Stand by for Mars! - Carey Rockwell (english books to improve english txt) 📗

this hatch another try. I think it gave a little on that last push."

"Never-say-die Corbett!" snarled Roger. "Let's give it the old try for dear old Space Academy!"

Tom whirled around and stood face to face with Manning.

"I think maybe Astro's right, Roger," he said coldly. "I think you're a foul ball, a space-gassing hot-shot that can't take it when the chips are down!"

"That's right," said Roger coldly. "I'm just what you say! Go ahead, push against that hatch until your insides drop out and see if you can open it!" He paused and looked directly at Tom. "If that sand has penetrated inside the ship far enough and heavily enough to jam that hatch, you can imagine what is on top, outside! A mountain of sand! And we're buried under it with about eight hours of oxygen left!"

Tom and Astro were silent, thinking about the truth in Roger's words. Roger walked slowly across the deck and stood in front of them defiantly.

"You were counting on the ship being spotted by Captain Strong or part of a supposed searching party! Ha! What makes you think three cadets are so important that the Solar Guard will take time out to look for us? And if they do come looking for us, the only thing left up there now"—he pointed his finger over his head—"is a pile of sand like any other sand dune on this crummy planet. We're stuck, Corbett, so lay off that last chance, do-or-die routine. I've been eating glory all my life. If I do have to splash in now, I want it to be on my own terms. And that's to just sit here and wait for it to come. And if they pin the Medal—the Solar Medal—on me, I'm going to be up there where all good spacemen go, having the last laugh, when they put my name alongside my father's!"

"Your father's?" asked Tom bewilderedly.

"Yeah, my father. Kenneth Rogers Manning, Captain in the Solar Guard. Graduate of Space Academy, class of 2329, killed while on duty in space, June 2335. Awarded the Solar Medal posthumously. Leaving a widow and one son, me!"

Astro and Tom looked at each other dumfounded.

"Surprised, huh?" Roger's voice grew bitter. "Maybe that clears up a few things for you. Like why I never missed on an exam. I never missed because I've lived with Academy textbooks since I was old enough to read. Or why I wanted the radar deck instead of the control deck. I didn't want to have to make a decision! My father had to make a decision once. As skipper and pilot of the ship he decided to save a crewman's life. He died saving a bum, a no good space-crawling rat!"

Tom and Astro sat stupefied at Roger's bitter tirade. He turned away from them and gave a short laugh.

"I've lived with only one idea in my head since I was big enough to know why other kids had fathers to play ball with them and I didn't. To get into the Academy, get the training and then get out and cash in! Other kids had fathers. All I had was a lousy hunk of gold, worth exactly five hundred credits! A Solar Medal. And my mother! Trying to scrape by on a lousy pension that was only enough to keep us going, but not enough to get me the extra things other kids had. It couldn't bring back my father!"

"That night—in Galaxy Hall, when you were crying—?" asked Tom.

"So eavesdropping is one of your talents too, eh, Corbett?" asked Roger sarcastically.

"Now, wait a minute, Roger," said Astro, getting up.

"Stay out of this, Astro!" snapped Roger. He paused and looked back at Tom. "Remember that night on the monorail going into Atom City? That man Bernard who bought dinner for us? He was a boyhood friend of my father's. He didn't recognize me, and I didn't tell him who I was because I didn't want you space creeps to know that much about me. And remember, when I gave Al James the brush in that restaurant in Atom City? He was talking about the old days, and he might have spilled the beans too. It all adds up, doesn't it? I had a reason I told you and it's just this! To make Space Academy pay me back! To train me to be one of the best astrogators in the universe so I could go into commercial ships and pile up credits! Plenty of credits and have a good life, and be sure my mother had a good life—what's left of it. And the whole thing goes right back to when my father made the decision to let a space rat live, and die in his place! So leave me alone with your last big efforts—and grandstand play for glory. From now on, keep your big fat mouth shut!"

"I—I don't know what to say, Roger," began Tom.

"Don't try to say anything, Tom," said Astro. There was a coldness in his voice that made Tom turn around and stare questioningly at the big Venusian.

"You can't answer him because you came from a good home. With a mom and pop and brother and sister. You had it good. You were lucky, but I don't hold it against you because you had a nice life and I didn't." Astro continued softly, "You can't answer Mr. Hot-shot Manning, but I can!"

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"I mean that Manning doesn't know what it is to really have it tough!"

"You got a real hard luck story, eh, big boy?" snarled Roger.

"Yeah, I have!" growled Astro. "I got one that'll make your life look like a spaceman's dream. At least you know about your father. And you lived with your mother. I didn't have anything—nothing! Did you hear that, Manning? I didn't even have a pair of shoes, until I found a kid at the Venusport spaceport one day and figured his shoes would fit me. I beat the space gas out of him and took his shoes. And then they were so tight, they hurt my feet. I don't know who my father was, nothing about him, except that he was a spaceman. A rocket buster, like me. And my mother? She died when I was born. Since I can remember, I've been on my own. When I was twelve, I was hanging around the spaceport day and night. I learned to buck rockets by going aboard when the ships were cradled for repairs, running dry runs, going through the motions, I talked to spacemen—all who would listen to me. I lied about my age, and because I was a big kid, I was blasting off when I was fifteen. What little education I've got, I picked up listening to the crew talk on long hops and listening to every audioslide I could get my hands on. I've had it tough. And because I have had it tough, I want to forget about it. I don't want to be reminded what it's like to be so hungry that I'd go out into jungles and trap small animals and take a chance on meeting a tyrannosaurus. So lay off that stuff about feeling sorry for yourself. And about Tom being a hero, because with all your space gas you still can't take it! And if you don't want to fight to live, then go lie down in the corner and just keep your big mouth shut!"

Tom stood staring at the big cadet. His head jutted forward from his shoulders, the veins in his neck standing out like thick cords. He knew Astro had been an orphan, but he had never suspected the big cadet's life had been anything like that which he had just described.

Roger had stood perfectly still while Astro spoke. Now, as the big cadet walked back to the hatch and nervously began to examine the edges with his finger tips, Roger walked over and stood behind him.

"Well, you knuckle-headed orphan," said Roger, "are you going to get us out of here, or not?"

Astro whirled around, his face grim, his hands balled into fists, ready to fight. "What's that, Mann—?" He stopped. Roger was smiling and holding out his hand.

"Whether you like it or not, you poor little waif, you've just made yourself a friend."

Tom came up to them and leaned against the door casually. "When you two stop gawking at each other like long-lost brothers," he said lazily, "suppose we try to figure a way out of this dungeon."