Treachery in Outer Space | Page 8

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 forty ships in the actual speed trials. See those big-bellied jobs? They're repair ships."
"I hadn't thought about that," acknowledged the big Venusian cadet. "They'll probably be jazzing up those sleek babies and that takes a lot of repair and work."
"Come on," said Tom. "We've got to get over to the meeting. Captain Strong said he wanted us to be there."
The three cadets turned back toward the nearest slidewalk and hopped on. None of them noticed the black ship with the red band around its bow which suddenly appeared over the field, rockets blasting loudly as it began to drop expertly to the ground.
From early morning the skies over the Academy had been vibrating to the thunderous exhausts of the incoming fleet of ships. Painted with company colors and insignia, the ships landed in allotted space on the field, and almost immediately, mechanics, crew chiefs, and specialists of all kinds swarmed over the space vessels preparing them for the severest tests they would ever undergo. The ships that actually were to make the trial runs were stripped of every spare pound of weight, while their reactors were taken apart and specially designed compression heads were put on the atomic motors.
The entire corps of Space Cadets had been given a special three-day holiday to see the trials, and the Academy buildings were decorated with multicolored flags and pennants. A festive