responsibilities, if only he would bawl me out, thought David fiercely,
knowing that he was being stampeded as Barney had warned him. If only
he would order me to do it so I could tell him to shove it. But he knew
he was being manipulated by a man skilled in the art, a man whose whole
life was the manipulation of men and money, in whose hands a
seventeen-year-old boy was as soft as dough.
You see, David, you are born to it. Anything else is cowardice, self
indulgence, the Morgan group reached out its tentacles, like some
grotesque flesh-eating plant, to suck him in and digest him, - we can
have your enlistment papers annulled. It will be the matter of a single
phone call - Uncle Paul, David almost shouted, trying to shut out the
all-pervasive flow of words. My father. He did it.
He joined the army. Yes, David. But it was different at that time.
One of us had to go. He was the younger, and, of course, there were
other personal considerations. Your mother, he let the rest of it hang
for a moment then went on, and when it was over he came back and took
his rightful place here. We miss him now, David. No one else has been
able to fill the gap he left. I have always hoped that you might be the
one But I don't want to. David shook his head. I don't want to spend
my life in here. He gestured at the mammoth structure of glass and
concrete that surrounded them. I don't want to spend each day poring
over piles of paper It's not like that, David. It's exciting,
challenging, endlessly variable Uncle Paul. David raised his voice
again. What do you call a man who fills his belly with rich food, and
then goes on eating? Come now, David The first edge of irritation
showed in Paul Morgan's voice, and he brushed the question aside
impatiently. What do you call him? David insisted.
I expect that you would call him a glutton Paul Morgan answered.
And what do you call a man with many millions who spends his life trying
to make more? Paul Morgan froze into stillness. He stared at his ward
for long seconds before he spoke. You become insolent, he said at last.
No, sir. I did not mean it so. You are not the glutton - but I would
be. Paul Morgan turned away and went to his desk. He sat in the
high-backed leather chair and lit the cigar at last. They were silent
again for a long time until at last Paul Morgan sighed.
You'll have to get it out of your system, the way your father did. But
how I grudge you five wasted years. 'Not wasted, Uncle Paul. I will
come out with a Bachelor of Science degree in aeronautical engineering.
'I suppose we'll just have to be thankful for little things like that.
David went and stood beside his chair.
Thank you. This is very important to me. Five years, David. After
that I want you, then he smiled slightly to signal a witticism, at least
they will make you cut your hair.
Four miles above the warm flesh-coloured earth, David Morgan rode the
high heavens like a young god. The sun visor of his helmet was closed,
masking with its dark cyclops eye the rapt, almost mystic expression
with which he flew. Five years had not dulled the edge of his appetite
for the sensation of power and isolation that flight in a Mirage
interceptor awoke in him.
The unfiltered sunlight blazed ferociously upon the metal of his craft,
clothing him in splendour, while far below the very clouds were
insignificant against the earth, scattered and flying like a sheep flock
before the wolf of the wind.
Today's flight was tempered by a melancholy, a sense of impending loss.
The morrow was the last day of his enlistment. At noon his commission
expired and if Paul Morgan prevailed he would become Mister David, new
boy at Morgan Group.
He thrust the thought aside, and concentrated on the enjoyment of these
last precious minutes; but too soon the spell was broken.
Zulu Striker One, this is Range Control. Report your position. Range
Control, this is Zulu Striker One holding up range fifty miles.
Striker One, the range is clear. Your target-markers are figures eight
and twelve. Commence your run. The horizon revolved abruptly across
the nose of the Mirage, as the wings came over and he went down under
power, falling from the heights, a controlled plunge, purposeful and
precise as the stoop of a falcon.
David's right hand moved swiftly across the weapon selector panel,
locking in the rocket circuit.
The earth flattened out ahead, immense and featureless, speckled with
low bush that bluffed past his wingtips as he let the Mirage sink lower.
At this height the awareness of speed was breathtaking, and as the first
marker came up ahead it seemed at the same instant to flash away below
the silvery nose.
Five, six, seven, the black numerals on their glaring white grounds
flickered by.
A touch of left rudder and stick, both adjustments made without
conscious effort, and ahead was the circular layout of the rocket range,
the concentric rings shrinking in size around the central mound, the
coke of flight jargon, which was the bull's-eye of the target.
David brought the deadly machine in fast and low, his mach meter
recording a speed that was barely subsonic. He was running off the
direct line of track, judging his moment with frowning concentration.
When it came he pulled the Mirage's nose in to the pitch up and went
over on to the target with his gloved right finer curled about the
trigger lever.
The shrieking silver machine achieved her correct slightly nose-down
attitude for rocket launch at the precise instant of time that the white
blob of coke was centred in the diamond patterns of the reflector sight.
It was an evolution executed with subtle mastery of man diverse skills,
and David pressed against the y spring-loaded resistance of the trigger.
There was no change in the feel of the aircraft, and the hiss of the
rocket launch was almost lost beneath the howl of the great jet, but
from beneath his wings the brief smoke lines reached out ahead towards
the target, and in certainty of a fair strike David pushed his throttle
to the gate and waited for the rumbling ignition of his afterburners,
giving him power for the climb out of range of enemy flak.
What a way to go, he grinned to himself as he lay on his back with the
Mirage's nose pointed into the bright blue, and gravity pressing him
into the padding of his seat.
Hello, Striker One. This is Range Control. That was right on the nose.
Give the man a coke. Nice shooting.
Sorry to lose you, Davey. The break in hallowed range discipline
touched David. He was going to miss them all of them. He pressed the
transmit button on the maulded head of his joystick, and spoke into the
microphone of his helmet, From Striker One, thanks and farewell, David
said. Over and out. His ground crew were waiting for him also.
He shook hands with each of them, the awkward handshakes and rough jokes
masking the genuine affection that the years had built between them.
Then he left them and went down the vast metal-skinned cavern, redolent
with the smell of grease and oil along which the gleaming rows of
needle-nosed interceptors stood, even in repose their forward lines
giving them speed and thrust.
David paused to pat the cold metal of one of them, and the orderly found
him there peering up at the emblem of the Flying Cobra upon the towering
tail plane.
C. O. 's compliments, sir, and will you report to him right away.