Earthbound (Winston Science Fiction Book 1) (2 page)

Pete did not like it at all.

The gram was simple and to the point:
Cadet Hodges, report to the Marshal’s office. Please prepare yourself for a shock. This is urgent.

“See?” Roger was smiling.

“Thanks for telling me,” Pete said numbly.

Garr’s freckled face split into a broad grin. “Don’t you worry about it one bit, Pete. You know how they have a way of exaggerating things.” His voice trailed off lamely.

“Sure,” Pete said. “Sure.”

And then he was walking briskly out through the door. Behind him he heard Roger saying, “Boy, does
he
look scared!”

Pete took the elevator down to the ground level, then boarded one of the moving ramps which took him quickly across campus to the Headquarters Building. The Marshal’s secretary looked up from her desk, and Pete told her: “I’m Cadet Hodges.”

“Oh.”

“I — I got an office-gram.”

“Yes, I know. Don’t mind us, cadet. We work twenty-four hours a day. Three shifts, three Marshals. I think he’ll see you now. Good luck.” As Pete passed her desk, the woman averted her face.

Pete pushed open the door at the far end of the little reception room. He stood very erect when he walked inside.

“Good morning, Cadet Hodges. Relax, young man. At your ease.”

Pete could tell at a glance that the Marshal was an ex-spaceman. He didn’t know how, but he could tell. He had gray hair and his eyes were tired, but something in those eyes said, clearer than any words:
I’ve seen space. . . .

“I called you at once, Cadet Hodges, because this was important. Next week is graduation, and your family might be coming here to see — but I’m getting ahead of myself.” He thumbed rapidly through some papers on his desk. “Your grades are fine, Hodges. You’re in the top third of the senior class. You’ve handled yourself in athletics with flying colors. You even have a propensity for sneaking off in the morning to visit the Spaceport!”

“What, sir?”

The Marshal smiled. “We know all about that. Officially, it’s against regulations. But unofficially, we like it. I did the same thing myself, Hodges, thirty years ago. If space is in your blood, that’s what you do.

“Hodges, before I go any further, realize this: for all our thunder and our noise, spaceflight is still in its infancy. We reached the moon sixty years ago, Mars fifty. Everything is new, and dangerous. As a result, the spaceman must be a perfect specimen. Each man is a cog in a great machine; he can be nothing more than that. He must act as one with his fellow crewmen, and as one with the complex machinery of a spaceship. It could mean disaster for everyone concerned if he didn’t.

“He must have rapid reflexes, on the order of seventy percent above average. And still he must be able to suspend judgment. He must have a body which will respond instantly to those reflexes. And finally, as you know, he must be young. Seventeen to twenty-five, and that’s all. Past twenty-five, his reflexes slow down just slightly, but sufficiently to be dangerous. And that’s a spaceman, Cadet Hodges. It’s important that I tell you this, as you’ll see.”

Pete had heard all that many times before. But what was the Marshal getting at? Why did he single him out — at six o’clock in the morning?

“The Academy is a huge, complex enterprise, Cadet Hodges. It is inevitable that clerical errors will occur from time to time. One such error occurred where you are concerned. I have reference to your first-year medical report.”

Pete remembered that day dimly, four years ago, when a frightened, skinny kid of thirteen named Peter Hodges had been given his medical exam. They’d been thorough; they’d done everything. And he had come through with flying colors — or so he had thought.

The Marshal’s voice had become cold and businesslike, and it snapped Pete from his reverie. “There is a memo attached to your medical report to the effect that you had an old injury which did not heal properly. Do you know anything about it, Cadet Hodges? A broken collarbone?”

“Why, yes! I was ten or eleven, I forget which. I was playing out on the spacefield when a guard ran after me. I tripped and fell. . . .”

“You broke your collarbone,” the Marshal went on for him, “It did not knit properly, and the report indicates that it was a nasty break, a double compound fracture. Somehow the report was overlooked these last four years, but fortunately it was found in time. For any normal activity, the injury has healed satisfactorily. But not for spaceflight, Cadet Hodges. I’m sorry.”

Pete stood there, the words drumming in his mind over and over again.
But not for spaceflight.
. . .

“As you know, now,” the Marshal was saying, “acceleration is a rugged affair. The human body was built to withstand a pressure of one gravity, which is what it normally encounters on the surface of the Earth. In order to blast off, however, a spaceship must build up tremendous speed. Rate of increase of velocity, that’s acceleration, Hodges. And it means that the body is faced with a pressure of five or five and a half gravities instead of one. At times that must be increased to six. Such a pressure, according to the judgment of the medical board, might be sufficient to re-break your collarbone along the line of the old injury. If that were to happen in deep space, you would be a danger to your passengers and the crew.

“It is therefore the, decision of the medical board that you be eliminated from candidacy for a spaceman’s rockets. I am sorry, Hodges; truly sorry. It is further the decision of the board that you notify your family at once and prepare to depart from the Academy. . . .”

The impersonal voice droned on and on. The Marshal was sorry to break the news so suddenly, but he had only found out himself this morning. It was considered necessary to inform Cadet Hodges immediately, in order that he would not go ahead with his plans for graduation. It was possible he might be transferred to a ground-crew school to do earthbound maintenance work. . . .

But Pete heard nothing. He waited until the Marshal had finished, and then he saluted smartly, turned on his heel and left the room. Somehow, his eyes had clouded over; he could hardly see the receptionist at her desk.

In his mind, the spacemen were singing their chant again.
Ho! for the void and far away!

But he was washed out. . . .

Chapter 2 — Big Pete and Little Pete

Pete walked about aimlessly for a time, watching the Academy campus come to life. By the time he returned to his room, Garr had gone to his first morning class. A big note was tacked to their makeshift bulletin board. “See you soon, Petey-boy. Seegarr.”

At any other time, Pete would have laughed. A year ago, Garr had retreated to the sheltered area behind the athletic field with his prize possession, a cigar. To this day, no one knew where he had found it, but everyone knew that he had attempted to smoke it. A very green and very ill Garr had returned to the dormitory, and since then no one had let him live down his nickname, See-garr.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Pete opened his bureau drawers and began to pile his gear neatly on his bunk. When the whistle ending the first morning period had sounded, he’d finished packing his clothing, and he sat on the bunk, staring at his suitcases. Mere hours before, he thought he’d soon be taking them to some far-away place, to Mars perhaps; but now he knew he’d be returning with them to his folks’ home in White Sands. Well, at least he’d be able to see the space-liners blasting off, for with the advent of space travel the old White Sands proving grounds had become the world’s largest Spaceport.

I am Peter Hodges, Jr.,
he thought numbly.
Dad is a retired space-captain, and Dad likes to watch the Spaceport too. Now I’ll have to watch it with him, while he dreams of the past and I dream of what might have been. . . .

“Hey! You cut first period or something? What gives?” Smiling, Garr stood in the open doorway.

“Yes,” Pete told him. “I cut my first period.”

“Well, you missed something. Old Doc Caruthers really was in form. I mean,
really
in form! He gave us a picture of Mars so you almost thought your feet were crunching through those ochre sands.”

“It sounds fine,” Pete said.

“When I get my commission, I hope it’s Mars.”

“I hope so too, Garr. I hope you get everything you want.”

“Thanks! Yeah, and — why in space did you pack your bags?”

“I’m leaving the Academy.”

“You’re what?”

“Leaving the Academy.”

“Well,” Garr was still smiling, “don’t tell me they have a special mission for you before graduation! That happens sometimes, Pete. Where are they sending you? Oh, maybe it’s a secret.”

“No, it’s not a secret. I’m going home to White Sands.”

“You lucky guy! You’ll be able to see your folks before they ship you off.”

Pete slammed his hand down on one of the suitcases. “Cut it out, Garr! Please cut it out.” He felt a lump rising in his throat, the same kind he always felt when they were singing the
Spaceman’s Chant
, only this time it was bigger and he had a hunch it might not go away.

The smile left Garr’s face slowly, and a confused frown replaced it. “Did I say something wrong? I don’t get it. What’s the matter, Pete; what is it?”

“I’m washed out,” Pete said stiffly. And then he found himself telling the whole story, everything.

When he finished, Garr was silent. He crossed the room and sat down on the other bunk, rubbing a hand across his freckled cheek. Finally, he said:

“That’s a rotten break, Pete. I — I guess talk isn’t much good, but it’s a rotten break. Heck, if it happened to me, it wouldn’t be so bad. No one in my family ever went to space. Sometimes they almost make a joke of it. ‘With all this room on Earth,’ they say, ‘what does a MacDougal want with the stars?’ But with you it’s different. Your father was a spaceman — a real famous one from what I hear. And didn’t you once tell me something about your older brother getting killed out in the asteroids. . . .”

“Stop it!” Pete cried. “What do you want to rub it in for?”

“Huh? I’m sorry, Pete. I was only trying —”

“No, forget it.
I’m
sorry. I’ve got no business snapping at you like that.” But the way he felt, Pete knew he’d snap at anyone and everyone. It might be a good idea if he could go away some place, far from all the familiar things, far from the
Spaceman’s Chant
and the roar of the rockets. . . . No, that wasn’t right, either. Life wouldn’t he worth much without the rockets rising on their glorious pillars of flame. . . .

“Hi, fellows!” Roger Gorham pushed the door open and came inside. Somehow, Roger always managed to look smug and self-satisfied. He made a practice of it,, despite the fact that he was the most unpopular cadet at the Academy; and he let everyone know that his father was Burton Gorham of Gorham Spacelines.

“Scram” Garr said coldly.

Roger ignored him. “I came to find out how urgent that office-gram was.”

“Plenty urgent,” Garr told him. “Now scram.”

“Hodges . . . .” Roger began.

“What?

“About that office-gram. . . .”

“Don’t you see,” Garr stormed, “he wants to know exactly what went on between you and the Marshal. Say the word, Pete, and I’ll throw him out.”

But Pete said, “I’ve been washed out.” He’d grown used to it by now. He could say it without batting an eyelash, but it left an empty feeling deep inside.

“Don’t tell me they gave you the bounce for sneaking off to your little hill and watching the spaceships!” Roger was incredulous. “I admit it’s a kid’s trick, but they shouldn’t bounce you for something like that.”

“You wouldn’t understand about that hill,” Garr said. “Not you.”

“There’s nothing to understand. You’re kids, so you act like kids. You’re from the wrong side of the tracks and things like spaceships are so new and different to you . . . .”

Garr got up swiftly and grabbed the front of Roger’s tunic, tugging until he brought the chunky cadet’s face within a few inches of his own. “Listen!” Garr shouted. “Maybe I’m from the wrong side of the tracks like you say — but not Pete. Pete’s father is a retired space-captain, or didn’t you know?”

Roger backed away. “Let go of me! There, that’s better. A retired space-captain,” he snickered, “now isn’t that something? He goes to Mars a few times or maybe to the Jovian moons. He’s a hero after that, retiring when he’s twenty-five and living off a fat pension. That’s what he’s been doing for the last twenty years — living on a pension. Now, take my dad . . . .”

“You can take him,” Garr said, thoroughly disgusted. “We don’t want him. As for Mr. Hodges, he happens to be chairman of the Spaceflight Advisory Board.”

“Of course,” Roger persisted, “A soft armchair job for an ex-spaceman living on his reputation, too lazy to work . . . .”

He couldn’t retreat through the opened door in time. Pete sailed into him with fists flying, and soon they were down on the floor, rolling over and over. Roger was strong, fighting with the desperation that a coward uses when he knows be cannot run away; but Pete fought with a blind fury.

Dimly, he was aware of Roger striking back. But the fists bounced off his face and chest with almost no sensation at all. His father had told him that once: Big Pete had said, “When you fight, fight hard — but don’t start it, not unless you have to. Forget about the other fellow, he can’t hurt you, not as long as you’re hurting him . . . .

It was like that now. Afterwards he might be hurt, he might find cuts and bruises on his face, but for now he only felt the pain shooting up his arms when his own blows landed. Soon he had Roger on his back, straddled, and he was pumping both hands at the no-longer-smug face.

Vaguely, he heard Garr shouting encouragement. Even more vaguely, he knew that a crowd had gathered, heard them offering advice first to one contestant, then the other.

“Take it back!” Pete cried, panting.

He didn’t wait for an answer.
Splat!
His right fist struck home again, then his left. Roger tried to grab a handful of his hair and pull him down, but Pete avoided the groping fingers and hammered away with his fists.