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."