by Ray C. Noll
given atomjettrajectory?"
"From what limited experiments we have made, the odds would beastronomical, I'd say."
The general snorted. "Too great to account for three ships, anyway, isthat it?" He soothed his forehead with his big hand. "All right, let'smake another check starting tomorrow morning. More robot-flight tests.Let's have ships outside the mesosphere operation range. And I wantreports on anything that looks like anything, understand?"
The group emitted a low groan. This was the fourth comprehensivecheck--grueling, close, meticulous, nerve-racking work.
From the rear came the voice of a courageous civilian mechanicalengineer, "What about a check on the pilots?"
The sudden silence was like an electrical field. The base commandercontinued to shuffle up his notes and papers, but his neck crimsoned.
He's not going to hear it, Grant thought.
"Conference dismissed!" the general ordered.
* * * * *
Three-four-five rings, and Bridget answered. The first word was a yawned"Lieutenant" and the next was an exhaled "Ashley."
"Sorry to get you up, Bridget. This is Grant. Can you come down toHangar Four?"
"What time is it?" she asked thickly.
"Three-fifteen. Will you come down here?"
"Unchaperoned?"
"That's not the point. A surprise. What we talked about the other day."
Bridget's interest picked up. "What we talked about? But I'll have todress and fix my face--"
"Put on a robe and slippers. It's a warm morning. I've got it fixed withthe O.D. Now, will you come on down?"
She paused. "You've convinced me."
In a few minutes Grant heard her slippers shuffling over the concrete.She arrived in a brilliant blue nylon robe, with white fluffy slippersand traces of a lighter blue nightgown underneath. The hangar brightnessbrought a frown to her eyes, which she shielded with a hand cupped toher brow. A creature as entrancing as that, Grant decided, should nowrecite prose poetry in contralto tones to make his ideal complete.
"Well?" she croaked, a sleepy frog in her throat. "So I'm here."
The last mechanic was picking up his tools and was about ready to leave.Otherwise, they were alone, except for the guard at the hangar entrance.
"Up on the platform," said Grant, unlocking the canopy of UNR-12. Hebusied himself adjusting the guiding tension.
He heard the slippers, shuffling and gritting, climb the loading deviceand stop next to him. He heard the gasp as she saw the pilotcompartment's freshly built-in TV transmitter and lens. When he felt thepull on his arm, he chose to notice her.
"Thanks, Grant. I thought for a while--"
"It's ready for tomorrow if you want it," Grant mentioned casually.
Bridget's fists clenched and her eyes brightened. "Wow," she observed."Then you've got a pilot?"
Grinning sourly, Grant said, "As if you don't know who."
Her eyes showed concern. "What do you mean?"
"I mean things have worked out creamy as you planned."
"Grant, I don't understand."
"Now, don't tell me you didn't know I could push up one of thesethings." He patted the side of the atomjet.
"You, a pilot? Grant. I didn't know."
"Let's say it's been convenient for you, anyway."
* * * * *
They had walked outside, Bridget trying to find Grant's gaze, which heput onto a distant ridge of hills rising dimly against the desertstarscape.
Bridget said seriously, "You think I've been enticing you into the pilotjob, is that it?"
Grant's glance fell to hers. "It looked that way to me. All thegeneral's staff have to fly 'em, I thought you knew that. I don'tpatrol, of course."
They neared her quarters, and the shadow of the building that spilledover them was deep.
"I didn't know, Grant, believe me." Her voice carried earnestness.
"You don't have to prove it," Grant said huskily.
He had caught her hand, and then her arm slid softly around his neck.Her kiss was meant as brief, but he persuaded her differently. Theyclung together silently until the barracks guard had spun an about-faceand headed back their way.
"Please, Grant, get someone else to go up," she whispered.
"You said you wanted a pilot who trusted you," reminded Grant. "Now, getto bed before I gig you for being out of uniform. See me tomorrow onTV."
* * * * *
The miles altimeter needle swept steadily and was about to pass the 300division. Star-sprinkled space-darkness lay ahead by now, but when helooked to the side the Earth's surface reflected the sunlightdazzlingly.
It wasn't that he felt self-consciousness over the lens in front of him,or over the one showing him in profile, and the one just over hisshoulder viewing the instrument panel. Nor was it based on his notpushing up in over a month. He traced it probably to the uncertainty ofhis position.
His position was uncertain, because Bridget could easily be right.Actually, considering the lack of one lead in the other avenues of theinvestigation, chances were good something was happening to pilots andcould happen to him.
That was not what bothered him: not that something might occur, but_what_ might occur. Fighting unknowns for Grant carried no interest.
"I'm over 300," he transmitted. "Now what?"
Bridget's voice arrived with an ionospheric waver. "Level at 375. Pleaseremember, you're trying to simulate patrol conditions. Don't transmitunless it's your report period or something goes wrong."
"Like what, lieutenant?"
"If you knew all the psychological quirks possible, you'd avoid them,major. And if you're still worried, I've taken adequate precautions.There's a staff of twenty-five persons here with instruments on you. Bythe way, your picture is coming over horribly."
"Try my profile. I've heard it's better."
"And please replace your galvanometric and respiratory clamps. We'regetting no register here."
"They're too uncomfortable."
"Major, let me remind you this flight is costing the taxpayers plenty,hasn't General Morrison's clearance, and may have to be flown againunless you cooeperate fully." Grant smiled at the lens. He couldvisualize her curls whipping around.
"Now, please cooeperate and replace the clamps, and try to simulatepatrol conditions. I will call you from time to time for furtherinstructions. Ashley at Mojave--out."
Grant returned, "Reis over Mojave--nuts."
After parodying annoyance at the lens, he dutifully replaced the chestand palm clamps and settled down to the tedium of patrol.
* * * * *
Behind him, tons of pressure thundered silently out in controlledgaseous fusion, hurled him starward on a pillar of energy. He hadalready broken his vertical ascent and was slanting toward the latitudeBridget requested. The Pacific rolled up under the atomjet's polishednose, which sparkled with myriads of brighter star reflections. Then herecalled he couldn't play over the ocean and veered slowly northward,up the coast to the telltale configuration of Puget Sound.
Over the eastern lakes he cut fusion and watched on the altimeter dialthe battle between gravity and inertia. Near the Mississippi delta hewas wrenched in a sharp maneuver as the De-Meteor suddenly took over. Hewas fortunate to see the streaking missile glow brightly and flare outof existence in the thin regions of atmosphere miles beneath him.
More than three hours of patrol, and no word from Mojave. Obediently,Grant had not called in. He set course for Mojave and was nearly readyto transmit when a bark of static filled the pressurized control bubble.Disappointed, Grant heard a male voice over the speaker.
"High altitude weather observation overdue. UNR-12, please reportsynoptics in quadrants."
They really want simulation, Grant grumbled mentally. "Southwestquadrant, southeast quadrant clear except for banner-clouding higherranges. Northwest, scattered alto-cumulus, looks like the onset of awar
m front, with the northeast quadrant moderate-high cirrus. And let metalk to Br ... to Lieutenant Ashley, please."
A pause. "Ashley, Mojave."
"How's my picture now?"
"Your vertical is off, and you flutter. Major, the first three hourshave been without direction from the base. For the next two, we're goingto ask you to perform certain patrol tasks, perhaps repeat them. Theprocess may not prove especially enjoyable. Your close cooeperation willbe appreciated."
"If this is all stuff we went through in training--" Grant