by Various
"From what limited experiments we have made, the odds would be astronomical, I'd say."
The general snorted. "Too great to account for three ships, anyway, is that it?" He soothed his forehead with his big hand. "All right, let's make another check starting tomorrow morning. More robot-flight tests. Let's have ships outside the mesosphere operation range. And I want reports on anything that looks like anything, understand?"
The group emitted a low groan. This was the fourth comprehensive check--grueling, close, meticulous, nerve-racking work.
From the rear came the voice of a courageous civilian mechanical engineer, "What about a check on the pilots?"
The sudden silence was like an electrical field. The base commander continued 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 to Hangar 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 to dress and fix my face--"
"Put on a robe and slippers. It's a warm morning. I've got it fixed with the 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 slippers and traces of a lighter blue nightgown underneath. The hangar brightness brought a frown to her eyes, which she shielded with a hand cupped to her brow. A creature as entrancing as that, Grant decided, should now recite 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. He busied himself adjusting the guiding tension.
He heard the slippers, shuffling and gritting, climb the loading device and stop next to him. He heard the gasp as she saw the pilot compartment's freshly built-in TV transmitter and lens. When he felt the pull 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 these things." 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 he put onto a distant ridge of hills rising dimly against the desert starscape.
Bridget said seriously, "You think I've been enticing you into the pilot job, is that it?"
Grant's glance fell to hers. "It looked that way to me. All the general's staff have to fly 'em, I thought you knew that. I don't patrol, of course."
They neared her quarters, and the shadow of the building that spilled over 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. They clung together silently until the barracks guard had spun an about-face and 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, get to bed before I gig you for being out of uniform. See me tomorrow on TV."
* * * * *
The miles altimeter needle swept steadily and was about to pass the 300 division. Star-sprinkled space-darkness lay ahead by now, but when he looked to the side the Earth's surface reflected the sunlight dazzlingly.
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 his shoulder viewing the instrument panel. Nor was it based on his not pushing up in over a month. He traced it probably to the uncertainty of his position.
His position was uncertain, because Bridget could easily be right. Actually, considering the lack of one lead in the other avenues of the investigation, chances were good something was happening to pilots and could 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. Please remember, you're trying to simulate patrol conditions. Don't transmit unless 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. By the 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're getting 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 again unless you coöperate fully." Grant smiled at the lens. He could visualize her curls whipping around.
"Now, please coöperate and replace the clamps, and try to simulate patrol conditions. I will call you from time to time for further instructions. Ashley at Mojave--out."
Grant returned, "Reis over Mojave--nuts."
After parodying annoyance at the lens, he dutifully replaced the chest and palm clamps and settled down to the tedium of patrol.
* * * * *
Behind him, tons of pressure thundered silently out in controlled gaseous fusion, hurled him starward on a pillar of energy. He had already broken his vertical ascent and was slanting toward the latitude Bridget requested. The Pacific rolled up under the atomjet's polished nose, which sparkled with myriads of brighter star reflections. Then he recalled 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 dial the battle between gravity and inertia. Near the Mississippi delta he was wrenched in a sharp maneuver as the De-Meteor suddenly took over. He was fortunate to see the streaking missile glow brightly and flare out of 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 ready to 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 report synoptics in quadrants."
They really want simulation, Grant grumbled mentally. "Southwest quadrant, southeast quadrant clear except for banner-clouding higher ranges. Northwest, scattered alto-cumulus, looks like the onset of a warm front, with the northeast quadrant moderate-high cirrus. And let me talk t
o 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 hours have been without direction from the base. For the next two, we're going to ask you to perform certain patrol tasks, perhaps repeat them. The process may not prove especially enjoyable. Your close coöperation will be appreciated."
"If this is all stuff we went through in training--" Grant sputtered.
"Some of it may be," Bridget's voice. "The fact it's distasteful may make it the more significant. Are you ready to coöperate?"
Grant nodded at the lens and screwed up his face in an exaggerated frown.
Bridget's thoroughness called for admiration. She had him at the end of a string, activating him from a plot taken directly from the pilot's manual. He would coöperate, but he was not enthusiastic.
As the exercises progressed, Grant detected subtle variations Bridget had added to the basic maneuvers. On the tight starboard circle, for instance, she had him keep his eyes on Earth, making him slightly dizzy.
Then she requested a free-fall drop from a stall with the provision he this time place his attention on the instrument panel--"with no peeking outside." He complied, watching the altimeter trace forty miles toward the basement, and experienced effects no different than usual.
After a while, he came to consider it a game and might have gained amusement from it, were it not for the tiredness creeping in behind his eyes and the fact two dozen technicians somewhere down there were hoping to trip a fatal, hidden synapse.
"How much more of this?" Grant transmitted finally.
"Getting tired?" Bridget replied, and paused for an answer.
"Let's say I don't feel like six sets of tennis."
"A few more, major, and we'll authorize your glide-in." If there was disappointment in her voice, it did not manifest itself. "Your next exercise is manual navigation with Jupiter as your fix."
* * * * *
Grant took down the figures she gave in acute disinterest. Boredom had settled heavily over his outlook on the operation. No longer did it matter that his facial reactions were being televised to the syk-happy probers; and it made no difference to him any more that his every breath, swallow, heart beat, tension, and sweat-secretion was magnified by inky needles along moving rolls of paper.
His exercise target was a southwestern New Mexico town, and he swung back from the Gulf area and coaxed the responsive craft until the planet gleamed brightly in the crosshairs of the navigational sight. That put him four degrees off the horizontal, he noted, but Jupiter was setting; he adjusted his velocity to maintain the planet's relative skyward position in the west.
In some irritation he stepped up the thrust. This one could easily take too long. The faint hum of the power plant provided music as the bright point of light danced slightly from the sight's center.
The realization came that he had jumped convulsively. Grant was puzzled that he was not aware what had happened. Some sort of reflex? But reflex from what? Tingling coursed its way up his left leg and he rubbed his thigh.
When he put his attention on the sight again, the planet had slipped out. In fact, it was nowhere in the immediate starscape ahead of him.
His quick glance at the basement showed first that a twilight shadow was moving in from the north-- From the north? It had to be the east! And how come so soon?
* * * * *
Small panic twisted his diaphragm when he viewed below the unfamiliar topography and increasing cloudiness. And when he saw by his watch it was nearly three--
The radio had started to transmit. He swallowed a lump of fear and prepared some kind of an answer. "... If you hear me. Please indicate if you hear me, Grant."
He nodded at the lens.
"Would you like a pilot to help you orient from here?"
Grant felt sheepish, but the panic still remained. He was now aware his alertness was not up to par, so he nodded again. But he was feeling better by the minute.
Back on course under one of the pilot's directions, Grant soon took over.
"Skip that exercise, Grant, and glide in," Bridget sent. "Feel up to it, now?"
"Yeah, but what's it all about? I must've passed out, but damned if I know what for."
Grant heard Bridget's laugh and his morale improved. "You come down and take me to dinner and I'll give you the answer--and what I think may be the answer to all the general's troubles. Right now I've got a report to write so the general can get the word soon--and as painlessly as possible."
Grant pressed the stud to activate the skin coolant system for entrance into the atmosphere. He almost felt like grinning.
* * * * *
Grant at the medical officer's advice took a brief nap, which quickly cleared up his mental fuzziness. As a surprise to Bridget he ordered a rotocab from Barstow, the nearest town, booming since the base had become operative.
In a specialty restaurant over freshly arrived seafood from San Francisco, Grant tried to persuade Bridget to stop teasing him about the navigational foul-up and set him straight. He had put up with it as long as he did only because she had worn an off-shoulder yellow gown, snugly fitted, that made the uniform seem like the design of a Mid-Victorian prude.
Grant, exasperated, brought her teasing up short. "I've been priding myself on keeping up the myth I'm a wide-awake young man and pilot. Never have I passed out before--never. I feel like a washed-out cadet. You've had your fun baiting--now, what made me blank?"
Bridget cringed as he tore a slice of French bread in half with one hostile, meaningful bite.
She waved her cigarette haughtily. "We in psychology have found certain stimuli productive of consistent human response. Especially true in tactile sensation, this, however, is not as true in the auditory and visual."
"You're being technical," Grant interrupted. "Just let me know simple-like, if you don't mind."
"Consequently," she continued, "the problem presented to the investigating psychologist was one of seeking an involuntary response to one or more stimuli, in sequence or grouped. Traditionally--"
"Miss Ashley--" Grant held up the small, square tissue-wrapped box, tied with a bow--"I would like to have you open this tonight, but obviously you're not going to have time what with the thesis, and all." He deliberately put the box back in his coat pocket.
Their eyes held over her swordfish momentarily.
"So, O.K., I looked around for nasty stimuli, that's all," Bridget went on. "There were lots of possibilities, but I sorta picked two or three. Part of our pilot interviews was for getting descriptions from the men on what the conditions up there felt like, sounded like, looked like, smelled like, and so on. Completely individual, mind you. From that we spotted negative elements held in common by them."
Grant reached for her arm and blocked the upward motion of her fish-loaded fork.
"You can eat after," he said.
"I threw the nasty ones at you when you began tiring, because that's when the body's stimulus-response setup starts pulling away from conscious direction. I saved the one I had the hunch on for the last."
"The navigation exercise, you mean? I still don't get what that has to do with my leg cramp."
Bridget laughed. "Oh, that. One of those leads attached to your leg carried a little voltage--just in case you passed out. The benefits of current psychology, you know."
* * * * *
Grant repressed a smile. "Thanks for letting me know what brought me around, but you are still stalling about why I went under."
"You figure it out. What were the stimuli associated with the manual navigation problem?"
"Let's see," he mused. "Tactile: nothing important, just the control levers. Visually, the star field and Jupiter and the crosshairs. Auditorily, the power hum--"
"What stands out?"
"The planet and the hum, I guess."
"And how did the planet appear?" Bridget asked.
"A point
of light, you mean?"
"And what does that add up to: a bright concentrated light source on which you fix your attention and a monotonous hum?"
"Not hypnotism!"
Bridget shrugged. "A reasonable facsimile. Especially when you throw mental fatigue in with it."
"But you need a suggestion, I thought--" Grant was amazed.
"Not necessarily," she replied. "You were mentally tired, there was some self-suggestion for sleep. But simply a continued fixation of the eyes in suggestive subjects can be enough. There may be a subconscious association with previous hypnosis, or early states of mental shock. In the highly suggestive, a steady lulling noise can be sufficient in itself. And you were alone, with no one around to snap a finger under your nose. Add it up in your situation, and you blank out."
Grant slapped his forehead. "What did I look like?"
"Not any different than usual," she said, laughing. "You continued to hold the controls, but you stared vacantly and tensed quite a bit. Well, we have the complete recording on your reactions if you want to check. Naturally, you pulled off course, ended up over Mexico, gaining about fifty miles in altitude."
The others, thought Grant, rode until their oxygen gave out or dived through the atmosphere without skin-cooling, or came out of it too late and found-- He decided not to think about it.
"But I don't think I'm hypnotic," Grant protested.
"Everyone is hypnotic to a degree. Some are a great deal more than others, and these are the ones that are apparent. Impose the right conditions and a quasi-hypnotic condition could be affected on most anyone."
"But why hasn't this happened elsewhere?"
Bridget took a quick bite of fish before he could stop her. "It has. First documentation I found was in the South Pacific air war in the '40s. One-man escorting fighter planes in several cases slipped out of bomber formations they were following at night and splashed. One of the explanations at their hearings, but never investigated thoroughly, was hypnosis from the single red taillight of the bombers. In one outfit, the losses stopped when the fighters flew up front."
"Not only sharp, but good-looking, too," Grant admired, and began chewing on the other half of his French bread. Then he ceased masticating and mouthed anxiously, "You've told the general this?"