Grant bristled. "These files are under the general's nose, and I don't think he'd appreciate—" He broke off when he observed Bridget tapping her pencil and frowning at him impatiently.

  With a degree of diplomacy he had to admire, Grant lifted the non-technical files from the general's office and furtively smuggled them out in his brief case.

  "Don't take all day," he warned, handing them to Bridget. "Part of my job is keeping the general neutral about you, and not against."

  Bridget jumped up and drew another chair up to her desk. "How about scanning with me? That'll get the files back faster. Here, take these on pilot training."

  The files repulsed him less than Bridget attracted him, and he sat down promptly. "And what do I look for, psychologically significant portions, is that it?"

  "Even psychologically insignificant portions, major, if you please."

  12

  Grant began to read. As he scanned the copies of directives, reports, operations logs, and procedures the process became automatic, and part of his consciousness turned contemplative.

  Three months ago he would have considered the situation in which he now found himself a future development out of the question. Mojave had brimmed with optimism and pride and accomplishment and eager-ness. Base Mojave loomed vital in national defense, constituted a main element of national scientific pride.

  From the dusty desert stretches the sprawling, efficient base had taken shape while United Nuclear had yet to assemble an atomjet. The sched-ules came out perfectly, and the first single-manned fusion-propulsed rocketplane thundered off the corporation proving grounds and glided into Base Mojave as planned. Designed for patrol of the mesosphere, the ships were to have gained for the West control of near-Earth space, besides affording superior observation posts for Eastern developments and activity of a space nature.

  Training of the pilots had lasted thirty weeks and went by without a casualty or serious damage. Testing and re-testing of the electronics brought out no flaws. Stress and thermal analyses held up under all conditions imposed.

  The losses began after the third week of patrol. UNR-6 failed to return to base—with no hint of the cause, with no communication from the pilot. That one was hushed up by the base PR officer, but news of the second reached the press. During the fifth week, UNR-2 never returned for its glide-in, and, of course, the first loss came out at that time, too.

  General Morrison worked with the pilots and engineers steadily on the problem with apparent good results—for a month. Then UNR-9

  vanished.

  Lately the orders had been for patrol over the States, and it was pre-sumed UNR-9 would have made an appearance somewhere had it been

  in trouble. That's why the Dakota farmer's report had been investigated so swiftly.

  As of now, the situation had become one patrol a day with reluctant pilots, Congress sending a committee to the base, a taxpayers' injunction against the Air Force rocketplane operation, and United Nuclear men experimenting hourly with robot-piloted atomjets at all altitudes below four hundred miles.

  Plus the syk research, naturally.

  13

  Bridget's ash tray spilled over with right-angled cigarette butts, half-burned. Grant studied her as she read through the files intently although her eyes rolled his way briefly on occasion. She faced him with an unexpected snap of the head.

  "Well?"

  "Just looking," Grant explained.

  "Then just look for a pilot's manual. It's been mentioned and I haven't seen one around. Would you mind?"

  Grant opened his mouth to inform her a pilot's manual for the atomjet was classified secret, but caught himself before he could verbalize the protest. He shrugged and planned more strategy for invading the

  general's files.

  The only things he could be grateful for so far were Bridget's beauty and the fact the staff had not realized he was her adjutant.

  The Mayo psychiatrist and the Yale psychologist had been in conference with Bridget for almost an hour. She had been giving them prelim-inary findings and the results of tests and interviews with the base pilots.

  When they finally broke up, Bridget approached Grant with a there's-something-I-want-from-you look. Grant nearly had a chance to offer lunch before she suggested it.

  What she wanted from him came out over their aerated sherbet pie. By the time she finished, Grant's dessert was beginning to taste like vitamin-ized space rations.

  "Impossible," he said, dabbing at sherbet spots on his trousers. "The general would react faster than to a red alert."

  "Your concern may be the general's reactions, but mine's not," Bridget snapped. "I just want an objective engineering answer, yes or no."

  Grant threw up his hands. "O.K., O.K. With a live pilot, yes, you can get a TV transmitter in an atomjet with some doing. You'd have to jerk out the extra oxygen space and—"

  "Wonderful! When can you have it for me?"

  "Bridget, what I'm getting at, the general will take this as a slap at him and his pilots. We've had TV transmission from robotized atomjets dozens of times—"

  "With no results."

  14

  "With no results," Grant admitted, "but that doesn't mean that with a pilot you'll necessarily get any, either."

  "No, but why hasn't someone tried?" Bridget waited for him to answer a decent two seconds and then added, "The general, naturally."

  They left the base lunchroom in silence, Bridget pouting a lip-edge more than Grant. Before entering the office, Grant brought up a rebuttal.

  "Another thing, no pilot is going to push up under those conditions, with you down there hoping something will happen."

  Bridget had her hand on the door, but instead of opening it, paused.

  "The pilot would have to trust me." Her eyes darkened, widened, split Grant emotionally down the middle. He could understand, for an instant when he let himself, how a man could be inveigled to do anything for a woman.

  "Yeah," he said. "A pilot like that might be hard to find. I'll see what I can do."

  As he walked toward the hangars, he heard the office door close softly behind him.

  At the engineering conference after supper Grant had never seen General Morrison looking quite that old. The man was sustaining an over-load of responsibility, and probably self-imposed guilt on top of it.

  The mechanical engineers made their report, followed by the electronic engineers, followed by the physicist—all negative. But each group had a suspicion that another had overlooked something. Before it regressed to a high-school debate, the general bellowed the conference to order.

  Grant was surprised at the twinge of emotion he experienced when he realized the general was not going to ask for a report from syk. Why should Grant care, anyway? The position meant nothing to him, Syk Coördinator.

  It meant something to Bridget, though.

  That General Morrison had not even checked for syk findings annoyed Grant, perhaps. Under the circumstances he was justified: nothing had yet come out, nothing that Bridget had told Grant, anyway. The general could not be aware of this. He assumed it. Maybe that's what upset Grant.

  "Then there's this De-Meteor," the general was saying. "I've always been suspicious of that gadget."

  15

  An electronics man spoke up. "A Clary man checked them all, even used instrument flight to be certain. I was with him and counter-checked the radar high-speed scanners, the computers, and the course-alteration mechanism. I was convinced myself it would steer the ship out of any situation involving the approach of one or two penetrating meteors."

  General Morrison turned to the spatialogist. "What about the incidence of penetrating meteors in the mesosphere?"

  "In average fall," the man replied, "fairly low."

  "And the probability of encountering three at once along a given atomjet trajectory?"

  "From what limited experiments we have made, the odds would be as-tronomical, 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."

  16

  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."

  17

  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. Ac-tually, 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."

  18

  "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 instruc-tions. 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. Obedi-

  ently, 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.

  19

  "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 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 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."

  20

  "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.

 

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