Collected Fiction

by Theodore R. Cogswell

  “I’m available for a sub-contract on the Portuguese job. I’ve my own fighter, a Vickers rocket-glide, one of the new Hydra models.”

  Roberts flushed in annoyance. If a man wanted a job with Marshall and Smith, he was expected to have enough respect for the office of personnel manager to keep quiet until it became apparent that the amenities were finished and business was about to begin.

  “We never deal with sub-contractors,” he snapped—and then unsnapped as he realized that he had just violated the first law of public relations, Be Nice. He coughed to cover his confusion. “Matter of company policy, you know,” he said and opened a silver box and extended it to Jack. “Cigaret?”

  The other shook his head, pulled out his blackened pipe, and slowly filled it. “Light?” The personnel manager pushed an ornate lighter over to him.

  Jack shook his head again and pulled out an old-fashioned kitchen match. “These work,” he said laconically.

  He concentrated on his pipe until it was burning satisfactorily. “Name isn’t O’Henry,” he said. “It’s O’Hara, Jack O’Hara.”

  Roberts straightened up in his chair and looked at the pilot with sudden interest. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  The personnel manager coughed to cover his confusion, then pressed a button on his desk; a small bar to slid out of the wall beside him. “Have a drink?”

  “Sure. How about you?”

  “I never drink during working hours,” said the personnel manager. “But help yourself.”

  Jack went over, poured himself a stiff three fingers, and then returned to his seat. “Heard you’d landed the contract for the Portuguese job,” he said, “so I thought I’d drop over and see what was up.”

  Roberts hesitated. “We are hiring,” he said, “but the comptrollers office frowns on sub-contracting—especially on this job. The competition was pretty stiff, and in order to make the low bid we’ve had to pare down our combat budget to the bone. But if you’d care to sign on as a master-pilot . . .” He let his voice trail off and began to inspect his fingernails, as if he’d never seen them before.

  Jack got to his feet and stuffed his pipe in the pocket of his worn flying jacket. “Guess I’d better go over and check with the Rommell outfit then. I don’t particularly like the way they do business, but a job’s a job.” He pulled a faded beret out of his back pocket and jammed it down on his head. “See you around,” he said, and started for the door.

  THE LITTLE personnel manager jumped from his chair and came scuttling after him. “Don’t rush off.” he said, grabbing him by one arm and steering him back toward the desk. “Maybe we can work something out in spite of the Comptroller; what’s your proposition?”

  “Two thousand international credits for every aircraft I destroy in flight; five hundred for each I get on the ground. In addition I work my own time and pick my own missions.”

  The personnel manager threw up his hands in protest. “Two thousand is out of the question!” He gave Jack a calculating look. “I might be able to get you fifteen hundred if I really fought for it.” Jack started toward the door again. “Or even seventeen-fifty,” he added hastily, “but two thousand . . .” Jack kept on going.

  Roberts waited hopefully for some sign of hesitation. When there wasn’t any, he let out a long sigh and said mournfully, “All right, two thousand, but it’s not going to make me popular with the boys who hold the purse strings. You’re a hard man to deal with, O’Hara.”

  “I have to be,” said the flyer coldly as he came back and sat down; “it’s my neck I’m selling. Now let’s get down to cases.”

  The personnel manager cleared his throat. “Well, the usual provisions will apply. You’ll come under the nominal jurisdiction of the section manager and the foreman of the air—”

  O’Hara interrupted him with a decisive shake of his head. “I’m a good enough man to set my own terms, Roberts. I fly where I want to, when I want to—and the only person I take orders from is me!”

  The other looked longingly at the liquor cabinet, fought with himself, and lost. Pouring out two drinks he handed one to Jack. “You win,” he said unhappily. He held up his glass. “Here’s to victory over Rommell and Company and a sound six percent return!”

  Jack downed his glass without enthusiasm.

  “And now back to business,” said the personnel manager. “If we can get everything worked out, I’ll shoot a memo over the legal department by special messenger and they’ll have a contract ready for you this afternoon. How about fuel and maintenance? And do you have your own gunner?”

  “I’ll get my necessities from your fields and have them charged against my account. You can supply me with a mechanic and air gunner, and I’ll pay International Air Fighters Union scale for them. Anything else?”

  The personnel manager hesitated. “You were with Montgomery and Haig on the Nicaragua contract, weren’t you?”

  Jack nodded.

  The personnel manager went back to inspecting his nails. “Word is going around that their special weapons section has been trying to develop an atomic warhead. Anything to it?”

  “The same word is going around about Marshall and Smith, and every other major operator. Anything to that?” Jack countered.

  ROBERTS hesitated and then said, “Not as far as we’re concerned; at least not now. We spent almost half a million trying to find out how. We did, too. The only trouble is that just to set up initial production facilities require such a fantastic amount of capital that private industry just can’t handle it. But there’s always the outside chance that our boys overlooked something, I get nightmares thinking what would happen to the trade if somebody should stumble on a cheap and easy way to make an atomic bomb. They’d be able to put in the low bid on every international dispute that broke out; and with a weapon like that, none of us would dare take a contract with the opposing side.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” said O’Hara. “That’s why I was wondering about Montgomery and Haig. Are they?”

  “Yep!”

  “Do you know how they’re making out?”

  O’Hara gave another affirmative grunt.

  “Well?” said the other impatiently. “I figure that answer is worth about five hundred credits.”

  “You’re working for us now,” said the other angrily.

  “Now, yes,” said O’Hara, “but not then. If you want what I know, you pay for it; I’m not in business for my health.”

  Roberts started to protest and then caught himself. “You really know?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?”

  “Three hundred?”

  O’Hara shook his head.

  “Oh—all right,” said the personnel manager wearily, “it’ll go on Combat Intelligence’s budget, anyway. What’s the word?”

  “Nothing,” said Jack laconically. “They ran up the same blind alley you did. The job can be done, but it’s just too big.” He stood up. “Give me a chit for that five hundred; I’ll pick it up at the cashier’s window on my way out. When do I leave for Portugal, by the way?”

  With an effort the personnel manager shifted gears. “Tuesday. One of our semi-rigids is leaving late in the afternoon. Can you have your ship crated and on board by then?”

  Jack made a quick mental calculation and then nodded. “Can do,” he said. “I’ll drop by this afternoon for my contract. And a small advance. I’m a bit short right now.”

  FOR SEVERAL minutes after the flyer left, J.B. Roberts sat at his desk thoughtfully. Finally he flicked a switch on his intercom and said, “Miss Grange, the man who just left is a licensed combat pilot named Jack O’Hara.”

  “Not O’Henry?”

  “No,” said the personnel manager impatiently, “not O’Henry. O’Hara, Jack O’Hara. You must have heard of him, he’s one of the best.”

  There was silence for a moment and then she said in an excited voice, “You mean he was really him?”


  “Obviously. Have Intelligence run a field check on him at once. I want to be sure that he’s clean before we turn him loose.”

  “Who are you worried about, the Commies?”

  Roberts snorted. “That bunch of snoopers? No, I just want to be sure that Montgomery and Haig still don’t have any strings on him. Things are getting tight and we can’t afford a leak.”

  2

  AFTER HE supervised the unloading of his Hydra at the Lisbon municipal airdock, Jack caught a lift with a rumbling land engine that was pulling a string of trailers out to the field where his ship was to be reassembled. He sat in the cab high above the clanking steam engine, answering the driver’s chatter in monosyllables.

  “No, sir,” said the engineer, “I ain’t been in action and I ain’t figuring on going in, either.”

  Jack puffed away on his pipe, looking out the cab window at the Portugese countryside, steeped in the poverty of centuries of feudalistic repression. The hills were barren and drab, colorless, and the inhabitants they passed reflected the empty dinginess of the land. Uncomfortable depression grew upon him.

  “The money ain’t worth it,” the engineer explained, swerving his train ponderously to avoid a donkey cart. “The way I figure it, this job of mine gives me all the advantages of working for a military contractor, and none of the disadvantages. I get double the pay of a driver back in the Confederacy, but I’m safe.”

  Jack snorted. “I make my drinking money out of knocking over land engines; I collected sixteen bonuses on my last job.”

  The driver shrugged. “Sure, I get shot at once in a while; but look at the traffic back home! There’s more engines pile up in traffic accidents on the East-West turnpike in one day then are shot up during a whole contract. You got some risk wherever you work. Hell, you can break your arm picking your nose if your luck is bad enough.”

  He spat reflectively out the window and then cursed when he realized that it was shut. “This job’s nothing like running a steel-clad in open combat,” he said as he mopped the bullet-proof pane with his sleeve; “a guy that takes a job like that is just plain asking for it.”

  “They make four times what you do—and there’s always bonuses.”

  “Yeah, but how are you going to spend it once you’re dead?”

  Jack yawned and pocketed his now cold briar. “A man who can’t take care of himself has no place in the business. And casualties never run very high. It’s not as if you had a bunch of civilians mucking around shooting at each other. The men who work for the companies are professionals. I went through one job where nobody was hurt at all.” It was a long speech for Jack O’Hara to have made.

  The driver threw on his blowers as they started up a long winding hill. “Which one was that?”

  “The Irish Succession. Our outfit pulled a couple of fast ones and the other firm had to quit cold.”

  “That clambake!” The driver started laughing. “That’s one I wish I’d been in on. All play and no work! But you gotta remember that that was an exception. And look what happened to Krupp, Limited. They were laughed out of the business. No country is going to take bids from a contractor who loses that easily.”

  O’Hara yawned again and settled back in his uncomfortable seat. He considered most conversation a waste of time, and this one was no exception. Besides, they were nearing the field where his Hydra was to be reassembled.

  WHEN THEY got there he grunted his thanks and hiked over to the operations shack, waving a greeting two or three times on the way to workers he’d met on other jobs. He made a mental note that the engineer who was handling this contract had obviously decided to use this field for the whole operation, rather than dividing his working force between several strips. He didn’t like that; the German firm, Rommell and Sons, who were handling the job for the Spanish, were no upstarts. It wouldn’t take them long to realize that a quick saturation raid would seriously cripple the forces of Marshall and Smith.

  It was probably a matter of funds. The Portuguese were notorious for low appropriations. No wonder they’d lost their Goa colony in India, and Mozambique; they invariably wound up with some firm that had to bid low to get the job, and then had to pinch pennies to make a profit.

  He opened the door of the operations shack and strode in. A male secretary looked up and frowned his importance. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name’s O’Hara. I’d like to see the foreman.”

  “Jack O’Hara?”

  The pilot nodded. “I’ll tell Mr. Hawkins you’re here.”

  “Hawkins? Not Fancy Pants Hawkins?” O’Hara let out an anguished groan.

  The secretary was flustered. “Mr. Hawkins is foreman of the air division on this contract. You’ll work under him.”

  “Want to bet?” asked Jack softly. The secretary spoke into his interoffice communicator while the pilot leaned back against the wall and loaded his prehistoric briar. “Mr. Hawkins will see you in about a half hour.” Jack snorted, pushed by the secretary’s desk, and went through the inner door. “Hi, Fancy Pants,” he said. “What’s this about waiting? It’s me, Jack O’Hara, remember?”

  The small, immaculately-clad little man evidently did; he jumped to his feet sputtering angrily. “Listen, O’Hara, I haven’t forgotten that little deal you pulled on me down in Nicaragua, and I’m not about to. But this time you’re taking orders from me. I’ll see you when I want to see you and . . .”

  Jack reached forward and with a slow, unhurried motion, shoved the little man back down into his chair. “Better read my contract, Fancy Pants,” he drawled. “All I want from you is fuel, a good mechanic, and a better gunner.” He gave the other a contemptuous look and then strode out of the room.

  HIS ALARM was set for seven but Jack never got a chance to hear it go off. At four the intercom beside his bed buzzed noisely. He sat up sleepily and switched on his bed lamp.

  “Yeah?” he growled.

  A female voice answered. “Special mission. Report to your ship at once.”

  Jack grumbled but got up and got dressed anyway. He was too broke to be turning down jobs this early in the game. Five minutes later, still yawning sleepily, he approached the Hydra, helmet and oxygen mask in hand and a bundled ribbon chute swinging at his haunches. His mind was still fuzzy but it would clear in moments once he hit the air.

  It was a clear bright night and a full moon drenched the field with light. By the Hydra a girl was waiting, a pretty little thing a head shorter than he was, with close cropped red-gold hair and a figure that even the bulky flying suit she was wearing couldn’t quite hide.

  “Hi, O’Hara,” she said as he came up to her.

  He nodded sleepily. “I’m ready,” he said; “where’s the ground crew and my gunner?”

  She grinned up at him. “I’ve got a card that says I’m a member in good standing of the International Airfighters Union.”

  “That’s nice,” said Jack absently, “but you operations people might as well get one thing straight right now. When I’m working I need my sleep. From now on, when I’m called for a night mission I expect everything to be ready when I get here—gunner in place and my ship on the launching ramp ready for take off. Is that clear?”

  He spoke more sharply than he intended but the girl didn’t seem to mind. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m riding as your gunner this time. Mr. Hawkins said you might object, but this is a very special job and I have to be along.”

  “Object is right!” snapped O’Hara. “I’m going back to bed. You can tell Hawkins to give me a call when he’s got things organized the way they should be.”

  “No me, no flight,” she said.

  “O.K., so no flight.” He turned to go.

  “Take a look at this first. There’s a good chunk of change involved.” As he hesitated she handed him an envelope. He tore it open impatiently and pulled out a standard dispatch blank. Lighting match after match to make out what was typed, he finally read through it.

  From: Office of
the Foreman, Air Division.

  To: Jack O’Hara, Sub-Contractor Subject: Special Assignment A situation has developed which makes it desirable to request your services in view of the range of your aircraft.

  Standard milage rate plus a bonus of 1,000 international credits will be given you upon successful completion of the following assignment:

  1. Fly to the small airstrip just outside the village of Largos (marked on the attached chart).

  2. Pick up two crates weighing approximately two hundred kilos each and deliver them to the Free Port of Lanares.

  3. Return to base.

  The bearer of this, an agent of the company who is on special assignment to the air section, will accompany you as gunner. Her orders are to be obeyed without question.

  SIGNED: Claude Hawkins, Foreman

  JACK FROWNED down at the message and made a few quick mental calculations. The first hop would be a breeze. Largos was only two hundred kilometers away; and even though it was on the wrong side of the Spanish frontier, it was outside the designated combat area. If there was a Commie observation team at the strip, the worst that could happen would be a two-hundred credit fine for operating a combat craft outside authorized limits.

  The Free Port of Lanares was another matter. It was a long way off. With luck he’d be able to make it all right, but he’d probably have to expend all the booster rockets in his combat reserve. For the last hundred kilometers he’d be a sitting duck if any of Rommell’s ships happened to be snooping around outside the reserved area.

  “Did you read this?”

  The girl nodded.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “I’m a fighter, not a common carrier.”

  The girl’s face tightened and her right hand slid unobtrusively toward a slight bulge in her flight jacket pocket. O’Hara started to crumple the memo and then smoothed it out again.