A Fine Fix

: A Fine Fix

Generally speaking, human beings are fine buck-passers--but there's

one circumstance under which they refuse to pass on responsibility.

If the other fellow says "Your method won't solve the

problem!"--then they get mad!







The leader climbed sharply in a bank to the left, and the two others

followed close behind. Their jet streams cut off at very near the same

time. Be
ore their speed slowed to stalling, the rotors unfolded from

the canopy hump and beat the air viciously, the steam wisping back in

brief fingers.



Under power again, they dipped playfully in tightening circles toward

the plot-mottled earth. The fields expanded beneath them, and the leader

brought up and hovered over a farm road whose dust already stirred in

the disturbed air.



They settled as one in the rolling dust clouds from which emerged a

coveralled figure who had driven the battered pickup truck to meet them.



"Y'sure got back in a rush," he addressed the major, who was just

jumping from the plastiglas cabin.



The major nodded and put his attention on seeing that the general

descended safely. He then indicated the farmer.



"He's the one," the major said.



The general grunted socially.



Taking the opening, the farmer said, "Out there in the wheat, general."

His tone carried eager importance. "My kid saw the light come down this

morning feedin' the chickens. I felt the ground jump, too. Called the

sheriff, first off."



"All right, you were a hero," said the general shortly. "Now, Grant,

will you take me to it? I can't mess around here all day."



The party of six men, two of them technicians, waded into the field from

the road. The farmer remained to watch, frowning.



When they had progressed well into the wheat, he shouted after them

ruefully, "And watch where you're steppin', too!"



The group paused on the rim of newly gouged earth, clods and dirt that

had splashed from the center of the crater. It was nearly four feet

deep. The man the major had left on guard had uncovered more of the

blackened object, which lay three-quarters exposed and showed a warped

but cylindrical shape.



"Let's have a counter on it," the general ordered.



A technician slid into the crater and swept the metal with his

instrument. The needle swung far over and stuck.



To the other technician the general said, "Get a chunk for verification

of the alloy." He kicked a small avalanche of dirt down the crater side

and turned back to the road, adding, "Although I don't know why the

formality. Even a cadet could see that's an atomjet reactor, beat up as

it is."



The major absorbed the jibe without comeback. An hour ago he had

informed the general of his indecision over the object's identity,

though he had suspected it to be the reactor.



"We may find more when we get it examined in the shop," the general

mused, swishing by the wheat. "But at least we know they do come down

some place, and it wasn't flash fusion. On this one, anyway."



"What do you think about instituting a search of this vicinity for other

parts, general?"



The officer growled negatively. "Obviously, the reactor was the only

part not vaporized in the fall--because of its construction."



"That's assuming the ship entered the atmosphere at operational velocity

and not less than free fall," the major qualified.



"How can anyone assume free fall? Way outside probability."



"Yes, sir, but there are degrees of velocity involved. He could have

used reverse thrust and entered at a relatively slow speed."



"All right, all right--let's say possible, then. Pull off your search if

you want to. I'm in this thing so deep now, I'll try anything to get

going. I've got Congress ready to investigate, and some senator

yesterday put pressure on to cancel the United Nuclear contract. I'll

try anything at this point, Grant!"



The big man's voice had risen to anger, but Major Grant Reis had not

missed the vocal breaking in the last syllables.



* * * * *



"I'm First Lieutenant Ashley and I've an appointment to see General

Morrison."



The adjutant said, "Sorry, but you'll have to wait a little longer. The

general's unexpectedly busy."



"My appointment was over an hour ago."



"Another half-hour and you can go in."



"Another half-hour and I'll go."



"It's your bar."



The lieutenant plopped back into a chair just as Grant strode swiftly

past the adjutant's desk from the private office.



"Major," the adjutant asked, "how long is the general going to be tied

up? He won't let me in the conference and the lieutenant here is

supposed to see him."



Grant paused at the opposite door and pointing two thumb-and-forefinger

guns at his head exploded them. The adjutant groaned understandingly.

Even the first lieutenant caught on.



"Major, it's pretty important," the waiting officer said, standing

again. Grant shifted his attention.



"Look, lieutenant--" Grant bottled the sarcasm behind his suddenly lax

mouth. He saw a first lieutenant's uniform, but it bulged aesthetically;

and he saw a first lieutenant's cap and bar, but it sat rakishly on

puffed-up brown curls.



"If you'll just look at these papers, major, you'll understand. I

stratoed in from the Pentagon this morning," she said crisply.



Though it was Grant's turn to say something, he found too much of his

concentration on her challenging brown eyes and the efficient down-sweep

of her half-pouting mouth, plus a nub of a nose that pointed proudly

upwards with the tilt of her head. In a temporary defensive maneuver,

Grant took the papers handed him.



* * * * *



The borders were marked CONFIDENTIAL and the attached signatures would

have impressed even the general. The subject--he might have

expected--ATOMJET PATROL LOSSES.



"Er ... look, lieutenant-- What was it?" Grant glanced down at the

papers.



"First Lieutenant Bridget Ashley."



"Look, Lieutenant Ashley, the general's been getting nothing but

troubles all day. For your sake and his sake, I suggest you come back

tomorrow, huh?" Grant handed back the papers and put a hand on her

elbow, but she jerked back.



"Major, I've been given a great deal of responsibility in this

assignment," she flared, "and it's important for me to get work started

at once. I was led to understand these patrol losses constituted a

fairly urgent matter."



Grant glanced ominously toward the general's door. "Lieutenant, I'm

trying to explain to you that it's in your best interests to take this

up with him tomorrow. I'm one of his aides and I know him. I realize

you're authorized to see him today, but--"



"Then I'll wait." She reseated herself and emphatically crossed her

legs--a motion not escaping Grant's notice.



The adjutant and Grant mutually shrugged at each other, and Grant headed

outside, saying over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a minute."



* * * * *



As it developed, it was far more than a minute; but whatever it was,

when Grant returned she was gone. The major looked at the adjutant, and

the adjutant indicated the general's door with an apprehensive nod.

Grant bit his lip and entered the private office.



He had expected to hear the general's bass raging, but through the inner

door came the strident tones of the lieutenant's modulating contralto.

He had expected to see the general towering over the girl's shrinking

figure, but as he entered she was bent earnestly in the middle, and the

top of her torso inclined toward General Morrison, who had tilted as far

back as his swivel chair would permit.



"... So, if you haven't isolated any mechanical causation, how can you

be sure it's mechanical?" she was laying it on. "And if you're not sure

it's mechanical, how can you suggest there's no possibility of

psychological causation? The authorities that sent me here have not only

considered the possibility, they feel it's quite probable. All I am

requesting, sir, is immediate implementation of my authority so your

investigation can be broadened. It's really to your benefit that--"



Grant said, "Lieutenant Ashley."



"... My work be started at once so as to catch up on what findings you

have obtained in the--"



Grant shouted, "Lieutenant Ashley!"



"... Investigation so far in the mechanical aspects. It's not unlikely

that a combining factor, both psychological and mechanical--"



Grant yelled, "LIEUTENANT ASHLEY!!"



"Yes, sir, major."



"Would you please wait in the outer office for just a moment?"



"But--"



"For just a moment, lieutenant."



"Yes, sir."



Grant waited until the door closed before he tried communication with

the general. The officer still teetered in his chair, his eyes bulging

from his reddened face.



"They sent me a shape," he sputtered. "That I could take. Shapes I don't

mind, even with authority. But this one-- You know where she's from,

Grant?"



Grant sighed hopelessly.



"She's from syk," the general was beginning to roar, "with a blank

check of authority from Washington. She stood there and called the

losses pilot-error. My pilots, Grant, the ones I trained!"



"Just a possibility, she meant," soothed Grant.



"Possibility, hell! With that attitude around Mojave we'll never get

anywhere in this investigation." He untilted with a crash. "I want her

kept away from me, do you hear? Give her anything she wants--but

appointments with me. I've got United Nuclear here for stress tests,

coolant analyses, radiation metering in the morning just as a start, and

I'm not going to have that shape around fusing up the works."



"I'll see what I can do, sir."



"You're right you will. I'm putting Colonel Sorenson in as G-2, and

you're going to be the new Syk Cooerdinator for the duration of this

investigation!"



"The what?"



"You heard me."



"It couldn't be that bad, general," Grant grumbled.



"It is."



"Baby-sitting."



The general stood up from his desk. "No, you'll relay any data she may

turn up to me, and you'll see she gets what supplies and personnel she

may need. Look, Washington thinks we need her, so I take orders. And so

do you, Grant. I'll have a special order out this afternoon."



"Yes, sir," Grant saluted and wheeled, grinding his molars.



* * * * *



With dubious explanations, Grant managed to steer Lieutenant Ashley

toward the Officers' Club. What excuses he gave her evidently had some

effect; after the first fifty yards across the drill ground she steered

easily, though still under vocal protest.



A drink, and Grant felt he could face the future. They sat in a

plastiweave booth, one against the far wall that overlooked through a

curved window the blasting circle.



So wrapped up with his own feelings, Grant had been unaware of his

companion's. Her face had paled, and she stirred her drink absently. The

reflections in her eyes were over-bright with moisture.



Offered Grant: "The general has a lot on his mind."



"Yeah," she choked.



"The losses have upset him pretty bad."



"I notice. Me, too."



"Take a drink."



She sipped one CC and said, "And syk upsets him."



Grant smiled, "And shapes."



"And I suppose the rank of first lieutenant makes him nervous."



"No," Grant chuckled, "he can take or leave that. It's majors that get

him."



She smiled vaguely, so Grant followed up with: "What's your background?"



"Psychometrics. Got a doctorate in it. I thought it might be valuable to

the Air Force--at one time." She sipped two CCs.



"I've a little syk background," Grant said. She looked up in sudden

interest. "Started to major in it until I ran up against some of the

profs. If this is what syk produces, I decided, it's not for me. Changed

to engineering then. Unfortunately, the general knows about my record."



"How did he take it out on you, parade duty?"



"Worse. He made me an aide."



The girl leaned on an elbow and regarded him with her chin in her hand.

"You bring his slippers?"



"As G-2, I did up until quarter of an hour ago. I've been promoted. Meet

the Base Mojave Syk Cooerdinator."



Putting her nose in her drink, she giggled softly. "What is it he wants

cooerdinated, the syk or me?"



"You're on bearing," he laughed. "My name's Grant."



His hand went across the table, opened, and waited.



"Bridget," she said, and her hand fell into his in a handshake which

lingered slightly.



* * * * *



At Grant's insistence they jeep-toured the base. To his surprise Bridget

took interest in the installations, but asked most of her questions

around the atomjet hangars.



"I've never seen one close," she hinted.



Grant flashed his Security card at the guards and they went in. She

strolled about the tapering, snub-winged craft, apparently inspecting it

closely. Grant's thought was that she felt she had to dramatize

understanding something about Air Force rocketry.



After a short silence Bridget asked, "What is the compensating factor

for the reactor's being placed off the center of stability?"



Grant blinked. "What's that again?"



She swung a pointed finger at the ship. "Naturally," she interrupted,

"the nose will float downward in the canal, hoisting the hot tubes out

of the liquid at the end of the glide-ins. But you've got pilot, power

plant, and wings frontside. How can you affect glide-ins at surface air

density without nosing in?"



The major decided she must have been reading the latest confidential

files. High-viscosity liquid landing canals constituted a subject recent

enough to be Security and important enough not to be bandied about

outside engineering and Base Mojave.



"Well, you see," Grant cleared his throat, "there're the fuel tanks

along the back of the blast chamber, partly lead--"



"The tanks usually are nearly empty for glide-ins," she reminded.



Grant frowned. "Yes, usually empty, but still a weight factor. Then

there's the automatic wing stabilizer that adjusts to the air speed and

density and acts to pull up the nose--"



"O.K.," she interrupted. "Now, would you lift me through the canopy,

please? I'd like to sit inside a minute."



"That's out," he said. "Only pilots and technicians."



"All right, if you won't, I'll get up myself." She marched over to the

hangar wall and pulled over boarding steps, which were braced on three

pivotal tires.



"Bridget, Security says pilots and mechanics."



"And you're forgetting why I'm here, and besides that you're supposed to

cooerdinate. Right now you're uncooerdinating."



* * * * *



Before Grant's eyes flashed the memory of her orders with the signatures

at the bottom. She was already climbing the steps.



"Just don't touch anything, that's all," he conciliated, following her

up. Her seams were straight, he noted.



Bridget thudded into the narrow pilot's seat and wiggled herself into a

comfortable position.



"Awful crowded," she smiled up at Grant.



"I hope you tore your nylons," he groused.



"Now, if you'll just explain these gadgets," she said, moving her hand

over the panel embedded with digit-rimmed dials.



"Hands off, please."



"By your reaction, I would say you don't know what some of them are,"

she counter-fired, and tossed her protruding bunch of curls.



Grant took the bait. He leaned into the canopy and with an

over-stiffened index finger pointed forcefully at each gauge. For more

than a quarter-hour this went on, with Bridget pitching questions--most

of which he juggled.



She seemed to show more interest in the radar screen, the navigational

equipment, and the communications system. About these, she milked

Grant's available knowledge until he felt like reaching down and

throwing open the reactor valve and fuel switch.



"Lieutenant, if you don't mind, my back is paralyzed. Let's go back to

the club and I'll answer anything you want."



"Just one more," she coaxed. "This crosshair sight with the little black

circle in the middle. How does that work again?"



Grant straightened up and carefully massaged the small of his back.

"It's for precise manual navigation if you need it. You sit up straight

and sight through it."



"And what do you sight at?"



"A star, of course."



"Put it in the little black circle?"



"An A for you. Then you snap in Automatic Navigational and you're in

business. Or you can navigate manually by using Gyroscopic Navigational

if you want."



"I'm ready to get out now." Bridget lifted her hands where Grant stood

on the platform of the boarding device.



Back or no back, Grant couldn't resist the opportunity. He pulled her by

the hands to where she was leaning out the opened canopy, then he

stooped and grabbed her under the arms and swung her up. For a moment

her soft hair brushed his ear, and a light scent from her neck suggested

he keep her pliant form close to him a little longer than necessary.






He planted her next to the steps, and she muttered an uninspired thank

you. But halfway down, she halted and turned.



"It's much easier asking me out dancing, Grant," she smiled impishly,

and clacked across the hangar floor toward the jeep.



* * * * *



By the next morning arrangements for a small staff and office space had

swiftly gone through. Working through lunch, Bridget had the office set

up and the staff briefed and researching when Grant returned from dining

with the general.



"You're just in time," she said, looking up from an already cluttered

desk. "I'm ready now to scan through any G-2 you have on atomjet

operation in your Mojave files."



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."



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 eagerness. 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 schedules

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

presumed 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.



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 preliminary

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

vitaminized 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."



"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 overload 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

Cooerdinator.



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."



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

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 cooeperate fully." Grant smiled at the lens. He could

visualize her curls whipping around.



"Now, please cooeperate 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 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 cooeperation 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 cooeperate?"



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 cooeperate, 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?"



Bridget clapped her hands. "With exquisite pleasure."



"And he--?"



"... Got excited, phoned for engineering to remove navigational sights

and suggested I join the staff at the base."



Grant coughed on the bread and hurriedly reached for his water. "He

wants you around?"



"Gratitude, I guess, in his own brassy way."



"And you'll stay?"



"If Washington O.K.'s it, and I'm coaxed."



"Then that simplifies the matter," he said and brought out the daintily

wrapped tiny gift box. "For you."



Her eyes warmed and smiled as she said, "That's the kind of coaxing a

woman wants."



Grant fumed, "Then you know what it is? Extrasensory perception or

something psychological?"



Their hands met across the table and lingered.



"Purely an emotional response," said Bridget.



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