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Stand by for Mars

<h2>CHAPTER 18</h2> "You think it'll last much longer?" asked Astro. "I don't know, old fellow," replied Tom. "You know, sometimes you can hear the wind even through the skin of the ship," commented Roger. For two days the cadets of the Polaris unit had been held prisoner in the power deck while the violence of the New Sahara sandstorm raged around them outside the ship. For a thousand square miles the desert was a black cloud of churning sand, sweeping across the surface of Mars like a giant shroud. After many attempts to repair a small generator, Astro finally succeeded, only to discover that he had no means of running the unit. His plan was to relieve the rapidly weakening emergency batteries with a more steady source of power. While Astro occupied himself repairing the generator, Tom and Roger had slept, but after the first day, when sleep would no longer come, they resorted to playing checkers with washers and nuts on a board scratched on the deck. "Think it's going to let up soon?" asked Roger. "They've been known to last for a week or more," said Astro. "Wonder if Strong has discovered we're missing?" mused Roger. "Sure he has," replied Tom. "He's a real spaceman. Can smell out trouble like a telemetered alarm system." Astro got up and stretched. "I'll bet we're out of this five hours after the sand settles down." The big Venusian walked to the side of the power deck and pressed his ear against the hull, listening for the sound of the wind. After a few seconds he turned back. "I can't hear a thing, fellas. I have a feeling it's about played itself out." "Of course," reasoned Tom, "we have no real way of knowing when it's stopped and when it hasn't." "Want to open the hatch and take a look?" asked Astro. Tom looked questioningly at Roger, who nodded his head in agreement. Tom walked over to the hatch and began undogging the heavy door. As the last of the heavy metal bars were raised, sand began to trickle inside around the edges. Astro bent down and sifted a handful through his fingers. "It's so fine, it's like powder," he said as it fell to the deck in a fine cloud. "Come on," said Tom, "give me a hand with this hatch. It's probably jammed up against sand on the other side." Tom, Roger and Astro braced their shoulders against the door, but when they tried to push, they lost their footing and slipped down. Astro dragged over a section of lead baffle, jammed it between the rocket motors and placed his feet up against it. Tom and Roger got on either side of him and pressed their shoulders against the door. "All right," said Tom. "When I give the word, let's all push together. Ready?" "All set," said Astro. "Let's go," said Roger. "O.K.—then—one—two—three—push!" Together, the three cadets strained against the heavy steel hatch. The muscles in Astro's legs bulged into knots as he applied his great weight and strength against the door. Roger, his face twisted into a grimace from the effort, finally slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. "Roger," asked Tom quickly, "are you all right?" Roger nodded his head but stayed where he was, breathing deeply. Finally recovering his strength, he rose and stood up against the hatch with his two unit-mates. "You and Roger just give a steady pressure, Tom," said Astro. "Don't try to push it all at once. Slow and steady does it! That way you get more out of your effort." "O.K.," said Tom. Roger nodded. Again they braced themselves against the hatch. "One—two—three—push!" counted Tom. Slowly, applying the pressure evenly, they heaved against the steel hatch. Tom's head swam dizzily, as the blood raced through his veins. "Keep going," gasped Astro. "I think it's giving a little!" Tom and Roger pushed with the last ounce of strength in their bodies, and after a final desperate effort, slumped to the floor breathless. Astro continued to push, but a moment later, relaxed and slipped down beside Tom and Roger. They sat on the deck for nearly five minutes gasping for air. "Like—" began Roger, "like father—like son!" He blurted the words out bitterly. "Like who?" asked Astro. "Like my father," said Roger in a hard voice. He got up and walked unsteadily over to the oxygen bottle and kicked it. "Empty!" he said with a harsh laugh. "Empty and we only have one more bottle. Empty as my head the day I got into this space-happy outfit!" "You going to start that again!" growled Astro. "I thought you had grown out of your childish bellyaching about the Academy." Astro eyed the blond cadet with a cold eye. "And now, just because you're in a tough spot, you start whining again!" "Knock it off, Astro," snapped Tom. "Come on. Let's give 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." <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/im190.png" width-obs="400" height-obs="114" alt="im190" title="" /> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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