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time, or justunlock his helmet.

  Guns' drawl broke into his reverie. "Say, cap'n, Ah've been readin' inthis magazine about a trick they used to use, called skip bombin'.They'd hang a bomb on the bottom of one of these airplanes, and flyalong the ground, right at what they wanted to hit. Then they'd let thebomb go and get out of there, and the bomb would sail right on into thetarget. You s'pose we could fix this buggy up with an A bomb or an Hbomb we could let go a few hundred miles out? Stick a proximity fuse onit, and a time fuse, too, in case we missed. Just sittin' half a mileapart and tradin' shots like we did on that last mission is kinda hardon mah nerves, and it's startin' to happen too often."

  "Nice work if we could get it. I'm not crazy about those broadsidebattles myself. You'd think they'd have found something better thanthese thirty caliber popguns by now, but the odds say we've got to throwas many different chunks of iron as we can, to have a chance of hittinganything, and even then it's twenty to one against us. You wouldn't haveone chance in a thousand of scoring a hit with a bomb at that distance,even if they didn't spot it and take off. What you'd need would be arocket that could chase them, with the bomb for a head. And there's noway we could carry that size rocket, or fire it if we could. Some daythese crates will come with men's rooms, and we'll have a place to carrysomething like that."

  "How big would a rocket like that be?"

  "Five, six feet, by maybe a foot. Weigh at least three hundred pounds."

  It was five minutes before Guns spoke again. "Ah been thinkin', cap'n.With a little redecoratin', Ah think Ah could get a rocket that size inhere with me. We could weld a rail to one of the gun mounts that wouldhold it up to five or six G's. Then after we got away from station, Ahcould take it outside and mount it on the rail."

  "Forget it, lad. If they ever caught us pulling a trick like that,they'd have us on hydroponic duty for the next five years. They justdon't want us playing around with bombs, till the experts get all theangles figured out, and build ships to handle them. And besides, who doyou think will rig a bomb like that, without anybody finding out? Andwhere do you think we'd get a bomb in the first place? They don't leavethose things lying around. Kovacs watches them like a mother hen. Ithink he counts them twice a day."

  "Sorry, cap'n. Ah just figured if you could get hold of a bomb, Ah knowa few of the boys who could rig the thing up for us and keep theirmouths shut."

  "Well, forget about it. It's not a bad idea, but we haven't any bomb."

  "Right, cap'n."

  * * * * *

  But it was Paul who couldn't forget about it. All the rest of the wayback to station, he kept seeing visions of a panel sliding aside in thenose of a sleek and gleaming ship, while a small rocket pushed itsdeadly snout forward, and then streaked off at tremendous acceleration.

  Interrogation was brief. The mission had turned up nothing new. Theirkill made eight against seven for Doc Miller's crew, and they made sureMiller and the boys heard about it. They were lightheaded with theelation that followed a successful mission, swapping insults with therest of the squadron, and reveling in the sheer contentment of beingback safe.

  It wasn't until he got back to his stall, and started to write hisfather a long overdue letter, that he remembered he had heard Kovacs sayhe was going on leave.

  When he finished the letter, he opened the copy of "Lady Chatterley'sLover" he had borrowed from Rodriguez's limited but colorful library. Hecouldn't keep his mind on it. He kept thinking of the armament officer.

  Kovacs was a quiet, intelligent kid, devoted to his work. Coulter wasn'ttoo intimate with him. He wasn't a spaceman, for one thing. One of thoseillogical but powerful distinctions that sub-divided the men of thestation. And he was a little too polite to be easy company.

  Paul remembered the time he had walked into the Muroc Base Officer'sClub with Marge Halpern on his arm. The hunger that had lain undisguisedon Kovacs' face the moment he first saw them. Marge was a strikingblonde with a direct manner, who liked men, especially orbit stationmen. He hadn't thought about the incident since then, but the look inKovacs' eyes kept coming back to him as he tried to read.

  He wasn't sure how he got there, or why, when he found himself walkinginto Colonel Silton's office to ask for the leave he'd passed up at hisfiftieth mission. He'd considered taking it several times, but thethought of leaving the squadron, even for a couple of weeks, had madehim feel guilty, as though he were quitting.

  Once he had his papers, he started to get excited about it. As hecleaned up his paper work and packed his musette, his hands werefumbling, and his mind was full of Sylvia.

  * * * * *

  The vastness of Muroc Base was as incredible as ever. Row on uncountedrow of neat buildings, each resting at the top of its own hundred-yarddeep elevator shaft. A pulsing, throbbing city, dedicated to the longslow struggle to get into space and stay there. The service crew eyedthem with studied indifference, as they writhed out of the small hatchand stepped to the ground. They drew a helijet at operations, and headedimmediately for Los Angeles.

  Kovacs had been impressed when Paul asked if he'd care to room togetherwhile they were on leave. He was quiet on the flight, as he had been onthe way down, listening contentedly, while Paul talked combat and womenwith Bob Parandes, another pilot going on leave.

  They parked the helijet at Municipal Field and headed for the public PVbooths, picking up a coterie of two dogs and five assorted children onthe way. The kids followed quietly in their wake, ecstatic at the sightof their uniforms.

  Paul squared his shoulders, as befitted a hero, and tousled a couple ofuncombed heads as they walked. The kids clustered around the booths, asKovacs entered one to locate a hotel room, and Paul another, to callSylvia.

  "Honey, I've been so scared you weren't coming back. Where are you? Whenwill I see you? Why didn't you write?..." She sputtered to a stop as heheld up both hands in defense.

  "Whoa, baby. One thing at a time. I'm at the airport. You'll see metonight, and I'll tell you the rest then. That is, if you're freetonight. And tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. Areyou free?"

  Her hesitation was only momentary. "Well, I was going out--with a girlfriend. But she'll understand. What's up?"

  He took a deep breath. "I'd like to get out of the city for a few days,where we can take things easy and be away from the crowds. And there isanother guy I'd like to bring along."

  "We could take my helijet out to my dad's cottage at--_What did yousay?_"

  It was a ticklish job explaining about Kovacs, but when she understoodthat he just wanted to do a friend a favor, and she'd still have Paulall to herself, she calmed down. They made their arrangements quickly,and switched off.

  He hesitated a minute before he called Marge. She was quite a dish togive up. Once she'd seen him with Sylvia, he'd be strictly _persona nongrata_--that was for sure. It was an unhappy thought. Well, maybe it wasin a good cause. He shrugged and called her.

  She nearly cut him off when she first heard his request, but he did somefast talking. The idea of several days at the cottage intrigued her, andwhen he described how smitten Kovacs had been, she brightened up andagreed to come. He switched off, adjusted the drape of his genuine silkscarf, and stepped out of the booth.

  Kovacs and the kids were waiting. The armament officer had apparentlybeen telling them of Paul's exploits. They glowed with admiration. Theoldest boy, about eleven, had true worship in his eyes. He hesitated amoment, then asked gravely: "Would you tell us how you kill a Red, sir?"

  Paul eyed the time-honored weapon that dangled from the youngster'shand. He bent over and tapped it with his finger. His voice was warm andconfiding, but his eyes were far away.

  "I think next we're going to try a slingshot," he said.

  THE END

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ November 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publica
tion was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errorshave been corrected without note.