"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."
[Illustration]
"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
instructions. Ashley at Mojave--out."