-magnetic ring and pulled the projectile back into the chamber as easily as slipping a hand in a glove.

"Success!" Connel shouted. "Professor, you've done it!"

"Congratulations, sir," Dave Barret called over the intercom from the power deck.

One after another, five projectiles were taken aboard successfully. Then, as he worked on the sixth, the professor began to frown. He rechecked his instruments and then shook his head, obviously disturbed.

"What's the trouble?" growled Connel, noticing Hemmingwell's growing nervousness.

"The homing ring on number six tube isn't working properly," replied Hemmingwell. "I can't control the projectile."

"Any idea what's wrong?" the Solar Guard officer asked.

"The settings on the ring must be wrong." The professor picked up the intercom mike. "Dave," he called, "check in!"

"Yes, sir?" replied Barret immediately.

"Did you check the settings on all the rings in the firing chambers?"

"Yes, sir," reported Barret. "They looked O.K. to me. Why don't you check with Connel? He supervised their installation."

"That's true," said the major. "I'll go outside and look them over."

"Professor," he called into his helmet microphone, "check in."