Treachery in Outer Space | Page 8

go. No use
getting Strong down on us before we even get started."
"Steve Strong doesn't scare me," replied Miles.
"All right! He doesn't scare you. He doesn't scare me, either," said Brett
irritably. "Now that we both know that neither of us is scared, let's get
going."
Quent smiled again and rose slowly. "You know something, Charley?"
he said in a deceptively mild voice. "One of these days you're going to
get officious with the wrong spaceman, one that isn't as tolerant as I am,
and you're going to be pounded into space dust."

Quent Miles stood in front of Brett's desk and stretched like a languid
cat. Brett noted the powerful hands and arms and the depth of the
shoulders and chest, all emphasized by the tight-fitting clothes the
spaceman affected. The man was dark and swarthy, and dressed all in
black. Brett had often imagined that if the devil ever took human form
it would look like Quent Miles. He shivered uncontrollably and waited.
Finally Miles turned to him, a mocking smile on his face.
"Well, Charley? What are we waiting for?"
A few moments later they were speeding through the broad streets of
Atom City in a jet cab on the way to the Atom City spaceport.
"What's this all about?" demanded Quent, settling back in his seat.
"Why the rush call?"
"I didn't get the contract to haul the crystal," replied Brett grimly. "All
the bids were so close the Solar Council decided to have a space race
out to Titan to pick the outfit that would get the job."
Quent turned toward him, surprised. "But I thought you had all that
sewed up tight!" he exclaimed. "I thought after you got your hands on
the--"
"Shut up!" interrupted Brett. "The details on the specifications leaked
out. Now the only way I can get the contract is to win the race."
"And I'm the guy to do it?" asked Quent with a smile.
"That's what you're here for. If we don't win this race, we're finished.
Washed up!"
"Who else is in the race?"
"Every other major space-freight outfit in the system," replied Brett
grimly. "And Kit Barnard."
"Has Barnard got that new reactor of his working yet?"

"I don't think so. But I have no way of telling."
"If he has, you're not going to win this race," said Quent, shaking his
head. "Nor is anyone else."
"You are here for one reason," said Brett pointedly.
"I know." Quent grinned. "To win a race."
"Right."
Quent laughed. "With those heaps you've fooled people into thinking
are spaceships? Don't make me laugh."
"There are going to be time trials before the race," said Brett. "The
three fastest ships are going to make the final run. I'm not worried
about the race itself. I've got a plan that will assure us of winning. It's
the time trials that's got me bothered."
"Leave that to me," said Quent.
The jet cab pulled up to the main gate of the spaceport and the two men
got out. Far across the field, a slender, needle-nosed ship stood poised
on her stabilizer fins ready for flight. She was black except for a red
band painted on the hull across the forward section and around the few
viewports. It gave her the appearance of a huge laughing insect. Quent
eyed the vessel with a practiced eye.
"I'll have to soup her up," he commented. "She wouldn't win a foot race
now."
"Don't depend too heavily on your speed," said Brett. "I would just as
soon win by default. After all," he continued, looking at Miles with
calculating eyes, "serious accidents could delay the other ships."
"Sure. I know what you mean," replied the spaceman.
"Good!" Brett turned away abruptly and headed for the ship. Quent
following him. In a little while the white-hot exhaust flare from the

rocket tubes of the sleek ship splattered the concrete launching apron
and it lifted free of the ground. Like an evil, predatory bug, the ship
blasted toward the Academy spaceport.
* * * * *
"Well, blast my jets!" Astro gasped, stopping in his tracks and pointing.
Tom and Roger looked out over the quadrangle toward the Academy
spaceport where ship after ship, braking jets blasting, sought the safety
of the ground.
"Great galaxy," exclaimed Tom, his eyes bulging, "there must be a
hundred ships!"
"At least," commented Roger.
"But they can't all be here for the trials," said Astro.
"Why not?" asked Roger. "This is a very important race. Who knows
what ship might win? It pays the company to enter every ship they
have."
[Illustration: "Great galaxy! There must be a hundred ships!"]
"Roger's right, Astro," said Tom. "These fellows are playing for big
stakes. Though I don't think there'll be more than thirty or