rs and aided in the escape of two convicted cadets from
the work gang?"

"Yes, sir," replied Tom soberly. "And--all I can say is I'll do whatever
you think is best."

"Well, get some sleep now," sighed Strong. "I've got to make a tour of
the guard."

Without another word, Tom went into Captain Strong's bedroom and fell
asleep thirty seconds after his head hit the pillow. His last waking
thought was that if his plan had any merit Captain Strong would help
him.

Steve Strong did not leave his quarters immediately. He sat in the easy
chair and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe until there was nothing left
in the burnt and charred bowl. Then he rose and left the room to make
his rounds. He walked slowly through the hollow, empty hallways of the
Tower building, riding up and down the slidestairs, speaking curtly to
the guards, and finally walked out on the wide steps facing the grassy
quadrangle.

Strong glanced up at the sky. He counted the stars he could see and he
remembered that as a boy of eight he knew the names and positions of
every one. He recalled his entrance to the Academy as a cadet and how
his unit instructor had guided him and taught him the many things a
spaceman must know. He thought of his long tour as a line officer in the
Solar Guard fleet under Commander Walters, then a major, and he
remembered his brother officers, many of whom were now dead. There was
one thing they all had in common, one thing that overshadowed all
personal differences. One thing that was almost like a religion.
Comradeship. A feeling of belonging, a knowledge that there was _always_
someone who would believe in you and your ideas.

One thing. Friendship.

Captain Strong spun on his heel, walked back into the Tower, and rode
the slidestairs back to his quarters. He had made up his mind.

CHAPTER 17

"_Stand by to raise ship!_"

Connel's bull-throated roar blasted through the intercom of the gleaming
projectile ship from the power deck where Dave Barret was stationed, up
to the radar bridge where Professor Hemmingwell waited anxiously.

On the main deck, seated at the controls, Connel spoke rapidly into the
audioceiver microphone. "Projectile vessel to spaceport traffic
control," he called. "Request blast-off clearance!"

"Spaceport traffic control to Connel," came a voice in reply over the
audioceiver. "You are cleared. Your time is two minutes to zero!"

Connel began snapping the many levers and switches on the