“Yes, sir,” replied Tom.
“Well, it’s one forty-eight. How about his standard check-in with traffic control?”
Tom stammered, “He—uh—he may be plotting some space junk, sir.”
“He still must report, regardless of what he’s doing!”
“I—uh—ah—yes, sir!” gulped Tom. Blast Roger anyway, he thought, forgetting the all-important quarter-hour check-in.
“I’d better go up and find out if anything’s wrong,” said Connel.
“Gosh, sir,” suggested Tom, desperately seeking an excuse for his shipmate. “I’m sure Roger would have notified us if anything had happened.”
“Knowing Manning as I do, I’m not so sure!” And the irascible officer thundered through the door like a jet-propelled tank!
* * * *
“Come on, Mason. Hurry and put on that space suit,” barked Loring.
“Take it easy,” grumbled Mason. “I’m working as fast as I can!”
“Of all the rotten luck,” growled Loring. “Who’d ever figure the Annie Jones would blast off from Venus—and then stop at the space station!”
“Shows you ain’t so smart,” retorted Mason. “Lots of ships do that. They carry just enough fuel to get ’em off the surface, so they’ll be light while they’re blasting out of Venus’ gravity. Then they stop at the space station to refuel for the long haul.”
“All right,” barked Loring, “lay off the lecture! Just get that space suit on in a hurry!”
“Listen, wise guy,” challenged Mason, “just tell me one thing. If we bail out of this tub in space suits, who’s going to pick us up?”
“We’re not bailing out!” said Loring.
“We’re not? Then what are we suiting up for?”
“Just in case,” said Loring. “Now listen to me. In a few minutes the Annie Jones’ll make contact with traffic control. Only instead of talking to the pilot—they’ll be talking to us. Because we’ll have taken over.”
“But unless we land they’ll be suspicious. And if we land…”
Loring interrupted. “Nobody’s going to suspect a thing. I’ll tell traffic control we’ve got an extra-heavy load. Then they won’t let us land. We follow their orders and blast off into space—find an emergency fuel station—head for Tara—and nobody suspects anything.”
Mason twisted his face into a scowl. “Sounds awful risky to me,” he muttered.
“Sure it’s risky,” sneered Loring, “but you don’t hit the jackpot without ever taking a chance!”
The two men, huddled against a jumble of packing cases in the cargo hold of the Annie Jones, made careful preparations. Checking their weapons, they opened their way toward the freighter’s control deck. Just outside the hatch they stopped, paralo-ray guns ready, and listened.
Inside, Pilot James Jardine and Leland Bangs, his first officer, were preparing for the landing at the space station.
“Ought to be picking up the approach radar signal pretty soon,” said Bangs. “Better take her off automatic control, Jardine. Use the manual for close maneuvering.”
“Right,” answered his spacemate. “Send out a radar blip for them to pick up. I’ll check the cargo and make sure it’s lashed down for landing. Captain Stefens is tough when it comes to being shipshape.”
The freighter blasted evenly, smoothly onward through the darkness of space in a straight line for the man-made satellite. Jardine got up from the freighter’s dual-control board, picked up a portable light, and headed for the hatch leading to the cargo deck.
“He’s coming,” hissed Loring. “We’ll take him soon’s he reaches us.” There was a sharp clank as the hatch opened, and Jardine’s head came into view.
“Now!” yelled Loring. He swung the heavy paralo-ray gun at Jardine’s head.
“What the—” exclaimed the startled spaceman. “Bangs, look out!”
He tried to avoid the blow, but Loring’s gun landed on the side of his head. Jardine crumpled to the deck.
Bangs was out of his seat in a moment, at his pilot’s call. The burly redheaded spaceman saw at a glance what was wrong and lunged for the hatch.
Loring stepped toward him, holding his paralo-ray.
“All right, spaceboy!” he grated. “Hold it or I’ll freeze you stiff!”
Bangs stopped and stared at the gun and at Jardine who was slumped on the deck. Mason rushed past him to the controls.
“What is this?” demanded Bangs.
“An old game,” explained Loring with a sneer. “It’s called ‘You’ve got it and I take it.’ And if you don’t like it, you get it.” He gestured with his gun. “You get it—with this.”
Bangs nodded. “O.K.,” he said. “O.K. But how about letting me take care of my buddy. He’s hurt.”
“Just a bump on the head,” said Loring. “He’ll come out of it soon enough.”
“Hey,” shouted Mason, “I can’t figure out these controls!”
Loring growled angrily. “Here, lemme at them!” He forced Bangs to lie down on the deck, and then, keeping the gun trained on the redheaded spaceman, stepped quickly to the control board. He handed Mason the gun.
“Keep an eye on them while I figure this baby out.”
“Least you coulda done is steal a decent ship,” grumbled Mason. “This tub is so old it creaks!”
“Just shut your mouth and keep your eye on those guys,” said the other. He began to mutter to himself as he tried to figure out the complicated controls.
Jardine was now conscious but had the presence of mind not to move. His head ached from the blow. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw his two attackers bending over the board. He saw that Bangs was lying on the deck facing him. Jardine winked at Bangs, who returned the signal. Then he began, carefully, methodically to send a Morse-code message to his companion via his winking eyes.
“O-N-L-Y — one — gun — between — them. You — take — big — fellow. I’ll — charge — gun…”
“Can’t you figure this thing out either?” asked Mason, leaning over Loring’s shoulder.
“Ah, this wagon is an old converted chemical burner. These controls are old as the sun. I’ve got to find the automatic pilot!”
“Try that lever over there,” suggested Mason.
Loring reached over to grasp it, turning away from his prisoners.
“Bangs, get ’em!” shouted Jardine. The two men jumped to their feet and lunged at Loring and Mason. Loring dove to one side, losing the gun in the scramble, but as he fell, he reached for the acceleration control lever. He wrenched it out of its socket and brought it down on Bang’s head, and the officer slid to the floor. Jardine, meanwhile, had Mason in a viselike grip, but again Loring used the lever, bringing it down hard on the neck of the freighter pilot. Jardine dropped to the deck.
“Thanks, Loring,” gasped Mason. “That was close! Good thing we had on these space suits, or we’d have been finished. They couldn’t grab onto the smooth plastic.”
“Finished is right!” snarled Loring. “I told you to keep an eye on them! If they’d nabbed us we woulda wound up on the prison asteroid!”