Space Cadet (6 page)

Matt’s room was empty, which was a relief. He did not want to see Burke, nor anyone. He sat down and thought about it.

Eleven people—just like that. All happy and excited and then—
crrump!
—not enough left to cremate. Suddenly he himself was back up in the sky—He broke off the thought, trembling.

At the end of an hour he had made up his mind that the Patrol was not for him. He had thought of it, he realized, through a kid’s bright illusions—
Captain Jenks of the Space Patrol, The Young Rocketeers,
stuff like that. Well, those books were all right—for kids—but he wasn’t hero material, he had to admit.

Anyhow, his stomach would never get used to free fall. Right now it tightened up when he thought about it.

By the time Burke returned he was calm and, if not happy, at least he was not unhappy, for his mind was at rest.

Burke came in whistling. He stopped when he saw Matt. “Well, junior, still here? I thought the bumps would send you home.”

“No.”

“Didn’t you get dropsick?”

“Yes.” Matt waited and tried to control his temper. “Didn’t you?”

Burke chuckled. “Not likely. I’m no groundhog, junior.

“Call me ‘Matt.’”

“Okay, Matthew. I was going out into space before I could walk. My old man builds ’em, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Sure. ‘Reactors, Limited’—he’s chairman of the board. Say, did you see the fireworks out at the field?”

“You mean the ship that crashed?”

“What else? Quite a show, wasn’t it?”

Matt could feel himself coining to a slow boil. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me,” he said quietly, “that you regard the deaths of eleven human beings as ‘quite a show’?”

Burke stared at him. Then he laughed. “I’m sorry, old fellow. I apologize. But it actually didn’t occur to me that you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“But you weren’t supposed to know, of course. Relax, son—no one was killed. You were framed.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

Burke sat down and laughed until he had tears. Matt grabbed him by the shoulder. “Cut that out and talk.”

The other candidate stopped and looked up. “Honest, I rather like you, Dodson—you’re such a perfect country cousin. How do you feel about Santa Claus and the Stork?”

“Talk!”

“Haven’t you caught on to what they’ve been doing to you ever since you checked in?”

“Doing what?”

“War of nerves, man. Haven’t you noticed some tests were too easy—too easy to cheat in, that is? When you went over the bumps, didn’t you notice that they let you take a good look at the drop before you made it? When they could just as easily have kept you inside where it wouldn’t worry you?”

Matt thought about it. It was an enticing notion—he could see how some of the things he had not understood would fit in to such a theory. “Go on.”

“Oh, it’s a good gag—it cleans out the weak sisters and it cleans out the stupes, too—the guys so dumb that they can’t resist an invitation to cheat, never dreaming that it might be booby-trapped. It’s efficient—a Patrol officer has to be smart and fast on his feet and cool-headed. It keeps from wasting money on second-raters.”

“You just called me dumb and yet I got by.”

“Of course you did, junior, because your heart is pure.” He laughed again. “And I got by. But you’ll never make a Patrolman, Matt. They’ve got other ways to get rid of the good, dumb boys. You’ll see.”

“Okay, so I’m dumb. But don’t call me junior again. What’s this got to do with the ship that crashed?”

“Why, it’s simple. They want to eliminate all the dead-wood before swearing us in. There are candidates with cast-iron stomachs who don’t get upset by the bumps, or anything. So they send up a ship under robot control—no pilot, no passengers—and crash it, just to scare off those who can be scared. It’s a darn sight cheaper than training just one cadet, if he doesn’t pay off in the long run.”

“How do you know? Have you got inside information on it?”

“In a way, yes. It’s a logical necessity—those ships
can’t
crash, unless you crash ’em on purpose. I
know
—my old man makes them.”

“Well—maybe you’re right.” Matt dropped the matter, unsatisfied but lacking basis for further argument. It did convince him of one thing, however—spacesickness or not, come what may, he resolved to hang on as long as Girard Burke did, and at least twenty-four hours longer!

His table at dinner that night was numbered “147, 149, 151 & 153.” There was room enough to seat the survivors.

Cadet Sabbatello looked them over pleasantly. “Congratulations, gentlemen, on having lasted it out. Since you will be sworn in tonight, when next we meet it will be in a different status.” He grinned. “So relax and enjoy your last meal of freedom.”

In spite of no effective breakfast and little lunch, Matt found himself unable to eat much. Girard Burke’s interpretation of the tests and what they meant troubled him. He still intended to take the oath, but he had an uneasy feeling that he was about to take it without knowing what it signified—what the Patrol really was.

When the meal broke up, on sudden impulse he followed the cadet in charge of the table out. “Excuse me—Mr. Sabbatello, could I speak to you privately, sir?”

“Eh? I suppose so—come along.” He led Matt to his own room; it was exactly like Matt’s. “Now what is it?”

“Uh—Mr. Sabbatello, that crash today: was anybody hurt?”

“Hurt? It killed eleven people. Don’t you call that hurt?”

“Are you sure? Is it possible that it was a drone and nobody was inside?”

“It’s possible, but it’s not the case. I wish it were—the pilot was a friend of mine.”

“Oh—I’m sorry. But I had to know, for sure. You see, it’s very important to me.”

“Why?”

Matt sketched out Burke’s version of what had happened, without giving Burke’s name. As he talked, Sabbatello showed more and more annoyance. “I see,” he said, when Matt was done. “It is true that some of the tests are psychological rather than overt. But this matter of the crash—who fed you that nonsense?”

Matt did not say anything.

“Never mind. You can protect your informant—it won’t matter in the least in the long run. But about the crash—” He considered. “I’d give my word of honor to you—in fact I do—but if you accept the hypothesis your friend holds, then you won’t pay any attention to my sworn word.” He thought a moment. “Are you a Catholic?”

“Uh, nossir.” Matt was startled.

“It doesn’t matter. Do you know who Saint Barbara is?”

“Not exactly, sir. The field—”

“Yes, the field. She was a third-century martyr. The point is that she is the patron saint of all who deal with high explosives, rocket men among others.” He paused.

“If you go over to the chapel, you will find that a mass is scheduled during which Saint Barbara will be asked to intercede for the souls of the men who were lost this afternoon. I think you realize that no priest would lend his office to any such chicanery as your friend suggests?”

Matt nodded solemnly. “I see your point, sir. I don’t need to go to the chapel—I’ve found out what I needed to know.”

“Fine. You had better hightail it and get ready. It would be embarrassing to be late to your own swearing in.”

First Muster was scheduled for twenty-one o’clock in the auditorium. Matt was one of the first to arrive, scrubbed and neat and wearing a fresh coverall. A cadet took his name and told him to wait inside. The floor of the hall had been cleared of seats. Above the stage at the far end were the three closed circles of the Federation—Freedom, Peace, and Law, so intertwined that, if any one were removed, the other two would fall apart. Under them was the Patrol’s own sign, a star blazing in the night.

Tex was one of the last to show up. He was greeting Matt, breathlessly, when a cadet, speaking from the rostrum, called out, “Attention!

“Gather on the left side of the hall,” he went on. The candidates milled and shuffled into a compact group. “Remain where you are until muster. When your name is called, answer ‘Here!’, then walk across to the other side. You will find white guide lines on the deck there. Toe the lines to form ranks.”

Another cadet came down from the rostrum and moved toward the mass of boys. He stopped, picked a slip of paper from four such slips he held, and fixed Tex with his eye. “You, mister,” he said. “Take this.”

Jarman took it, but looked puzzled. “What for?”

“As well as answering to your own name, when you hear this name, speak up. Step out in front and sing out, ‘I answer for him!’”

Tex looked at the slip. Matt saw that it read: “John Martin.”

“But why?” demanded Tex.

The cadet looked at him. “You really don’t know?”

“Nary a notion.”

“Hmmph! Well, since the name doesn’t ring a bell, just take it that he is a classmate of yours who can’t be here tonight, in person. So you answer for him to make the muster complete. Get it?”

“Yes, sir. Can do.”

The cadet moved on down the line. Tex turned to Matt. “What gives, d’you s’pose?”

“It beats me.”

“Me, too. Well, we’ll probably find out.”

The cadet on the rostrum moved to stage left. “Silence!” he commanded. “The Commandant!”

From the rear entered two men dressed in the midnight black. The younger of them walked so that his sleeve brushed the elbow of his senior. They moved to the center of the platform; the younger man stopped. The elder halted immediately, whereupon the aide withdrew. The Commandant of the Academy stood facing the new class.

Or, rather, facing down the center of the hall. He stood still for a long moment; someone coughed and shuffled, at which he turned toward the group and faced them thereafter. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Seeing him, Matt was reminded strongly of Cadet Sabbatello’s protest: “Not
blind
, Mr. Dodson!” Commodore Arkwright’s eyes looked strange—the sockets were deep set and the eyelids drooped like a man in thought. Yet, as that sightless gaze rested on him, it seemed to Matt that the Commandant could not only see him but could peer inside his head.

“I welcome you to our fellowship. You come from many lands, some from other planets. You are of various colors and creeds. Yet you must and shall become a band of brothers.

“Some of you are homesick. You need not be. From this day on every part of this family of planets is your home, each place equally. Each living, thinking creature in this system is your neighbor—and your responsibility.

“You are about to take an oath, by your own choice, as a member of the Patrol of this our System. In time, you expect to become an officer of that Patrol. It is necessary that you understand the burden you assume. You expect to spend long hours studying your new profession, acquiring the skills of the spaceman and the arts of the professional soldier. These skills and arts you must have, but they will not make you an officer of the Patrol.”

He paused, then went on, “An officer in command of a ship of the Patrol, away from base, is the last of the absolute monarchs, for there is none but himself to restrain him. Many places where he must go no other authority reaches. He himself must embody law, and the rule of reason, justice and mercy.

“More than that, to the members of the Patrol singly and together is entrusted such awful force as may compel or destroy, all other force we know of—and with this trust is laid on them the charge to keep the peace of the System and to protect the liberties of its peoples. They are soldiers of freedom.

“It is not enough that you be skillful, clever, brave—The trustees of this awful power must each possess a meticulous sense of honor, self-discipline beyond all ambition, conceit, or avarice, respect for the liberties and dignity of all creatures, and an unyielding will to do justice and give mercy. He must be a true and gentle knight.”

He stopped and there was no sound at all in the huge room. Then he said, “Let those who are prepared to take the oath be mustered.”

The cadet who had been acting as adjutant stepped forward briskly. “Adams!”

“Uh—here, sir!” A candidate trotted across the room.

“Akbar.”

“Here!”

“Alvarado—”

“Anderson, Peter—”

“Anderson, John—”

“Angelico—”

Then, presently, it was, “Dana—Delacroix—DeWitt—Diaz—Dobbs,” and “Dodson!”

“Here!” shouted Matt. His voice squeaked but no one laughed. He hurried over to the other side, found a place and waited, panting. The muster went on:

“Eddy—Eisenhower—Ericsson—” Boys trickled across the room until few were left. “Sforza, Stanley, Suliman,” and then, finally: “Zahm!” The last candidate joined his fellows.

But the cadet did not stop. “Dahlquist!” he called out.

There was no answer.

“Dahlquist!” he repeated. “Ezra Dahlquist!”

Matt felt cold prickles around his scalp. He recognized the name now—but Dahlquist would not be here, not Ezra Dahlquist. Matt was sure of that, for he remembered an alcove in the rotunda, a young man in a picture, and the hot, bright sand of the Moon.

There was a stir in the rank behind him. A candidate pushed his way through and stepped forward. “I answer for Ezra Dahlquist!”