Space Cadet (2 page)

“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’d 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, Mr. 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 “Mr. 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.”

Mr. 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.”

Matt’s 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.”

“Hm… 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 “entrée,” “dessert,” and “milk” buttons. The cadet was still watching him as the table served him.

“I am Cadet Sabbatello. Don’t you like soup, Mr. 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. “Mr. van Zook, in the Patrol we never ask a man where he is from. It is all right for Mr. 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.