CHAPTER 2
Attack in Space
JAKES CAME TO SEE BOB the night before the take-off. Bob’s mother announced it when Bob came in from his final fitting for his uniform, which would bear the insignia of a Cadet Observer—a triangle with a dot inside. Her still pretty face was a mixture of worry over last-minute details and maternal pride, and she nearly forgot it.
Then she caught herself. “You’ve got a visitor, Bobby. I took him up to your room. Simon Jakes. Wasn’t he in the Academy with you?”
Bob grimaced slightly, and nodded. “What did he want?”
“I don’t know—he didn’t say. I gave him some cookies and soda, and left him looking at your model collection. He seemed like a nice boy.”
All Bob’s friends seemed like nice boys, to her. And all who had ever come had been stuffed with cookies and soda. Sometimes Bob wondered whether she realized that he and the boys he knew were no longer ten years young. Then he remembered that she’d taken the news of his coming trip without a moment’s protest, like a good Navy woman, and he felt ashamed of himself. He caught her around the shoulders in a quick hug, and went up to his room.
Jakes surprised him. He looked up and saw Bob, and jumped to his feet with one hand stretched out. “Hey, Bob, you lucky dog! Congratulations. I just heard. Might have told a fellow. Couldn’t be happier if it happened to me.”
“I meant to see you…” Bob began, but the other nodded.
“Sure, I guess you’ve been busy. So’ve I. Been trying to get them to move up my take-off schedule, but your flight has all the priorities.”
“Then you’re still planning on being the foolhardy hero?” Bob asked.
“I dunno. Maybe not. From what I hear, I figure I’d better take it easy. I’ve got clearance to Neptune and official permission to base the Icarius at Outpost Field; with all this stir over Wing Nine, that took some doing, too. But now I’m trying to get a chance to join your party.”
He stopped, and Bob shook his head. “Go along officially? How?”
“Oh, it’s been done,” the other answered. “Dad heads the pool of commercial interests that would have to help develop Planet X if it has ores and such things. Sometimes the Fleet takes along a commercial observer or two. I thought maybe you could put in a good word with your father, and that might help.”
So that was the angle? Bob shook his head quickly. “It wouldn’t help. Dad makes his own decisions, and he’s already decided there’d be no more in the party.”
“Oh! Well, no harm trying.” Jakes seemed to drop it completely, to Bob’s surprise. “Anyhow, I’m going to keep working on it. If I can’t go officially… well, somehow I’m going to get a look at Planet X, but we’ll see. Can I give you a hand with anything?”
Bob shook his head, just as his mother came to announce that dinner was on the table, and that a place had already been set for Jakes. Simon seemed almost embarrassed at being included, but he was quick to accept; apparently he wasn’t used to being included in groups.
Then the talk broke down into generalities until Jakes left, and Bob and bis father could begin discussing the details of the official trip.
The ships were all fueled and provisioned to the last bit, though much of that seemed useless, since Outpost was well equipped to supply them. Partly, it was just routine Navy precaution, but there seemed to be an added element of caution involved. Griffith admitted that he didn’t know what was behind it, unless it had something to do with the increase of piracy beyond the orbit of Jupiter.
Having secured leave, the men, of course, were out celebrating their last night on Mars. And the ships were already lined up outside the hangar, waiting for take-off. They stood on their tail fins, rising some two hundred feet into the thin air, seeming already straining toward space. Griffith’s flagship, the heavy cruiser Lance of Deimos headed them, rearing up another fifty feet.
Bob’s own preparations were complete. As a Cadet Observer, he was entitled to one bag, weighing not over thirty pounds, and it was already packed. He tried to think of something else to do, and then sat fiddling uncomfortably, until his father suggested a game of darts that took up the rest of the evening.
Weather control had deliberately made sure it was a fine morning for the take-off; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Bob and his family drove up a few minutes late, since there had been some delay in getting his uniforms. A crowd was already assembled, seeing the men of Wing Nine off.
Bob’s mother was an old hand at this. She didn’t get out of the car or carry on as some of the other women were doing. She kissed her husband quickly, squeezed Bob’s hand, and managed a perfectly normal smile at them. “Good luck, sailors,” she told them, and then began backing the car out of the way, where she could watch the take-off, Bob found himself swallowing quickly, but he tried to keep a stiff, military pose.
He waited in line to be checked in, while his father went on ahead. He was beginning to think the line would never move up when Simon Jakes jumped out of a taxi and came rushing up, obviously looking for him. Jakes was sweating, but he broke into his usual slack-lipped grin as he spotted Bob.
“Whew! Thought I’d missed you. Here!” He shoved a box into Bob’s hands awkwardly. Bob turned it over and finally opened it. Inside was an officer’s pocket-knife, a marvel of compactness that held twelve tools, from scissors to tiny pliers, as well as standard blades.
Beside it lay one of the tiny, expensive little personal radios issued to the higher officers. It was built to fit entirely within one ear, except for the nearly invisible wire that served as an antenna and connected to the walnut-sized power pack to be worn in the breast pocket. Bob had wanted one for a long time, but the price had always been prohibitive. With it, he would be automatically tuned in to all general calls, and independent of the ship paging system.
He blinked in surprise, instinctively adjusting it to his ear. Then he shook his head. “No can do, Si. Look, it’s swell of you, but…”
Jakes face sobered quickly. “You mean just because it’s expensive? You won’t be obligated—Navy pride, all that.” He shrugged. “Okay, I was afraid of that. Though why, when you know I’m filthy with the stuff…”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” Bob told him quickly. It had been on his mind, but Jakes’s obvious hurt made the excuse impossible; anyhow, the expense hadn’t meant much, and the spirit of the gift seemed genuine. “I mean, I’m already right up to the limit on weight.”
The smile came back. “Oh that!” Jakes dragged out another parcel quickly. “Yeah, I thought of that. Here. I had the whole thing checked for weight, and this saves enough over your regulation set to make it come out even.”
He opened it to show a set of de luxe toilet fittings inside a special case. It was another of the expensive things which was nonregulation, but officially approved for those who wanted to buy them out of their own funds.
Bob gave up, and hastily opened his bag to exchange the toilet set for the heavier regulation one he had packed. He tried to thank Jakes, but the other would have none of it, seeming genuinely happy that his gift had been accepted. Then the checker tapped Bob on the shoulder, and Simon Jakes stuck out his hand.
“See you on Outpost,” he said quickly, and was gone.
The checker ran his eyes up Bob’s uniform to see if everything had been removed from his pockets for the weighing, and then stamped his permit. He stepped up the little ramp and into the Lance of Deimos, an accredited member of the crew.
“Take-off in seven minutes,” the little radio said into his ear. “Officers will report to the control room.”
Bob stowed his luggage in the tiny bunk room he would occupy, and made for the control room on the double. Technically, while he had few duties beyond serving as a runner for his father, he was one of the officers and subject to all such general calls. Engineers, and other officers concerned with the mechanical end of the ship, were listed as reporting when they were at their own stations, and had their intercommunication phones switched on. Actually, only the dour Dutch navigator, Hoeck, and the Senior Leftenant, Anderson, would be there, together with his father. Griffith believed in operating with the minimum number of officers permitted.