_According to tradition,
the man who held the
Galactic Medal of Honor
could do no wrong. In a
strange way, Captain Don
Mathers was to learn
that this was true._
Don Mathers snapped to attention, snapped a crisp salute to his
superior, said, "Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers reporting, sir."
The Commodore looked up at him, returned the salute, looked down at the
report on the desk. He murmured, "Mathers, One Man Scout V-102. Sector
A22-K223."
"Yes, sir," Don said.
The Commodore looked up at him again. "You've been out only five days,
Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir, on the third day I seemed to be developing trouble in my fuel
injectors. I stuck it out for a couple of days, but then decided I'd
better come in for a check." Don Mathers added, "As per instructions,
sir."
"Ummm, of course. In a Scout you can hardly make repairs in space. If
you have any doubts at all about your craft, orders are to return to
base. It happens to every pilot at one time or another."
"Yes, sir."
"However, Lieutenant, it has happened to you four times out of your last
six patrols."
Don Mathers said nothing. His face remained expressionless.
"The mechanics report that they could find nothing wrong with your
engines, Lieutenant."
"Sometimes, sir, whatever is wrong fixes itself. Possibly a spot of bad
fuel. It finally burns out and you're back on good fuel again. But by
that time you're also back to the base."
* * * * *
The Commodore said impatiently, "I don't need a lesson in the
shortcomings of the One Man Scout, Lieutenant. I piloted one for nearly
five years. I know their shortcomings--and those of their pilots."
"I don't understand, sir."
The Commodore looked down at the ball of his thumb. "You're out in space
for anywhere from two weeks to a month. All alone. You're looking for
Kraden ships which practically never turn up. In military history the
only remotely similar situation I can think of were the pilots of World
War One pursuit planes, in the early years of the war, when they still
flew singly, not in formation. But even they were up there alone for
only a couple of hours or so."
"Yes, sir," Don said meaninglessly.
The Commodore said, "We, here at command, figure on you fellows getting
a touch of space cafard once in a while and, ah, _imagining_ something
wrong in the engines and coming in. But," here the Commodore cleared his
throat, "four times out of six? Are you sure you don't need a psych,
Lieutenant?"