d allowed
him to handle the midnight shift. He checked the monitors and turned to
see Roger walk through the door.

"Working hard, Junior?" asked Roger in his casual drawl.

"Roger!" exclaimed Tom. "What are you fooling around down here for?"

"Ah, there's nothing to do on the radar deck. Besides, I've got the
emergency alarm on." He wiped his forehead. "Brother! Of all the crummy
places to be stuck!"

"Could be worse," said Tom, his eyes sweeping the monitors.

"Nothing could be worse," groaned Roger. "But nothing. Think of that
lovely space doll Helen Ashton alone on earth--and me stuck here on a
space station."

"Well, we're doing an important job, Roger," replied Tom. "And doing it
well, or Major Connel wouldn't leave us alone so much. How're you making
out with the new equipment?"

"That toy?" sneered Roger. "I gave it a look, checked the circuits once,
and knew it inside out. It's so simple a child could have built one!"

"Oh, sure," scoffed Tom. "That's why the top scientists worked for years
on something small, compact, powerful enough to reach through deep
space--and still be easy to repair."

"Quit heckling me, Junior," retorted Roger, "I'm thinking. Trying to
figure out some way of getting to the teleceiver set on board the
_Polaris_."

"Why can't you get on the _Polaris_?" asked Tom.

"They're jazzing up the power deck with a new hyperdrive unit for the
big hop to Tara. So many guys buzzing around you can't get near it."

"What do you need a teleceiver for?" asked Tom.

"To give me company," replied Roger sourly. "Say!" He snapped his
fingers suddenly. "Maybe if I just changed the frequency--"

"What frequency? What are you talking about?"

"Spaceboy, I'm getting a real hot-rocket idea! See ya later!" And the
blond cadet ran for the door.

Tom watched his unit-mate disappear and shook his head in amused
despair. Roger, he told himself, might be difficult, but he was
certainly never dull.

Then his attention was brought back to the monitors by the warning of
another approaching spaceship.

"... jet liner _San Francisco_ to Venus space-station traffic control
..." the metallic voice crackled over the speaker.

"Jet liner _San Francisco_, this is Venus space-station traffic
control," replied Tom. "You are cleared for landing at port
eleven--repeat--eleven. Make standard check for approach orbit to
station landing. End transmission!"

From one side of the circular dais, Tom saw Major Co