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Updated: May 26, 2025
In fact, they're now planning to build still larger stations." Scott opened the door to the traffic-control room. He motioned to Tom to follow him. This room, Tom was ready to admit, was the busiest place he had ever seen in his life. All around the circular room enlisted Solar Guardsmen sat at small desks, each with a monitoring board in front of him holding three teleceiver screens.
As Scott and Tom climbed the narrow stairs to the traffic-control deck, the Solar Guard officer continued to speak of the man-made satellite. "When the station was first built," he said, "it was expected to be just a way station for refueling and celestial observations. But now we're finding other uses for it, just as though it were a small community on Earth, Mars, or Venus.
In less than two weeks he had mastered the difficult traffic-control procedure to the point where Captain Stefens had 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?"
A huge star cluster flashed brilliantly, filling the screen with light, then faded into the endless blackness of space. Tom caught his breath as he remembered what Scott had told him about the light being thousands of years old before reaching the solar system. "Manning's all set, Corbett," said Scott at Tom's elbow. "Come on. I'll show you the traffic-control deck."
"The whole unit is good! If it weren't for that hare-brained Manning, I'd say they had as bright a future in the Solar Guard as any unit I've seen!" "I'll buy that, sir!" said Stefens with a smile. "That Corbett picked up traffic-control operations like a duck takes to water. And it's been a long time since Jenledge on the power deck raved about a cadet the way he does about Astro."
He realized that any action, even now, would bring the craft dangerously close to the station. Without hesitation, he flipped on the master switch of the central station communicator, opening every loud-speaker on the station to his voice. "Attention! Attention! This is traffic-control center! Emergency! Repeat. Emergency!
Cardon cut in the TV and began calling the control tower. "Ambulance, to evacuate Mr. Pelton," he called. "What's the score, down there?" One of Pelton's traffic-control men appeared on Cardon's screen. "You're safe to land on the central stage, but you'd better come in at a long angle from the north," he said.
He moved constantly, turning in a circle, watching the various landing ports on the many screens. Three-thousand-ton rocket liners, Solar Guard cruisers, scout ships, and destroyers all moved about the satellite lazily, waiting for permission to enter or depart. This man was the master traffic-control officer who had first contacted Tom on his approach to the station.
The young curly-haired cadet turned to the control board and flipped on the teleceiver. "Rocket cruiser Polaris to spaceport control tower," he called. "Request blast-off orbit and clearance!" The traffic-control officer in the spaceport tower answered immediately. "Control tower to Polaris. You are cleared for blast-off at 1405 hours, orbital tangent 867."
Members of the crew of the recent expedition to Tara, a planet in orbit around the sun star Alpha Centauri, they had taken a rocket scout and blasted off without permission from Major Connel, the commander of the mission, who, in this case, was authorized traffic-control officer. Connel had recommended immediate suspension of their space papers.
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