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Space Cadet.
Robert Anson Heinlein.
1948.
Reformatted from a scan, 2023.
CONTENTS
I TERRA BASE
II ELIMINATION PROCESS
III OVER THE BUMPS
IV FIRST MUSTER
V INTO SPACE
VI “READING, AND ‘RITING, AND ‘RITHMETIC.”
VII TO MAKE A SPACEMAN
VIII TERRA STATION
IX LONG HAUL
X GUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES?
XI P.R.S. AES TRIPLEX
XII P.R.S. PATHFINDER
XIII LONG WAY HOME
XIV “THE NATIVES ARE FRIENDLY.”
XV PIE WITH A FORK
XVI P.R.S. ASTARTE
XVII HOTCAKES FOR BREAKFAST
XVIII IN THE COMMANDANT’S OFFICE

Space Cadet.
Robert Anson Heinlein. 1948.
Reformatted from a scan, 2023.

SNAFU ON VENUS.
“I gather that you were sent here, in answer to my message?”
“Certainly,” Matt said.
“Thank heaven for that-even if you guys were stupid enough to stumble right into it. Now tell me-how many are there in the expedition. This is going to be a tough nut to crack.”
“This is the expedition, right in front of you.”
“What? This is no time to joke. I sent for a regiment of marines, equipped for amphibious operations.”
“Maybe you did, but this is what you got. What’s the situation?”
Burke seemed dazed. “It’s no use,” he said. “It’s utterly hopeless.”
“What’s so hopeless? The natives seem friendly, on the whole. Tell us what the difficulty was, so we can work it out with them.”
“Friendly!” Burke gave a bitter laugh. “They killed all of my men. They’re going to kill me. And they’ll kill you too.”

One. TERRA BASE.
“To MATTHEW BROOKS DODSON,” the paper in his hand read, “greetings:
“Having successfully completed the field elimination tests for appointment to the position of cadet in the Interplanetary Patrol you are authorized to report to the Commandant, Terra Base, Santa Barbara Field, Colorado, North American Union, Terra, on or before One July 2075, for further examination.
“You are cautioned to remember that the majority of candidates taking these final tests usually fail and you should provide.”
Matt folded the paper and stuck it back in his belt pouch. He did not care to think about the chance of failure. The passenger across from him, a boy about his own age, caught his eye. “That paper looks familiar, you a candidate too?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, shake! M’name’s Jarman-I’m from Texas.”
“Glad to know you, Tex. I’m Matt Dodson, from Des Moines.”
“Howdy, Matt. We ought to be about there.” The car sighed softly and slowed; their chairs rocked to meet the rapid deceleration. The car stopped and their chairs swung back to normal position. “We are there,” Jarman finished.
The telescreen at the end of the car, busy a moment before with a blonde beauty demonstrating Sorkin’s Super-Stellar Soap, now read: TERRA BASE STATION. The two boys grabbed their bags, and hurried out. A moment later, they were on the escalator, mounting to the surface.
Facing the station a half mile away in the cool, thin air stood Hayworth Hall, Earth headquarters of the fabulous Patrol. Matt stared at it, trying to realize that he was at last seeing it.
Jarman nudged him. “Come on.”
“Huh? Oh-sure.” A pair of slidewalks stretched from the station to the hall; they stepped onto the one running toward the building. The slidewalk was crowded; more boys streamed out of the station behind them. Matt noticed two boys with swarthy, thin features who were wearing high, tight turbans, although dressed otherwise much like himself. Further down the walk he glimpsed a tall, handsome youth whose impassive face was shiny black.
The Texas boy hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked around.
“Granny, kill another chicken!” he said. “There’s company for dinner.
Speaking of that,” he went on, “I hope they don’t wait lunch too long. I’m hungry.”
Matt dug a candy bar out of his pouch, split it and gave half to Jarman, who accepted it gratefully. “You’re a pal, Matt, I’ve been living on my own fat ever since breakfast, and that’s risky. Say, your telephone is sounding.”
“Oh!” Matt fumbled in his pouch and got out his phone. “Hello?”
“That you, son?” came his father’s voice.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Did you get there all right?”
“Sure, I’m about to report in.”

“How’s your leg?”
“Leg’s all right, Dad.” His answer was not frank; his right leg, fresh from a corrective operation for a short Achilles’ tendon, was aching as he spoke.
“That’s good. Now see here, Matt-if it should work out that you aren’t selected, don’t let it get you down. You call me at once and.”
“Sure, sure, Dad,” Matt broke in. “I’ll have to sign off-I’m in a crowd.
Good-by. Thanks for calling.”
“Good-by, son. Good luck.”
Tex Jarman looked at him understandingly. “Your folks always worry, don’t they? I fooled mine-packed my phone in my bag.” The slidewalk swung in a wide curve preparatory to heading back; they stepped off with the crowd, in front of Hayworth Hall. Tex paused to read the inscription over the great doorway. “Quis custody, what does it say, Matt?”
“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. That’s Latin for: Who will watch the guardians?”
“You read Latin, Matt?”
“No, I just remember that bit from a book about the Patrol.”
The rotunda of Hayworth Hall was enormous and seemed even larger, for, despite brilliant lighting at the floor level, the domed ceiling gave back no reflection at all; it was midnight black-black and studded with stars. Familiar stars-blazing Orion faced the tossing head of Taurus; the homely shape of the Dipper balanced on its battered handle at north-northeast horizon; just south of overhead the Seven Sisters shone.
The illusion of being outdoors at night was most persuasive. The lighted walls and floor at the level at which people walked and talked and hurried
seemed no more than a little band of light, a circle of warmth and comfort, against the awful depth of space, like prairie schooners drawn up for the night under a sharp desert sky.
The boys caught their breaths, as did everyone who saw it for the first time. But they could not stop to wonder as something else demanded their attention. The floor of the rotunda was sunk many feet below the level at which they entered; they stood on a balcony which extended around the great room to enclose a huge, shallow, circular pit. In this pit a battered spaceship lurched on a bed of rock and sand as if it had crash-landed from the mimic sky above.
“It’s the Kilroy.” Tex said, almost as if he doubted it.
“It must be,” Matt agreed in a whisper.
They moved to the balcony railing and read a plaque posted there:
USSF Rocket Ship Kilroy Was Here.
FIRST INTERPLANETARY SHIP.
From Terra to Mars and return-Lieut. Colonel Robert deFries Sims, Commanding; Captain Saul S. Abrams; Master Sergeant Malcolm MacGregor.
None survived the return landing. Rest in Peace.
They crowded next to two other boys and stared at the Kilroy. Tex nudged Matt. “See the gash in the dirt, where she skidded? Say, do you suppose they just built right over her, where she lays’
One of the other two-a big-boned six-footer with tawny hair-answered,
“No, the Kilroy landed in North Africa.”
“Then they must have fixed it to look like where she crashed. You a candidate too?”
“That’s right.”
Tm Bill Jarman-from Texas. And this is Matt Dodson.”
“I’m Oscar Jensen-and this is Pierre Armand.”
“Howdy, Oscar. Glad to know you, Pierre.”
“Call me Pete,” Armand acknowledged. Matt noticed that he spoke Basic English with an accent, but Matt was unable to place it. Oscar’s speech was strange, too-a suggestion of a lisp. He turned back to the ship.
“Imagine having the guts to go out into space in a cracker box like that,” he said. “It scares me to think about it”
“Me, too,” agreed Oscar Jensen.
“It’s a dirty shame,” Pierre said, softly.
“What is, Pete?” Jarman demanded.
“That their luck didn’t hold. You can see it was an almost perfect landing-they didn’t just crash in, or there would have been nothing left but a hole in the ground.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Say, there’s a stairway down over on the far side-see it, Matt? Do you suppose we could look through her?”
“Maybe,” Matt told him, “but I think we had better put it off. We’ve got to report in, you know.”
“We had all better check in,” agreed Jensen. “Coming, Pete?”
Armand reached for his bag. Oscar Jensen pushed him aside and picked it up with his own. “That’s not necessary!” Armand protested, but Oscar ignored him.
Jarman looked at Pierre. “You sick, Pete?” he asked. “I noticed you looked kind of peaked. What’s the trouble?”
“If you are,” put in Matt, “ask for a delay.”
Armand looked embarrassed. “He’s not sick and he’ll pass the exams,”
Jensen said firmly. “Forget it.”
“Sho’, sho’,” Tex agreed. They followed the crowd and found a notice which told all candidates to report to room 3108, third corridor. They located corridor three, stepped on the slideway, and put down their baggage.
“Say, Matt,” said Tex, “tell me-who was Kilroy?”
“Let me see,” Matt answered. “He was somebody in the Second Global War, an admiral, I think. Yeah, Admiral Bull Kilroy, that sounds right.”
“Funny they’d name it after an admiral.”
“He was a flying admiral.”
“You’re a savvy cuss,” Tex said admiringly. “I think I’ll stick close to you during the tests.”
Matt brushed it off. “Just a fact I happened to pick up.”
In room 3108 a decorative young lady waved aside their credentials but demanded their thumb prints. She fed these into a machine at her elbow.
The machine quickly spit out instruction sheets headed by the name, serial number, thumb print, and photograph of each candidate, together with temporary messing and rooming assignments.
The girl handed out the sheets and told them to wait next door. She abruptly turned away.
“I wish she hadn’t been so brisk,” complained Tex, as they went out. “I wanted to get her telephone code. Say,” he went on, studying his sheet, “there’s no time left on here for a siesta.”
“Did you expect it?” asked Matt.
“Nope-but I can hope, can’t I?”
The room next door was filled with benches but the benches were filled with boys. Jarman stopped at a bench which was crowded by three large cases, an ornate portable refresher kit, and a banjo case. A pink-faced youth sat next to this. “Your stuff?” Tex asked him.
The young man grudgingly admitted it. “You won’t mind if we move it and sit down,” Tex went on. He started putting the items on the floor. The owner looked sulky but said nothing.
There was room for three. Tex insisted that the others sit down, then sat down on his bag and leaned against Matt’s knees, with his legs stretched out.
His footwear, thus displayed, were seen to be fine western boots, high-heeled and fancy.
A candidate across from them stared at the boots, then spoke to the boy next to him. “Pipe the cowboy!”
Tex snorted and started to get up. Matt put a hand on his shoulder, shoving him back. “It’s not worth it, Tex. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”
Oscar nodded agreement. “Take it easy, fellow.”
Tex subsided. “Well-all right. Just the same,” he added, “my Uncle Bodie would stuff a man’s feet in his mouth for less than that.” He glared at the boy across from him.
Pierre Armand leaned over and spoke to Tex. “Excuse me-but are those really shoes for riding on horses?”
“Huh? What do you think they are? Skis?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! But you see, I’ve never seen a horse.”
“What?”
“I have,” announced Oscar, “in the zoo, that is.”
“In a zoo?” repeated Tex.
“In the zoo at New Auckland.”
“Oh.” said Tex. “I get it. You’re a Venus colonial.” Matt then recalled where he had heard Oscar’s vaguely familiar lisp before-in the speech of a visiting lecturer. Tex turned to Pierre. “Pete, are you from Venus, too?”
“No, I’m.” Pete’s voice was drowned out.
“Attention, please! Quiet!” The speaker was dressed in the severely plain, oyster-white uniform of a space cadet. “All of you,” he went on, speaking into a hand amplifier, “who have odd serial numbers come with me. Bring your baggage. Even numbers wait where you are.”
“Odd numbers?” said Tex. “That’s me!” He jumped up.
Matt looked at his instructions. “Me, too!”
The cadet came down the aisle in front of them. Matt and Tex waited for him to pass. The cadet did not hold himself erectly; he crouched the merest trifle, knees relaxed and springy, hands ready to grasp. His feet glided softly over the floor. The effect was catlike, easy grace; Matt felt that if the room were suddenly to turn topsy-turvy the cadet would land on his feet on the ceiling-which was perfectly true.
Matt wanted very much to look like him.
As the cadet was passing, the boy with the plentiful baggage plucked at his sleeve. “Hey, mister!”
The cadet turned suddenly and crouched, then checked himself as quickly. “Yes?”
“I’ve got an odd number, but I can’t carry all this stuff. Who can I get to help me?”
“You can’t.” The cadet prodded the pile with his toe. “All of this is yours?”
“Yes. What do I do? I can’t leave it here. Somebody’ll steal it.”
“I can’t see why anyone would.” The cadet eyed the pile with distaste.
“Lug it back to the station and ship it home. Or throw it away.”
The youngster looked blank. “You’ll have to, eventually,” the cadet went on. “When you make the lift to the school ship, twenty pounds is your total allowance.”
“But. Well, suppose I do, who’s to help me get it to the station?”
“That’s your problem. If you want to be in the Patrol, you’ll have to learn to cope with problems.”
“But.”
“Shut up.” The cadet turned away. Matt and Tex trailed along.
Five minutes later Matt, naked as an egg, was stuffing his bag and clothes into a sack marked with his serial number. As ordered, he filed through a door, clutching his orders and a remnant of dignity. He found himself in a gang refresher which showered him, scrubbed him, rinsed him, and blew him dry again, assembly-line style. His instruction sheet was waterproof; he shook from it a few clinging drops.
For two hours he was prodded, poked, thumped, photographed, weighed, X-rayed, injected, sampled, and examined until he was bewildered. He saw Tex once, in another queue. Tex waved, slapped his own bare ribs, and shivered. Matt started to speak but his own line started up.
The medicos examined his repaired leg, making him exercise it, inquired the date of the operation, and asked if it hurt him. He found himself admitting that it did. More pictures were taken; more tests were made. Presently he was told, “That’s all. Get back into line.”
“Is it all right, sir?” Matt blurted out.
“Probably. You’ll be given some exercises. Get along.”
After a long time he came into a room in which several boys were dressing. His path took him across a weighing platform; his body interrupted electric-eye beams. Relays closed, an automatic sequence took place based on his weight, height, and body dimensions. Presently a package slid down a chute and plunked down in front of him.
It contained an undergarment, a blue coverall, a pair of soft boots, all in his size.
The blue uniform he viewed as a makeshift, since he was anxious to swap it for the equally plain, but oyster white, uniform of a cadet. The shoes delighted him. He zipped them on, relishing their softness and glovelike fit. It seemed as if he could stand on a coin and call it, heads or tails. “Cat feet”, his first space boots! He took a few steps, trying to walk like the cadet he had seen earlier.
“Dodson!”
“Coming.” He hurried out and shortly found himself thrust into a room with an older man in civilian clothes.
“Sit down. I’m Joseph Kelly.” He took Matt’s instruction sheet. “Matthew Dodson, nice to know you, Matt.”
“How do you do, Mister Kelly.”
“Not too badly. Why do you want to join the Patrol, Matt?”
“Why, uh, because.” Matt hesitated. “Well, to tell the truth, sir, I’m so confused right now that I’m darned if I know!”
Kelly chuckled. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard today. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Matt?” The talk wandered along, with Kelly encouraging Matt to talk. The questions were quite personal, but Matt was sophisticated enough to realize that “Mister Kelly” was probably a psychiatrist; he stammered once or twice but he tried to answer honestly.
“Can you tell me now why you want to be in the Patrol?”
Matt thought about it “I’ve wanted, to go out into space ever since I can remember.”
“Travel around, see strange planets and strange people, that’s understandable, Matt. But why not the merchant service? The Academy is a long, hard grind, and it’s three to one you won’t finish, even if you are sworn in as a cadet, and not more than a quarter of the candidates will pass muster.
But you could enter the merchant school-I could have you transferred today-and with your qualifications you’d be a cinch to win your pilot’s ticket before you are twenty. How about it?”
Matt looked stubborn.
“Why not, Matt? Why insist on trying to be an officer of the Patrol? They’ll turn you inside out and break your heart and no one will thank you for your greatest efforts. They’ll make you over into a man your own mother wouldn’t recognize-and you won’t be any happier for it. Believe me, fellow-I know.”
Matt did not say anything.
“You still want to try it, knowing chances are against you?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I do.”
“Why, Matt?”
Matt still hesitated. Finally he answered in a low voice. “Well, people look up to an officer in the Patrol.”
Mister Kelly looked at him. “That’s enough reason for now, Matt. You’ll find others-or quit.” A clock on the wall suddenly spoke up:
“Thirteen o’clock! Thirteen o’clock!” Then it added thoughtfully, “I’m hungry.”
“Mercy me!” said Kelly. “So am I. Let’s go to lunch, Matt.”

Two.
ELIMINATION PROCESS.
Mattes instructions told him to mess at table 147, East Refectory.
A map on the back of the sheet showed where East Refectory was; unfortunately he did not know where Matt was-he had gotten turned around in the course of the morning’s rat race. He ran into no one at first but august personages in the midnight black of officers of the Patrol and he could not bring himself to stop one of them.
Eventually he got oriented by working back to the rotunda and starting over, but it made him about ten minutes late. He walked down an endless line of tables, searching for number 147 and feeling very conspicuous. He was quite pink by the time he located it.
There was a cadet at the head of the table; the others wore the coveralls of candidates. The cadet looked up and said, “Sit down, mister-over there on the right. Why are you late?”
Matt gulped. “I got lost, sir.”
Someone tittered. The cadet sent a cold glance down the table. “You. You with the silly horse laugh-what’s your name?”
“Uh, Schultz, sir.”
“Mister Schultz, there is nothing funny about an honest answer. Have you never been lost?”
“Why, Well, uh, once or twice, maybe.”
“Hum, I shall be interested in seeing your work in astrogation, if you get that far.” The cadet turned back to Matt. “Aren’t you hungry? What’s your name?”
“Yes, sir. Matthew Dodson, sir.” Matt looked hurriedly at the controls in front of him, decided against soup, and punched the “entree,” “dessert,” and “milk” buttons. The cadet was still watching him as the table served him.
“I am Cadet Sabbatello. Don’t you like soup, Mister Dodson?”
“Yes, sir, but I was in a hurry.”
“There’s no hurry. Soup is good for you.” Cadet Sabbatello stretched an arm and punched Matt’s “soup” button. “Besides, it gives the chef a chance to clean up the galley.” The cadet turned away, to Matt’s relief. He ate heartily. The soup was excellent, but the rest of the meal seemed dull compared with what he had been used to at home.
He kept his ears open. One remark of the cadet stuck in his memory. “Mister van Zook, in the Patrol we never ask a man where he is from. It is all right for Mister Romolus to volunteer that he comes from Manila; it is incorrect for you to ask him.”

The afternoon was jammed with tests; intelligence, muscular control, reflex, reaction time, sensory response. Others required him to do two or more things at once. Some seemed downright silly. Matt did the best he could.
He found himself at one point entering a room containing nothing but a large, fixed chair. A loudspeaker addressed him: “Strap yourself into the chair. The grips on the arms of the chair control a spot of light on the wall.
When the lights go out, you will see a lighted circle. Center your spot of light in the circle and keep it centered.”
Matt strapped himself down. A bright spot of light appeared on the wall in front of him. He found that the control in his right hand moved the spot up and down, while the one in his left hand moved it from side to side. “Easy!” Matt told himself. “I wish they would start.”
The lights in the room went out; the lighted target circle bobbed slowly up and down. He found it not too difficult to bring his spot of light into the circle and match the bobbing motion.
Then his chair turned upside down.
When he recovered from his surprise at finding himself hanging head down in the dark, he saw that the spot of light had drifted away from the circle. Frantically he brought them together, swung past and had to correct.
The chair swung one way, the circle another, and a loud explosion took place at his left ear. The chair bucked and teetered; a jolt of electricity convulsed his hands and he lost the circle entirely.
Matt began to get sore. He forced his spot back to the circle and nailed it.
“Gotcha!”
Smoke poured through the room, making him cough, watering his eyes, and veiling the target. He squinted and; hung on grimly, intent only on hanging onto that pesky circle of light-through more explosions, screaming painful noise, flashing lights, wind in his eyes, and endless, crazy emotions of his chair.
Suddenly the room lights flared up, and the mechanical voice said: “Test completed. Carry out your next assignment.”
Once he was given a handful of beans and a small bottle, and was told to sit down and place the bottle at a mark on the floor and locate in his mind the exact position of the bottle. Then he was to close his eyes and drop the beans one at a time into the bottle-if possible.
He could tell from the sound that he was not making many hits, but he was mortified to find, when he opened his eyes, that only one bean rested in the bottle.
He hid the bottom of his bottle in his fist and queued up at the examiner’s desk. Several of those lined up had a goodly number of beans in their bottles, although he noted two with no beans at all. Presently he handed his bottle to the examiner. “Dodson, Matthew, sir. One bean.”
The examiner noted it without comment. Matt blurted out, “Excuse me, sir-but what’s to keep a person from cheating by peeking?”
The examiner smiled. “Nothing at all. Go on to your next test.”
Matt left, grumbling. It did not occur to him that he might not know what was being tested.
Late in the day he was ushered into a cubbyhole containing a chair, a gadget mounted on a desk, pencil and paper, and framed directions.
“If any score from a previous test,” Matt read, “appears in the window marked SCORE, return the starting lever to the position marked NEUTRAL to clear the board for your test.”
Matt found the window labeled “SCORE”; it had a score showing in it.”37.”
Well, he thought, that gives me a mark to shoot at. He decided not to clear the board until he had read the instructions.
“After the test starts,” he read, “a score of 1 will result each time you press the left hand button except as otherwise provided here below. Press the Left hand button whenever the red light appears provided the green light is not lighted as well except that no button should be pressed when the right hand gate is open unless all lights are out. If the right-hand gate is open and the left hand gate is closed, no score will result from pressing any button, but the left hand button must nevertheless be pressed under these circumstances if all other conditions permit a button to be pressed before any score may be made in succeeding phases of the test. To put out the green light, press the right hand button. If the left hand gate is not closed, no button may be pressed. If the left hand gate is closed while the red light is lighted, do not press the left hand button if the green light is out unless the right hand gate is open. To start the test move the starting lever from neutral all the way to the right. The test runs for two minutes from the time you move the starting lever to the right. Study these instructions, then select your own time for commencing the test. You are not permitted to ask questions of the examiner, so be sure that you understand the instructions. Make as high a score as possible.”
“Whew!” said Matt.
Still, the test looked simple-one lever, two pushbuttons, two colored lights, two little gates. Once he mastered the instructions, it would be as easy as flying a kite, and a durn sight simpler than flying a copter! Matt had had his copter license since he was twelve. He got to work.
First, he told himself, there seems to be just two ways to make a score, one with the red light on and one with both lights out and one gate open.
Now for the other instructions. Let’s see, if the left hand gate is not closed-no, if the left hand gate is closed-he stopped and read them over again.
Some minutes later he had sixteen possible positions of gates and conditions of lights listed. He checked them against the instructions, Seeking scoring combinations. When he was through he stared at the result, then checked everything over again.
After rechecking he stared at the paper, whistled tunelessly, and scratched his head. Then he picked up the paper, left the booth, and went to the examiner.
That official looked up. “No questions, please.”
“I don’t have a question,” Matt said. “I want to report something. There’s something wrong with that test. Maybe the wrong instructions sheet was put in there. In any case, there is no possible way to make a score under the instructions that are in there.”
“Oh, come, now!” the examiner answered. “Are you sure of that?”
Matt hesitated, then answered firmly, “I’m sure of it, Want to see my proof?”
“No, your name is Dodson?” The examiner glanced at a timer, then wrote on a chart. “That’s all.”
“But. Don’t I get a chance to make a score?”
“No questions, please! I’ve recorded your score. Get along, it’s dinner time.”
There were a large number of vacant places at dinner. Cadet Sabbatello looked down the long table. “I see there have been some casualties,” he remarked. “Congratulations, gentlemen, for having survived thus far.”
“Sir-does that mean we’ve passed all the tests we took today?” one of the candidates asked.
“Or at least won a retest. You haven’t flunked.” Matt sighed with relief.
“Don’t get your hopes up. There will be still fewer of you here tomorrow.”
“Does it get worse?” the candidate went on.
Sabbatello grinned wickedly. “Much worse. I advise you all to eat little at breakfast. However,” he went on, “I have good news, too.
It is rumored that the Commandant himself is coming down to Terra to honor you “with his presence when you are sworn in-if you are sworn in.”
Most of those present looked blank. The cadet glanced around. “Come, come, gentlemen!” he said sharply. “Surely not all of you are that ignorant.
You!” He addressed Matt. “Mister, uh-Dodson. You seem to have some glimmering of what I am talking about. Why should you feel honored at the presence of the Commandant?”
Matt gulped. “Do you mean the Commandant of the Academy, sir?”
“Naturally. What do you know about him?”
“Well, sir, he’s Commodore Arkwright.” Matt stopped, as if the name were explanation.
“And what distinguishes Commodore Arkwright?”
“Uh, he’s blind, sir.”
“Not blind, Mister Dodson, not blind! It simply happens that he had his eyes burned out. How did he lose his eyesight?” The cadet stopped him. “No don’t tell them. Let them find out for themselves.”
The cadet resumed eating and Matt did likewise, while thinking about Commodore Arkwright. He himself had been too young to pay attention to the news, but his father had read an account of the event to him-a spectacular, single-handed rescue of a private yacht in distress, inside the orbit of Mercury. He had forgotten just how the Patrol officer had exposed his eyes to the Sun-something to do with transferring the yacht’s personnel-but he could still hear his father reading the end of the report:
“These actions are deemed to be in accordance with the tradition of the Patrol.”
He wondered if any action of his would ever receive that superlative distinction. Unlikely, he decided; “duty satisfactorily performed” was about the best an ordinary man could hope for.
Matt ran into Tex Jarman as he left the mess hall. Tex pounded him on the back. “Glad to see you, kid. Where are you rooming?”
“I haven’t had time to look up my room yet.”
“Let’s see your sheet.” Jarman took it. “We’re in the same corridor-swell.
Let’s go up.”
They found the room and walked in. Sprawled on the lower of two bunks, reading and smoking a cigarette, was another candidate. He looked up.
“Enter, comrades,” he said, “Don’t bother to knock.”
“We didn’t,” said Tex.
“So I see.” The boy sat up. Matt recognized the boy who had made the crack about Tex’s boots. He decided to say nothing-perhaps they would not recognize each other. The lad continued, “Looking for someone?”
“No,” Matt answered, “this is the room I’m assigned to.”
“My roommate, eh? Welcome to the palace. Don’t trip over the dancing girls. I put your stuff on your bed.”
The sack containing Matt’s bag and civilian clothes rested on the upper bunk. He dragged it down.
“What do you mean, his bed?” demanded Tex. “You ought to match for the lower bunk.”
Matt’s roommate shrugged. “First come, first served.”
Tex clouded up. “Forget it, Tex,” Matt told him. “I prefer the upper. By the way,” he went on, to the other boy, “I’m Matt Dodson.”
“Girard Burke, at your service.”
The room was adequate but austere. Matt slept in a hydraulic bed at home, but he had used mattress beds in summer camp. The adjoining refresher was severely functional but very modern. Matt noted with pleasure that the shower was installed with robot massage. There was no shave mask, but shaving was not yet much of a chore.
In his wardrobe he found a package, marked with his serial number, containing two sets of clothing and a second pair of space boots. He stowed them and his other belongings; then turned to Tex. “Well, what’ll we do now?”
“Let’s look around the joint.”
“Fine. Maybe we can go through the Kilroy.”
Burke chucked his cigarette toward the oubliette. “Wait a sec. I’ll go with you.” He disappeared into the ‘fresher.
Tex said in a low voice. “Tell him to go fly a kite, Matt.”
“It’ud be a pleasure. But I’d rather get along with him, Tex.”
“Well, maybe they’ll eliminate him tomorrow.”
“Or me.” Matt smiled wryly.

“Or me. Shucks, no, Matt-we’ll get by. Have you thought about a permanent roomie? Want to team up?”
“It’s a deal.” They shook hands.
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Tex went on. “My cellmate is a nice little guy, but he’s got a blood brother, or some such, he wants to room with. Came to see him before dinner. They chattered away in Hindustani, I guess it was. Made me nervous. Then they shifted to Basic out of politeness, and that made me more nervous.”
“You don’t look like the nervous type.”
“Oh, all us Jarmans are high strung. Take my Uncle Bodie. Got so excited at the county fair he jumped between the shafts of a sulky and won two heats before they could catch him and throw him.”
“Is that so?”
“My solemn word. Didn’t pay off, though. They disqualified him because he wasn’t a two-year-old.”
Burke joined them and they sauntered down to the rotunda. Several hundred other candidates had had the same idea but the administration had anticipated the rush. A cadet stationed at the stairway into the pit was permitting visitors in parties of ten only, each party supervised by a cadet.
Burke eyed the queue. “Simple arithmetic tells me there’s no point in waiting.”
Matt hesitated. Tex said, “Come on, Matt. Some will get tired and drop out.”
Burke shrugged, said, “So long, suckers,” and wandered away.
Matt said doubtfully, “I think he’s right, Tex.”
“Sure-but I got rid of him, didn’t I?”
The entire rotunda was a museum and memorial hall of the Patrol. The boys found display after display arranged around the walls-the original log of the first ship to visit Mars, a photo of the take-off of the disastrous first Venus expedition, a model of the German rockets used in the Second Global War, a hand-sketched map of the far side of the Moon, found in the wrecked Kilroy.
They came to an alcove the back wall of which was filled by a stereo picture of an outdoor scene. They entered and found themselves gazing, in convincing illusion, out across a hot and dazzling lunar plain, with black sky, stars, and Mother Terra herself in the background.
In the foreground, life size, was a young man dressed in an old-fashioned pressure suit. His features could be seen clearly through his helmet, big mouth, merry eyes, and thick sandy hair cut in the style of the previous century.
Under the picture was a line of lettering: Lieutenant Ezra. Dahlquist, Who Helped Create the Tradition of the Patrol. 1969 to 1996.
Matt whispered, “There ought to be a notice posted somewhere to tell us what he did.”
“I don’t see any,” Tex whispered back. “Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not-yes, I guess I was. After all, he can’t hear us, can he? Oh-there’s a vocal!”
“Well, punch it.”
Matt pressed the button; the alcove filled with the first bars of Beethoven’s Fifth. The music gave way to a voice: “The Patrol was originally made up of officers sent to it by each of the nations then in the Western Federation. Some were trustworthy, some were not. In 1996 came a day shameful and glorious in the history of the Patrol, an attempted coup d’etat, the so called Revolt of the Colonels. A cabal of high-ranking officers, acting from Moon Base, tried to seize power over the entire world. The plot would have been successful had not Lieutenant Dahlquist disabled every atom-bomb rocket at Moon Base by removing the fissionable material from each and wrecking the triggering mechanisms. In so doing he received so much radiation that he died of his burns.”
The voice stopped and was followed by the Valhalla theme from Gotterdammerung.
Tex let out a long sigh; Matt realized that he had been holding his own breath. He let it go, then took another; it seemed to relieve the ache in his chest.
They heard a chuckle behind them. Girard Burke was leaning against the frame of the alcove. “They go to a lot of trouble to sell it around here,” he remarked. “Better watch it, me lads, or you will find yourselves buying it.”
“What do you mean by that? Sell what?”
Burke gestured toward the picture. “That. And the plug that goes with it. If you care for that sort of thing, there are three more, one at each cardinal point of the compass.”
Matt stared at him. “What’s the matter with you, Burke? Don’t you want to be in the Patrol?”
Burke laughed. “Sure I do. But I’m a practical man; I don’t have to be bamboozled into it by a lot of emotional propaganda.” He pointed to the picture of Ezra Dahlquist. “Take him. They don’t tell you he disobeyed orders of his superior officer-if things had fallen the other way, he’d be called a traitor. Besides that, they don’t mention that it was sheer clumsiness that got him burned. Do you expect me to think he was a superman?”
Matt turned red. “No, I wouldn’t expect it.” He took a step forward. “But, since you are a practical man, how would you like a nice, practical punch in the snoot?”
Burke was no larger than Matt and a shade shorter, but he leaned forward, balanced on the balls of his feet, and said softly, “I’d love it. You and who else?”
Tex stepped forward. “I’m the who else.”
“Stay out of this, Tex!” Matt snapped.
“I will not! I don’t believe in wasting fair fighting on my social inferiors.”
“Stay out, I tell you!”
“Nope, I want a piece of this. You slug him and I’ll kick him in the stomach as he goes down.”
Burke looked at Jarman, and relaxed, as if he knew that the fighting moment was past. “Tut, tut, Gentlemen! You’re squabbling among yourselves.” He turned away. “Goodnight, Dodson. Don’t wake me coming in.”
Tex was still fuming. “We should have let him have it. He’ll make your life miserable until you slap him down. My Uncle Bodie says the way to deal with that sort of pimple is to belt him around until he apologizes.”
“And get kicked out of the Patrol before we’re in it? I let him get me mad, so that puts him one up. Come on, let’s see what else there is to see.”
But Call-to-Quarters sounded before they worked around to the next of the four alcoves. Matt said good night to Tex at his door and went inside.
Burke was asleep or shamming. Matt peeled off his clothes, shinnied up into his bunk, looked for the light switch, spotted it, and ordered it to switch off.
The unfriendly presence under him made him restless, but he was almost asleep when he recalled that he had not called his father back. The thought awakened him. Presently he became aware of a vague ache somewhere inside him. Was he coming down with something?
Could it be that he was homesick? At his age? The longer he considered it the more likely it seemed, much as he hated to admit it. He was still pondering it when he fell asleep.

THREE. OVER THE BUMPS.
The next morning Burke ignored the trouble they had had; he made no mention of it. He was even moderately cooperative about sharing the fresher. But Matt was glad to hear the call to breakfast.
Table 147 was not where it should be. Puzzled, Matt moved down the line until he found a table marked “147 to 149,” with Cadet Sabbatello in charge. He found a place and sat down, to find himself sitting next to Pierre Armand. “Well! Pete!” he greeted him. “How are things going?”
“Glad to see you, Matt. Well enough, I guess.” His tone seemed doubtful.
Matt looked him over. Pete seemed “dragged through a knothole” was the phrase Matt settled on. He was about to ask what was wrong when Cadet Sabbatello rapped on the table. “Apparently,” said the cadet, “some of you gentlemen have forgotten my advice last night, to eat sparingly this morning. You are about to go over the bumps today-and ground-hogs have been known to lose their breakfasts as well as their dignity.”
Matt looked startled. He had intended to order his usual lavish breakfast; he settled for milk toast and tea. He noticed that Pete had ignored the cadet’s advice; he was working on a steak, potatoes, and fried eggs-whatever ailed Pete, Matt decided, it had not affected his appetite.
Cadet Sabbatello had also noticed it. He leaned toward Pete. “Mister, uh.”
“Armand, sir,” Pete answered between bites.
“Mister Armand, either you have the digestion of a Martian sandworm, or you thought I was joking. Don’t you expect to be dropsick?”
“No, sir.”
“No?”
“You see, sir, I was born on Ganymede.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon. Have another steak. How are you doing?”
“Pretty well, on the whole, sir.”
“Don’t be afraid to ask for dispensations. You’ll find that everyone around here understands your situation.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I mean it. Don’t play iron man. There’s no sense in it.”
After breakfast, Matt fell in step with Armand. “Say, Pete, I see why Oscar carried your bag yesterday. Excuse me for being a stupe.”
Pete looked self-conscious. “Not at all. Oscar has been looking out for me-I met him on the trip down from Terra Station.”
Matt nodded. “I see.” He had no expert knowledge of interplanetary schedules, but he realized that Oscar, coming from Venus, and Pete, coming from one of Jupiter’s moons, would-have to change ships at the artificial satellite of Earth called Terra Station, before taking the shuttle rocket down.
It accounted for the two boys being well acquainted despite cosmically different backgrounds. “How do you feel?” he went on.
Pete hesitated. “As a matter of fact, I feel as if I were wading in quicksand up to my neck. Every move is an effort.”
“Gee, that’s too bad! Just what is the surface gravity on Ganymede?
About one-third Gee isn’t it?”
“Thirty-two percent. Or from my point of view, everything here weighs three times as much as it ought to. Including me.”
Matt nodded. “As if two other guys were riding on you, one on your shoulders, and one on your back.”
“That’s about it. The worst of it is, my feet hurt all the time. I’ll get over it.”
“Sure you will!
“Since. I’m of Earth ancestry and potentially just as strong as my grandfather was. Back home, I’d been working out in the centrifuge the last couple of earth-years. I’m a lot stronger than I used to be. There’s Oscar.”
Matt greeted Oscar, then hurried to his room to phone his father in private.
A copter transport hopped Matt and some fifty other candidates to the site of the variable acceleration test-in cadet slang, the “Bumps.” It was west of the base, in the mountains, in order to have a sheer cliff for free fall. They landed on a loading platform at the edge of this cliff and joined a throng of other candidates. It was a crisp Colorado morning. They were near the timberline; gaunt evergreens, twisted by the winds, surrounded the clearing.
From a building just beyond the platform two steel skeletons ran vertically down the face of the two-thousand-foot cliff. They looked like open frames for elevators, which one of them was. The other was a guide for the testing car during the drop down the cliff.
Matt crowded up to the rail and leaned over. The lower ends of the skeleton frameworks disappeared, a dizzy distance below, in the roof of a building notched into the sloping floor of the canyon. He was telling himself that he hoped the engineer who had designed the thing knew what he was doing when he felt a dig in the ribs. It was Tex. “Some roller coaster, eh, Matt?”
“Hi, Tex. That’s an understatement if I ever heard one.”
The candidate on Matt’s left spoke up. “Do you mean to say we ride down that thing?”
“No less,” Tex answered. “Then they gather the pieces up in a basket and haul ‘em up the other one.”
“How fast does it go?”
“You’ll see in a mom, Hey! Thar she blows!”
A silvery, windowless car appeared inside one guide frame, at its top. It poised for a split second, then dropped. It dropped and dropped and dropped, gathering speed, until it disappeared with what seemed incredible velocity, actually about two hundred and fifty miles per hour-into the building below. Matt braced himself for the crash. None came, and he caught his breath.
Seconds later the car reappeared at the foot of the other framework. It seemed to crawl; actually it was accelerating rapidly during the first half of the climb. It passed from view into the building at the top of the cliff.
“Squad nine!” a loudspeaker bawled behind them.
Tex let out a sigh “Here I go, Matt,” he said. “Tell mother my last words were of her. You can have my stamp collection.” He shook hands and walked away.
The candidate who had spoken before gulped; Matt saw that he was quite pale. Suddenly he took off in the same direction but did not line up with the squad; instead he went up to the cadet mustering the squad and spoke to him, briefly and urgently. The cadet shrugged and motioned him away from the group.
Matt found himself feeling sympathetic rather than contemptuous.
His own test group was mustered next. He and his fellows were conducted into the upper building, where a cadet explained the test: “This test examines your tolerance for high acceleration, for free fall or weightlessness, and for violent changes in acceleration. You start with centrifugal force of three gravities, then all weight is removed from you as the car goes over the cliff. At the bottom the car enters a spiraling track which reduces its speed at deceleration of three gravities. When the car comes to rest, it enters the ascending tower; you make the climb at two gravities, dropping to one gravity, and momentarily to no weight, as the car reaches the top. Then the cycle is repeated, at higher accelerations, until each of you has reacted. Any questions?”
Matt asked, “How long is the free fall, sir?”
“About eleven seconds. We would increase it, but to double it would take four times as high a cliff. However, you will find this one high enough.” He smiled grimly.
A timid voice asked, “Sir, what do you mean by ‘react’?”
“Any of several things-hemorrhage, loss of consciousness.”
“It’s dangerous?”
The cadet shrugged. “What isn’t? There has never been any mechanical failures. Your pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and other data are telemetered to the control room. We’ll try not to let you die under test.”
Presently he led them out of the room, down a passage and through a door into the test car. It had pendulum seats, not unlike any high-speed vehicle, but semi-reclining and heavily padded. They strapped down and medical technicians wired them for telemetering their responses. The cadet inspected, stepped out and returned with an officer, who repeated the inspection. The cadet then distributed “sick kits”, cloth bags of double thickness to be tied and taped to the mouth, so that a person might retch without inundating his companions. This done, he asked, “Are you all ready?”
Getting no response, he went out and closed the door.
Matt wished that he had stopped him before it was too late.
For a long moment nothing happened. Then the car seemed to incline; actually, the seats inclined as the car started to move and picked up speed.
The seats swung back to the at-rest position but Matt felt himself getting steadily heavier and knew thereby that they were being centrifuged. He pressed against the pads, arms leaden, legs too heavy to move.
The feeling of extra weight left him, he felt his normal weight again, when suddenly that, too, was taken from him. He surged against the safety belts.
His stomach seemed to drop out of him. He gulped and swallowed; his breakfast stayed down. Somebody yelled, “We’re falling!” It seemed to Matt the most unnecessary statement he had ever heard.
He set his jaw and braced himself for the bump. It did not come-and still his stomach seemed trying to squirm its way out of his body. Eleven seconds? Why, he had been falling more than eleven seconds already. What had gone wrong?
And still they fell, endlessly.
And fell.
Then he was forced back against the pads. The pressure increased smoothly until he was as heavy as he had been just before the drop. His abused stomach tried to retch but the pressure was too much for it.
The pressure eased off to normal weight. A short while later the car seemed to bounce and momentarily he was weightless, while his insides grabbed frantically for anchorage. The feeling of no weight lasted only an instant; he sagged into the cushions.
The door was flung open; the cadet strode in, followed by two medical technicians. Someone yelled, “Let me out of here! Let me out of here!” The cadet paid no attention but went to the seat in front of Matt. He unstrapped the occupant and the two medical assistants carried him out. His head lolled loosely as they did so. The cadet then went to the candidate who was kicking up the fuss, unstrapped him, and stepped back. The boy got up, staggered, and shuffled out.
“Anyone need a fresh sick kit?” There were muffled responses. Working swiftly, the cadet helped those who needed it. Matt felt weakly triumphant
that his own kit was still clean.
“Stand by for five gravities,” commanded the cadet. He made them answer to their names, one by one. While he was doing so another boy started clawing at his straps. Still calling the roll, the cadet helped him free and let him leave. He followed the lad out the door and shut it.
Matt felt himself tensing unbearably. He was relieved when the pressure took hold-but only momentarily, for he found that five gravities were much worse than three. His chest seemed paralyzed, he fought for air.
The giant pressure lifted-they were over the edge again, falling. His mistreated stomach revenged itself at once; he was sorry that he had eaten any breakfast at all.
They were still falling. The lights went out-and someone screamed. Falling and still retching, Matt was sure that the blackness meant some sort of accident; this time they would crash-but it did not seem to matter.
He was well into the black whirlpool of force that marked the deceleration at the bottom before he realized that he had come through without being killed. The thought brought no particular emotion; breathing at five gravities fully occupied him. The ride up the cliff, at double weight dropping off to normal weight, seemed like a vacation-except that his stomach protested when they bounced to a stop.
The lights came on and the cadet re-entered the room. His gaze stopped at the boy on Matt’s right. The lad was bleeding at his nose and ears. The candidate waved him away feebly. “I can take it,” he protested. “Go on with the test.”
“Maybe you can,” the cadet answered, “but you are through for today.” He added, “Don’t feel bad about it. It’s not necessarily a down check.”
He inspected the others, then called in the officer. The two held a whispered consultation over one boy, who was then half led, half carried from the test chamber. “Fresh sick kits?” asked the cadet.
“Here,” Matt answered feebly. The change was made, while Matt vowed to himself never to touch milk toast again.
“Seven gravities,” announced the cadet. “Speak up, or stand by.” He called the roll again. Matt was ready to give up, but he heard himself answer “ready” and the cadet was gone before he could make up his mind. There were only six of them left now.
It seemed to him that the lights were going out again, gradually, as the weight of his body built up to nearly a thousand pounds. But the lights “came on” again as the car dropped over the cliff; he realized dully that he had blacked out.
He had intended to count seconds on this fall to escape the feeling of endless time, but he was too dazed. Even the disquiet in his middle section seemed remote. Falling-falling, again the giant squeezed his chest, drained the blood from his brain, and shut the light from his eyes. The part that was Matt squeezed out entirely.
“How do you feel?” He opened his eyes, saw a double image, and realized dimly that the cadet was leaning over him. He tried to answer. The cadet passed from view; he felt someone grasping him; he was being lifted and carried.
Someone wiped his face with a wet, cold towel. He sat up and found himself facing a nurse. “You’re all right now,” she said cheerfully. “Keep this until your nose stops bleeding.” She handed him the towel. “Want to get up?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Take my arm. We’ll go out into the air.”
Out on the loading platform Matt sat in the sunshine, dabbling at his nose and regaining his strength. He could hear sounds of excitement from the rail behind each time the car dropped. He sat there, soaking in the sun and wondering whether or not he really wanted to be a spaceman.
“Hey, Matt.” It was Tex, looking pale and not too sure of himself. There was a blood stain down the front of his coverall.
“Hello, Tex. I see you’ve had it.”
“Yeah.”
“How many gees?”
“Seven.”
“Same here. What do you think of it?”
“Well.” Tex seemed at a loss. “I wish my Uncle Bodie could have tried it.
He wouldn’t talk so much about the time he rassled the grizzly.”
There were many vacant seats at lunch. Matt thought about those who had gone-did they mind being “bumped out,” or were they relieved?
He was hungry but ate little, for he knew what was ahead that afternoon-rocket indoctrination. He had looked forward to this part of the schedule most eagerly. Space flight! Just a test jump, but the real thing nevertheless. He had been telling himself that, even if he failed, it would be worth it to get this first flight.
Now he was not sure; the “bumps” had changed his viewpoint. He had a new, grim respect for acceleration and he no longer thought drop-sickness funny; instead he was wondering whether or not he would ever get adjusted to free fall. Some never did, he knew.
His test group was due in Santa Barbara Field at fourteen-thirty. He had a long hour to kill with nothing to do but fret. Finally it was time to go underground, muster, and slidewalk out to the field.
The cadet in charge led them up to the surface into a concrete trench about four feet deep. Matt blinked at the sunlight. His depression was gone; he was anxious to start. On each side and about two hundred yards away were training rockets, lined up like giant birthday candles, poised on their fins with sharp snouts thrusting against the sky.
“If anything goes wrong,” the cadet said, “throw yourself flat in the trench.
Don’t let that get your goat-I’m required to warn you.
“The jump lasts nine minutes, with the first minute and a half under power.
You’ll feel three gravities, but the acceleration is only two gravities, because you are still close to the Earth.
“After ninety seconds you’ll be travelling a little faster than a mile a second and you will coast on up for the next three minutes for another hundred miles to an altitude of about one hundred fifty miles. You fall back toward the earth another three minutes, brake your fall with the jet and ground at the end of the ninth minute.
“A wingless landing on an atmosphere planet with gravity as strong as that of Earth is rather tricky. The landing will be radar-robot controlled, but a human pilot will stand by and check the approach against the flight plan. He can take over if necessary. Any questions?”
Someone asked, “Are these atomic-powered ships?”
The cadet snorted. “These jeeps? These are chemically powered, as you can see from the design. Monatomic hydrogen. They are much like the first big rockets ever built, except that they have variable thrust, so that the pilot and the passengers won’t” be squashed into strawberry jam as the mass-ratio drops off.”
A green signal flare arched up from the control tower. “Keep your eyes on the second rocket from the end, on the north,” advised the cadet.
There was a splash of orange flame, sun bright, at the base of the ship.
“There she goes!”
The ship lifted majestically, and poised for an instant, motionless as a hovering helicopter. The noise reached Matt, seemed to press against his chest. It was the roar of an impossibly huge blowtorch. A searchlight in the tower blinked, and the ship mounted, up and up, higher and faster, its speed increasing with such smoothness that it was hard to realize how fast it was going-except that the roar was gone. Matt found himself staring straight at the zenith, watching a dwindling artificial sun, almost as dazzling as Sol himself.
Then it was gone. Matt closed his mouth and started to look away, when his attention was seized by the ice trail left as the rocket sliced its way through the outer atmosphere. White and strange, it writhed like a snake with a broken back. Under the driving force of the many-hundred-miles-anhour winds of that far altitude it twisted visibly as he watched.
“That’s all!” the cadet shouted. “We can’t wait for the landing.”
They went underground, down a corridor, and entered an elevator. It went up right out of the ground and into the air, supported by a hydraulic piston.
It mounted close by the side of a rocket ship; Matt was amazed to see how large it was close up.
The elevator stopped and its door let down drawbridge fashion into the open hatch in the rocket’s side. They trooped across; the cadet raised the bridge and went down again.
They were in a conical room. Above them the pilot lay in his acceleration rest. Beside them, feet in and head out, were acceleration couches for passengers. “Get in the bunks!” shouted the pilot. “Strap down.”
Ten boys jostled one another to reach the couches. One hesitated. “Uh, oh, Mister!” he called out.
“Yes? Get in your couch.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.”
The pilot used language decidedly not officer like and turned to his control board. Tower! Remove passenger from number nineteen.” He listened, then said, “Too late to change the flight plan. Send up mass.” He shouted to the waiting boy, “What do you weigh?”
“Uh, a hundred thirty-two pounds, sir.”
“One hundred and thirty-two pounds and make it fast!” He turned back to the youngster. “You better get off this base fast, for if I have to skip my take-off I’ll wring your neck.”
The elevator climbed into place presently and three cadets poured across.
Two were carrying sandbags, one had five lead weights. They strapped the sandbags to the vacant couch, and clamped the weights to its sides.
“One thirty-two mass,” announced one of the cadets.
“Get going,” snapped the pilot and turned back to the board.
“Don’t blow your tubes, Harry,” advised the cadet addressed. Matt was amazed, then decided the pilot must be a cadet, too. The three left, taking with them the boy; the hatch door shut with a whish.
“Stand by to raise!” the pilot called out, then looked down to check his passengers. “Passengers secure, nineteen,” he called to the tower. “Is that confounded elevator clear?”
There was silence as the seconds trickled away.
The ship shivered. A low roar, muffled almost below audibility, throbbed in Matt’s head. For a moment he felt slightly heavy, the feeling passed, then he was pressed strongly against the pads.
Matt was delighted to find that three gravities were not bad, flat on his back as he was. The minute and a half under power stretched out; there was nothing to hear but the muted blast of the reactor, nothing to see but the sky through the pilot’s port above.
But the sky was growing darker. Already it was purple; as he watched it turned black. Fascinated, he watched the stars come out.
“Stand by for free fall!” the pilot called out, using an amplifier. “You’ll find sick kits under each pillow. If you need em, put em on. I don’t want to have to scrape it off the port.”
Matt fumbled with heavy fingers under his head, found the kit. The sound of the jet died away, and with it the thrust that had kept them pinned down.
The pilot swung out of his rest and floated, facing them. “Now look, sports, we’ve got six minutes. You can unstrap, two at a time and come up for a look-see. But get this: Hang oh tight. Any man who starts floating free, or skylarking, gets a down check.” He pointed to a boy. “You-and the next guy.”
The “next guy” was Matt. His stomach was complaining and he felt so wretched that he did not really want the privilege offered-but his face was at stake; he clamped his jaws, swallowed the saliva pouring into his mouth, and unstrapped.

Free, he clung to one strap, floating loosely, and tried to get his bearings.
It was curiously upsetting to have no up-and-down; it made everything swim-he had trouble focusing his eyes. “Hurry up there!” he heard the pilot shout, “or you’ll miss your turn.”
“Coming, sir.”
“Hang on-I’m going to turn the ship.” The pilot unclutched his gyros and cut in his processing flywheels. The ship turned end over end. By the time
Matt worked his way to the control station, moving like a cautious and elderly monkey, the rocket was pointed toward Earth.
Matt stared out at the surface, nearly a hundred miles below and still receding. The greens and browns seemed dark by contrast with the white dazzle of clouds. Off to the left and right he could see the inky sky, stabbed with stars. “That’s the Base, just below,” the pilot was saying. “Look sharp and you can make out Hayworth Hall, maybe, by its shadow.”
It did not seem “just below” to Matt; it seemed “out”, or no direction at all.
It was disquieting. “Over there-see? Is the crater where Denver used to be. Now look south-that brown stretch is Texas; you can see the Gulf beyond it.”
“Sir,” asked Matt, “can we see Des Moines from here?”
“Hard to pick out. Over that way-let your eye slide down the Kaw River till it strikes the Missouri, then up river. That dark patch-that’s Omaha and Council Bluffs. Des Moines is between there and the horizon.” Matt strained his eyes, trying to pick out his home. He could not be sure, but he did see that he was staring over the bulge of the Earth at a curved horizon; he was seeing the Earth as round. “That’s all,” ordered the pilot. “Back to your bunks. Next pair!”
He was glad to strap a belt across his middle. The remaining four minutes or so stretched endlessly; he resigned himself to never getting over space sickness. Finally the pilot chased the last pair back, swung ship jet toward Earth, and shouted, “Stand by for thrust-we’re about to ride her down on her tail!”
Blessed weight pressed down on him and his stomach stopped complaining. The ninety seconds of deceleration seemed longer; it made him jumpy to know that the Earth was rushing up at them and not be able to see it. But at last there came a slight bump and his weight dropped suddenly to normal. “Grounded,” announced the pilot, “and all in one piece. You can unstrap, sports.”
Presently a truck arrived, swung a telescoping ladder up to the hatch, and “they climbed down. On the way back they passed a great unwieldy tractor, crawling out to retrieve the rocket. Someone stuck his head out of the tractor.
“Hey! Harry-why didn’t you land it in Kansas?”
Their pilot waved at the speaker. “Be grateful I didn’t!”
Matt was free until mess; he decided to return to the observation trench; he still wanted to see a ship land on its jet. He had seen winged landings of commercial stratosphere rockets, but never a jet landing.
Matt had just found a vacant spot at the trench when a shout went up-a ship was coming in. It was a ball of flame, growing in the sky, and then a pillar of flame, streaking down in front of him. The streamer of fire brushed the ground, poised like a ballet dancer, and died out. The ship was down.
He turned to a candidate near him. “How long till the next one?”
“They’ve come in about every five minutes. Stick around.”
Presently a green flare went up from the control tower and he looked around, trying to spot the ship about to take off, when another shout caused him to turn back. There again was a ball of fire in the sky, growing.
Unbelievably, it went out. He stood there, stupefied, to hear a cry of “Down! Down, everybody! Flat on your faces!” Before he could shake off his stupor, someone tackled him and threw him.
He was rocked by a sharp shock, on top of it came the roar of an explosion. Something snatched at his breath.
He sat up and looked around. A cadet near him was peering cautiously over the parapet. “Allah the Merciful,” he heard him say softly.
“What happened?”
“Crashed in. Dead, all dead.” The cadet seemed to see him for the first time. “Get back to your quarters,” he said sharply.
“But how did it happen?”
“Never mind-this is no time for sightseeing.” The cadet moved down the line, clearing out spectators.