Sabotage in Space, Carey Rockwell [ereader for comics .txt] 📗

"Tom! Tom!"

Connel knelt beside the limp form of the Space Cadet, calling frantically, praying that the boy would be miraculously unhurt, yet fearing the worst. A few moments later Tom groaned and opened his eyes.

"Did I—did I stop the truck?" he asked weakly.

"You sure did, son!" said Connel, breathing a sigh of relief. "And thank the lucky spaceman's stars that you're all right. I don't see how you got out alive."

Tom sat up. "I jumped from the jet car at the last minute," he said. "I guess I must have bumped my head." He looked down at his torn uniform. "Wow," he said. "Look at me."

"Don't worry about it." Connel laughed. He turned to Lieutenant Slick who had just rushed up.

"Lieutenant, I want a complete check on the men who were standing outside the fence when that truck ran away."

"Yes, sir." The young lieutenant patted Tom on the shoulder. "Good work, Cadet," he said and started away.

Tom grinned his thanks at the young officer and struggled to his feet. "Sir," he said to Connel, "I think I should explain something about that truck."

"The truck!" cried Connel. He turned and called, "Lieutenant, come back here." The young officer turned back. "Go ahead, Tom," said Connel.

While Tom told his story of the truck having been parked near the gate, and having started to roll by itself, Connel and Slick listened intently. Quietly Devers joined them. Finally, when Tom had finished, Connel rubbed his chin thoughtfully and stared at the truck which was being examined by a swarm of guards.

A few moments later the sergeant in command reported to Connel that they had found a worn clutch plate that could have slipped and caused the truck to roll of its own accord, especially if the motor was turning over.

Connel nodded and then ordered, "Get the driver over here."

The man that had spoken to Tom about the secret project came forward under guard. He was thoroughly frightened and Connel was aware of it. "Relax, friend," he said. "I just want to ask you one question."

"Yes, sir," gulped the truck driver.

"Was there anything wrong with your truck?" demanded Connel.

"Yes, sir," replied the driver. "I had a slipping clutch."

Connel turned abruptly to Lieutenant Slick. "All right, Slick, release this man and get that fence back up. I'm satisfied that it was an accident."

"Yes, sir," replied Slick, and left the group with the grateful driver.

Connel relaxed for the first time and turned to Carter Devers who had been standing by silently. "Well, Carter," he said, "see what I meant about the Polaris unit getting into trouble! Blast it, if they don't start it, they sure can finish it." He turned to Tom. "Son, you deserve some time off. Go back to the Spacelanes Hotel in Marsport and get yourself a room. Just forget everything and relax. And get a new uniform, too."

"And send the bill to me," Devers suddenly spoke up. "It's the least I can do."

"Thank you, sir," said Tom. "I could sure use a little sleep."

Hitching a ride on a jet sled, Tom rode over to the administration building where he managed to clean up enough to make himself presentable at the hotel. Later, as he rode along the curving canal in a jet cab into the main section of Marsport, he relaxed for the first time and enjoyed the sights.

The city of Marsport was built in a hurry—at least, the old section of the city was. Like many other planets, when first colonized by the early great conquerors of space several hundred years before, the city grew out of immediate need, with no formalized plan.

Years later, when the Solar Alliance was formed and there was uniform government all over the solar system, the citizens of Mars began to regard their ugly little capital with distaste. A major effort was made to clean up its squalid appearance and huge cargoes of Titan crystal were shipped to Mars for modern construction. Now, as Tom Corbett rode in comfort along a speedway bordering one of the ancient canals, he approached the city with a vague feeling of awe. Gleaming towers, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun, loomed just ahead of him, and the wavy lines of heat rising out of the sandy deserts seemed to make the buildings dance. It was a sunset ballet that never failed to thrill even the oldest Martian citizen.

At the magnificent Spacelanes Hotel, Tom was greeted with the greatest respect. Already his feat of stopping the runaway truck had been announced over the stereo newscasts, and when he asked the location of the nearest supply store to buy a uniform, one was immediately brought to his room by the manager.

"But how did you know?" asked Tom, astounded.

The manager showed Tom a photograph of himself in his ragged clothes, taken while he was talking to Connel. In the background was the remains of the jet car.

"Major Connel called and said you would be staying here," said the manager. "From the looks of you in this picture, we knew you would need a new uniform."

"And you've got my size!" exclaimed Tom, holding up the gleaming new blouse.

"We called the Academy." The manager smiled. "We wanted to be sure. Incidentally, there is a message for you." The manager handed Tom a typed space-o-gram and left. The cadet ripped it open and smiled as he read: