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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/22462-h.zip b/22462-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d62f297 --- /dev/null +++ b/22462-h.zip diff --git a/22462-h/22462-h.htm b/22462-h/22462-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8022ea --- /dev/null +++ b/22462-h/22462-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1406 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Slingshot, by Irving W. Lande</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + h1,h2 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1.5em; + } + + h1.pg { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 0em; + } + + h3.pg { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 0em; + } + + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + } + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .illo {font-style: italic; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 2.5em;} + .tease {font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; + margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + .theend {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; margin-top: 2em;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; + margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .trans1 {border: solid 1px; + margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: left;} + + .zerop {margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em;} + + img {margin:0; padding:0; display:block; border:none;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 75%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Slingshot, by Irving W. Lande, Illustrated by + Emsh</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Slingshot</p> +<p>Author: Irving W. Lande</p> +<p>Release Date: August 30, 2007 [eBook #22462]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLINGSHOT***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3 class="pg">E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/001-1.png" width="500" height="372" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 242px;"> +<img src="images/001-2.png" width="242" height="353" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h1><big>SLINGSHOT</big></h1> + +<h2>BY<br /> +IRVING W. LANDE</h2> + +<p class="illo">Illustrated by Emsh</p> + + + + + + + +<p class="tease"><big>The slingshot</big> was, I believe, one of the few +weapons of history that wasn't used in the last war. +That doesn't mean it won't be used in the next!</p> + + +<p style="clear: left;">"Got a bogey at three o'clock high. +Range about six hundred miles." +Johnson spoke casually, but his voice +in the intercom was thin with tension.</p> + +<p>Captain Paul Coulter, commanding +Space Fighter 308, 58th Squadron, +33rd Fighter Wing, glanced up out +of his canopy in the direction indicated, +and smiled to himself at the +instinctive reaction. Nothing there +but the familiar starry backdrop, the +moon far down to the left. If the +light wasn't right, a ship might be +invisible at half a mile. He squeezed +the throttle mike button. "Any IFF?"</p> + +<p>"No IFF."</p> + +<p>"O.K., let me know as soon as you +have his course." Coulter squashed +out his cigar and began his cockpit +check, grinning without humor as he +noticed that his breathing had deepened +and his palms were moist on +the controls. He looked down to +make sure his radio was snug in its +pocket on his leg; checked the thigh +harness of his emergency rocket, +wrapped in its thick belly pad; checked +the paired tanks of oxygen behind +him, hanging level from his shoulders +into their niche in the "cradle." +He flipped his helmet closed, locked +it, and opened it again. He tossed +a sardonic salute at the photograph +of a young lady who graced the side +of the cockpit. "Wish us luck, sugar." +He pressed the mike button again.</p> + +<p>"You got anything yet, Johnny?"</p> + +<p>"He's going our way, Paul. Have +it exact in a minute."</p> + +<p>Coulter scanned the full arch of +sky visible through the curving panels +of the dome, thinking the turgid +thoughts that always came when action +was near. His chest was full of +the familiar weakness—not fear exactly, +but a tight, helpless feeling +that grew and grew with the waiting.</p> + +<p>His eyes and hands were busy in +the familiar procedure, readying the +ship for combat, checking and re-checking +the details that could mean +life and death, but his mind watched +disembodied, yearning back to earth.</p> + +<p>Sylvia always came back first. Inviting +smile and outstretched hands. +Nyloned knees, pink sweater, and +that clinging, clinging white silk +skirt. A whirling montage of laughing, +challenging eyes and tossing sky-black +hair and soft arms tightening +around his neck.</p> + +<p>Then Jean, cool and self-possessed +and slightly disapproving, +with warmth and humor peeping +through from underneath when she +smiled. A lazy, crinkly kind of smile, +like Christmas lights going on one +by one. He wished he'd acted more +grown up that night they watched +the rain dance at the pueblo. For the +hundredth time, he went over what +he remembered of their last date, +seeing the gleam of her shoulder, and +the angry disappointment in her eyes; +hearing again his awkward apologies. +She was a nice kid. Silently his mouth +formed the words. "You're a nice +kid."</p> + +<p><i>I think she loves me. She was just +mad because I got drunk.</i></p> + +<p>The tension of approaching combat +suddenly blended with the memory, +welling up into a rush of tenderness +and affection. He whispered her +name, and suddenly he knew that if +he got back he was going to ask her +to marry him.</p> + +<p>He thought of his father, rocking +on the porch of the Pennsylvania +farm, pipe in his mouth, the weathered +old face serene, as he puffed and +listened to the radio beside him. He +wished he'd written him last night, +instead of joining the usual beer and +bull session in the wardroom. He +wished—. He wished.</p> + +<p>"I've got him, Paul. He's got two +point seven miles of RV on us. Take +thirty degrees high on two point one +o'clock for course to IP."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Automatically he turned the control +wheel to the right and eased it +back. The gyros recorded the turn to +course.</p> + +<p>"Hold 4 G's for one six five seconds, +then coast two minutes for initial +point five hundred miles on his +tail."</p> + +<p>"Right, Johnny. One sixty-five, +then two minutes." He set the timer, +advanced the throttle to 4 G's, and +stepped back an inch as the acceleration +took him snugly into the cradle. +The Return-To-Station-Fuel and Relative-Velocity-To-Station +gauges did +their usual double takes on a change +of course, as the ship computer recorded +the new information. He +liked those two gauges—the two old +ladies.</p> + +<p>Mrs. RSF kept track of how much +more fuel they had than they needed +to get home. When they were moving +away from station, she dropped +in alarmed little jumps, but when +they were headed home, she inched +along in serene contentment, or if +they were coasting, sneaked triumphantly +back up the dial.</p> + +<p>Mrs. RVS started to get jittery at +about ten mps away from home, and +above fifteen, she was trembling +steadily. He didn't blame the old +ladies for worrying. With one hour +of fuel at 5 G's, you didn't fire a +single squirt unless there was a good +reason for it. Most of their time on +a mission was spent free wheeling, +in the anxiety-laden boredom that +fighting men have always known.</p> + +<p><i>Wish the Red was coming in across +our course.</i> It would have taken less +fuel, and the chase wouldn't have +taken them so far out. But then +they'd probably have been spotted, +and lost the precious element of surprise.</p> + +<p>He blessed the advantage of better +radar. In this crazy "war," so like +the dogfights of the first world war, +the better than two hundred mile +edge of American radar was more +often than not the margin of victory. +The American crews were a little +sharper, a little better trained, but +with their stripped down ships, and +midget crewmen, with no personal +safety equipment, the Reds could +accelerate longer and faster, and go +farther out. You had to get the jump +on them, or it was just too bad.</p> + +<p>The second hand hit forty-five in +its third cycle, and he stood loose in +the cradle as the power died.</p> + +<p><i>Sixty-two combat missions but the +government says there's no war.</i> His +mind wandered back over eight years +in the service. Intelligence tests. Physical +tests. Psychological tests. Six +months of emotional adjustment in +the screep. Primary training. Basic +and advanced training. The pride and +excitement of being chosen for space +fighters. By the time he graduated, +the United States and Russia each had +several satellite stations operating, but +in 1979, the United States had won +the race for a permanent station on +the Moon. What a grind it had been, +bringing in the supplies.</p> + +<p>A year later the Moon station had +"blown up." No warning. No survivors. +Just a brand-new medium-sized +crater. And six months later, +the new station, almost completed, +went up again. The diplomats had +buzzed like hornets, with accusations +and threats, but nothing could be +proven—there <i>were</i> bombs stored at +the station. The implication was clear +enough. There wasn't going to be +any Moon station until one government +ruled Earth. Or until the United +States and Russia figured out a way +to get along with each other. And so +far, getting along with Russia was +like trying to get along with an +octopus.</p> + +<p>Of course there were rumors that +the psych warfare boys had some +gimmick cooked up, to turn the +U. S. S. R. upside down in a revolution, +the next time power changed +hands, but he'd been hearing that one +for years. Still, with four new dictators +over there in the last eleven +years, there was always a chance.</p> + +<p>Anyway, he was just a space +jockey, doing his job in this screwball +fight out here in the empty reaches. +Back on Earth, there was no war. The +statesmen talked, held conferences, +played international chess as ever. +Neither side bothered the other's +satellites, though naturally they were +on permanent alert. There just wasn't +going to be any Moon station for a +while. Nobody knew what there +might be on the Moon, but if one +side couldn't have it, then the other +side wasn't going to have it either.</p> + +<p>And meanwhile, the struggle was +growing deadlier, month by month, +each side groping for the stranglehold, +looking for the edge that would +give domination of space, or make +all-out war a good risk. They hadn't +found it yet, but it was getting bloodier +out here all the time. For a while, +it had been a supreme achievement +just to get a ship out and back, but +gradually, as the ships improved, +there was a little margin left over for +weapons. Back a year ago, the average +patrol was nothing but a sightseeing +tour. Not that there was much to see, +when you'd been out a few times. +Now, there were Reds around practically +every mission.</p> + +<p><i>Thirteen missions to go, after today.</i> +He wondered if he'd quit at +seventy-five. Deep inside him, the old +pride and excitement were still +strong. He still got a kick out of the +way the girls looked at the silver +rocket on his chest. But he didn't +feel as lucky as he used to. Twenty-nine +years old, and he was starting +to feel like an old man. He pictured +himself lecturing to a group of eager +kids.</p> + +<p><i>Had a couple of close calls, those +last two missions.</i> That Red had +looked easy, the way he was wandering +around. He hadn't spotted them +until they were well into their run, +but when he got started he'd made +them look like slow motion, just the +same. If he hadn't tried that harebrained +sudden deceleration.... +Coulter shook his head at the memory. +And on the last mission they'd +been lucky to get a draw. Those boys +were good shots.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"We're crossing his track, Paul. +Turn to nine point five o'clock and +hold 4 G's for thirty-two seconds, +starting on the count ... five—four—three—two—one—go!" +He completed +the operation in silence, remarking +to himself how lucky he was +to have Johnson. The boy loved a +chase. He navigated like a hungry +hawk, though you had to admit his +techniques were a bit irregular.</p> + +<p>Coulter chuckled at the ad lib way +they operated, remembering the +courses, the tests, the procedures practiced +until they could do them backwards +blindfolded. When they tangled +with a Red, the Solter co-ordinates +went out the hatch. They navigated +by the enemy. There were times +during a fight when he had no more +idea of his position than what the +old ladies told him, and what he +could see of the Sun, the Earth, and +the Moon.</p> + +<p>And using "right side up" as a +basis for navigation. He chuckled +again. Still, the service had had to +concede on "right side up," in designing +the ships, so there was something +to be said for it. They hadn't +been able to simulate gravity without +fouling up the ships so they had +to call the pilot's head "up." There +was something comforting about it. +He'd driven a couple of the experimental +jobs, one with the cockpit set +on gimbals, and one where the whole +ship rotated, and he hadn't cared for +them at all. Felt disoriented, with +something nagging at his mind all +the time, as though the ships had +been sabotaged. A couple of pilots +had gone nuts in the "spindizzy," +and remembering his own feelings as +he watched the sky go by, it was easy +to understand.</p> + +<p>Anyway, "right side up" tied in +perfectly with the old "clock" system +Garrity had dug out of those magazines +he was always reading. Once +they got used to it, it had turned out +really handy. Old Doc Hoffman, his +astrogation prof, would have turned +purple if he'd ever dreamed they'd +use such a conglomeration. But +it worked. And when you were +in a hurry, it worked in a hurry, and +that was good enough for Coulter. +He'd submitted a report on it to +Colonel Silton.</p> + +<p>"You've got him, Paul. We're +dead on his tail, five hundred miles +back, and matching velocity. Turn +forty-two degrees right, and you're +lined up right on him." Johnson was +pleased with the job he'd done.</p> + +<p>Coulter watched the pip move into +his sightscreen. It settled less than a +degree off dead center. He made the +final corrections in course, set the air +pressure control to eight pounds, and +locked his helmet.</p> + +<p>"Nice job, Johnny. Let's button +up. You with us, Guns?"</p> + +<p>Garrity sounded lazy as a well-fed +tiger. "Ah'm with yew, cap'n."</p> + +<p>Coulter advanced the throttle to +5 G's. And with the hiss of power, +SF 308 began the deadly, intricate, +precarious maneuver called a combat +pass—a maneuver inherited from the +aerial dogfight—though it often turned +into something more like the +broadside duels of the old sailing +ships—as the best and least suicidal +method of killing a spaceship. To +start on the enemy's tail, just out of +his radar range. To come up his track +at 2 mps relative velocity, firing six +.30 caliber machine guns from fifty +miles out. In the last three or four +seconds, to break out just enough to +clear him, praying that he won't +break in the same direction. <i>And to +keep on going.</i></p> + +<p><i>Four minutes and thirty-four seconds +to the break.</i> Sixty seconds at +5 G's; one hundred ninety-two seconds +of free wheeling; and then, if +they were lucky, the twenty-two frantic +seconds they were out here for—throwing +a few pounds of steel slugs +out before them in one unbroken +burst, groping out fifty miles into +the darkness with steel and radar fingers +to kill a duplicate of themselves.</p> + +<p><i>This is the worst. These three minutes +are the worst.</i> One hundred +ninety-two eternal seconds of waiting, +of deathly silence and deathly +calm, feeling and hearing nothing +but the slow pounding of their own +heartbeats. Each time he got back, it +faded away, and all he remembered +was the excitement. But each time +he went through it, it was worse. Just +standing and waiting in the silence, +praying they weren't spotted—staring +at the unmoving firmament and +knowing he was a projectile hurtling +two miles each second straight at a +clump of metal and flesh that was +the enemy. Knowing the odds were +twenty to one against their scoring +a kill ... unless they ran into him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>At eighty-five seconds, he corrected +slightly to center the pip. The momentary +hiss of the rockets was a +relief. He heard the muffled yammering +as Guns fired a short burst +from the .30's standing out of their +compartments around the sides of the +ship. They were practically recoilless, +but the burst drifted him forward +against the cradle harness.</p> + +<p>And suddenly the waiting was +over. The ship filled with vibration +as Guns opened up. <i>Twenty-five seconds +to target.</i> His eyes flicked from +the sightscreen to the sky ahead, +looking for the telltale flare of rockets—ready +to follow like a ferret.</p> + +<p><i>There he is!</i> At eighteen miles +from target, a tiny blue light flickered +ahead. He forgot everything but the +sightscreen, concentrating on keeping +the pip dead center. The guns hammered +on. It seemed they'd been firing +for centuries. At ten-mile range, +the combat radar kicked the automatics +in, turning the ship ninety +degrees to her course in one and a +half seconds. He heard the lee side +firing cut out, as Garrity hung on +with two, then three guns.</p> + +<p>He held it as long as he could. +Closer than he ever had before. At +four miles he poured 12 G's for two +seconds.</p> + +<p>They missed ramming by something +around a hundred yards. The +enemy ship flashed across his tail in +a fraction of a second, already turned +around and heading up its own track, +yet it seemed to Paul he could make +out every detail—the bright red star, +even the tortured face of the pilot. +Was there something lopsided in the +shape of that rocket plume, or was +he just imagining it in the blur of +their passing? And did he hear a +<i>ping</i> just at that instant, feel the +ship vibrate for a second?</p> + +<p>He continued the turn in the direction +the automatics had started, bringing +his nose around to watch the +enemy's track. And as the shape of +the plume told him the other ship +was still heading back toward Earth, +he brought the throttle back up to +12 G's, trying to overcome the lead +his pass had given away.</p> + +<p>Guns spoke quietly to Johnson. +"Let me know when we kill his RV. +Ah may get another shot at him."</p> + +<p>And Johnny answered, hurt, +"What do you think I'm doing down +here—reading one of your magazines?"</p> + +<p>Paul was struggling with hundred-pound +arms, trying to focus the telescope +that swiveled over the panel. +As the field cleared, he could see that +the plume was flaring unevenly, flickering +red and orange along one side. +Quietly and viciously, he was talking +to himself. "Blow! Blow!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>And she blew. Like a dirty ragged +bit of fireworks, throwing tiny handfuls +of sparks into the blackness. +Something glowed red for a while, +and slowly faded.</p> + +<p><i>There, but for the grace of God....</i> +Paul shuddered in a confused +mixture of relief and revulsion.</p> + +<p>He cut back to 4 G's, noting that +RVS registered about a mile per +second away from station, and suddenly +became aware that the red light +was on for loss of air. The cabin +pressure gauge read zero, and his +heart throbbed into his throat as he +remembered that <i>pinging</i> sound, just +as they passed the enemy ship. He +told Garrity to see if he could locate +the loss, and any other damage, and +was shortly startled by a low amazed +whistle in his earphones.</p> + +<p>"If Ah wasn't lookin' at it, Ah +wouldn't believe it. Musta been one +of his shells went right around the +fuel tank and out again, without hittin' +it. There's at least three inches of +tank on a line between the holes! He +musta been throwin' curves at us. +Man, cap'n, this is our lucky day!"</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/002.png" width="600" height="431" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Paul felt no surprise, only relief +at having the trouble located. The +reaction to the close call might not +come till hours later. "This kind of +luck we can do without. Can you +patch the holes?"</p> + +<p>"Ah can patch the one where it +came in, but it musta been explodin' +on the way out. There's a hole Ah +could stick mah head through."</p> + +<p>"That's a good idea." Johnson was +not usually very witty, but this was +one he couldn't resist.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Guns. A patch that +big wouldn't be safe to hold air."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>They were about eighty thousand +miles out. He set course for Earth at +about five and a half mps, which +Johnson calculated to bring them in +on the station on the "going away" +side of its orbit, and settled back for +the tedious two hours of free wheeling. +For ten or fifteen minutes, the +interphone crackled with the gregariousness +born of recent peril, and +gradually the ship fell silent as each +man returned to his own private +thoughts.</p> + +<p>Paul was wondering about the men +on the other ship—whether any of +them were still alive. Eighty thousand +miles to fall. That was a little +beyond the capacity of an emergency +rocket—about 2 G's for sixty seconds—even +if they had them. What a +way to go home! He wondered what +he'd do if it happened to him. Would +he wait out his time, or just unlock +his helmet.</p> + +<p>Guns' drawl broke into his reverie. +"Say, cap'n, Ah've been readin' in +this magazine about a trick they used +to use, called skip bombin'. They'd +hang a bomb on the bottom of one +of these airplanes, and fly along the +ground, right at what they wanted +to hit. Then they'd let the bomb go +and get out of there, and the bomb +would sail right on into the target. +You s'pose we could fix this buggy +up with an A bomb or an H bomb +we could let go a few hundred miles +out? Stick a proximity fuse on it, and +a time fuse, too, in case we missed. +Just sittin' half a mile apart and +tradin' shots like we did on that last +mission is kinda hard on mah nerves, +and it's startin' to happen too often."</p> + +<p>"Nice work if we could get it. +I'm not crazy about those broadside +battles myself. You'd think they'd +have found something better than +these thirty caliber popguns by now, +but the odds say we've got to throw +as many different chunks of iron as +we can, to have a chance of hitting +anything, and even then it's twenty +to one against us. You wouldn't have +one chance in a thousand of scoring +a hit with a bomb at that distance, +even if they didn't spot it and take +off. What you'd need would be a +rocket that could chase them, with +the bomb for a head. And there's no +way we could carry that size rocket, +or fire it if we could. Some day these +crates will come with men's rooms, +and we'll have a place to carry something +like that."</p> + +<p>"How big would a rocket like that +be?"</p> + +<p>"Five, six feet, by maybe a foot. +Weigh at least three hundred +pounds."</p> + +<p>It was five minutes before Guns +spoke again. "Ah been thinkin', +cap'n. With a little redecoratin', Ah +think Ah could get a rocket that size +in here with me. We could weld a +rail to one of the gun mounts that +would hold it up to five or six G's. +Then after we got away from station, +Ah could take it outside and mount +it on the rail."</p> + +<p>"Forget it, lad. If they ever caught +us pulling a trick like that, they'd +have us on hydroponic duty for the +next five years. They just don't want +us playing around with bombs, till +the experts get all the angles figured +out, and build ships to handle them. +And besides, who do you think will +rig a bomb like that, without anybody +finding out? And where do you think +we'd get a bomb in the first place? +They don't leave those things lying +around. Kovacs watches them like a +mother hen. I think he counts them +twice a day."</p> + +<p>"Sorry, cap'n. Ah just figured if +you could get hold of a bomb, Ah +know a few of the boys who could +rig the thing up for us and keep +their mouths shut."</p> + +<p>"Well, forget about it. It's not a +bad idea, but we haven't any bomb."</p> + +<p>"Right, cap'n."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>But it was Paul who couldn't forget +about it. All the rest of the way +back to station, he kept seeing visions +of a panel sliding aside in the nose +of a sleek and gleaming ship, while +a small rocket pushed its deadly snout +forward, and then streaked off at +tremendous acceleration.</p> + +<p>Interrogation was brief. The mission +had turned up nothing new. +Their kill made eight against seven +for Doc Miller's crew, and they made +sure Miller and the boys heard about +it. They were lightheaded with the +elation that followed a successful +mission, swapping insults with the +rest of the squadron, and reveling in +the sheer contentment of being back +safe.</p> + +<p>It wasn't until he got back to his +stall, and started to write his father +a long overdue letter, that he remembered +he had heard Kovacs say he +was going on leave.</p> + +<p>When he finished the letter, he +opened the copy of "Lady Chatterley's +Lover" he had borrowed from +Rodriguez's limited but colorful library. +He couldn't keep his mind on +it. He kept thinking of the armament +officer.</p> + +<p>Kovacs was a quiet, intelligent kid, +devoted to his work. Coulter wasn't +too intimate with him. He wasn't a +spaceman, for one thing. One of those +illogical but powerful distinctions +that sub-divided the men of the station. +And he was a little too polite to +be easy company.</p> + +<p>Paul remembered the time he had +walked into the Muroc Base Officer's +Club with Marge Halpern on his +arm. The hunger that had lain undisguised +on Kovacs' face the moment +he first saw them. Marge was +a striking blonde with a direct manner, +who liked men, especially orbit +station men. He hadn't thought about +the incident since then, but the look +in Kovacs' eyes kept coming back to +him as he tried to read.</p> + +<p>He wasn't sure how he got there, +or why, when he found himself walking +into Colonel Silton's office to ask +for the leave he'd passed up at his +fiftieth mission. He'd considered taking +it several times, but the thought +of leaving the squadron, even for a +couple of weeks, had made him feel +guilty, as though he were quitting.</p> + +<p>Once he had his papers, he started +to get excited about it. As he cleaned +up his paper work and packed his +musette, his hands were fumbling, +and his mind was full of Sylvia.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The vastness of Muroc Base was as +incredible as ever. Row on uncounted +row of neat buildings, each resting at +the top of its own hundred-yard +deep elevator shaft. A pulsing, throbbing +city, dedicated to the long slow +struggle to get into space and stay +there. The service crew eyed them +with studied indifference, as they +writhed out of the small hatch and +stepped to the ground. They drew a +helijet at operations, and headed immediately +for Los Angeles.</p> + +<p>Kovacs had been impressed when +Paul asked if he'd care to room together +while they were on leave. He +was quiet on the flight, as he had +been on the way down, listening contentedly, +while Paul talked combat +and women with Bob Parandes, another +pilot going on leave.</p> + +<p>They parked the helijet at Municipal +Field and headed for the public +PV booths, picking up a coterie of +two dogs and five assorted children +on the way. The kids followed quietly +in their wake, ecstatic at the sight of +their uniforms.</p> + +<p>Paul squared his shoulders, as befitted +a hero, and tousled a couple of +uncombed heads as they walked. The +kids clustered around the booths, as +Kovacs entered one to locate a hotel +room, and Paul another, to call +Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"Honey, I've been so scared you +weren't coming back. Where are you? +When will I see you? Why didn't +you write?..." She sputtered to a +stop as he held up both hands in +defense.</p> + +<p>"Whoa, baby. One thing at a time. +I'm at the airport. You'll see me tonight, +and I'll tell you the rest then. +That is, if you're free tonight. And +tomorrow. And the day after, and +the day after that. Are you free?"</p> + +<p>Her hesitation was only momentary. +"Well, I was going out—with +a girl friend. But she'll understand. +What's up?"</p> + +<p>He took a deep breath. "I'd like +to get out of the city for a few days, +where we can take things easy and +be away from the crowds. And there +is another guy I'd like to bring +along."</p> + +<p>"We could take my helijet out to +my dad's cottage at—<i>What did you +say?</i>"</p> + +<p>It was a ticklish job explaining +about Kovacs, but when she understood +that he just wanted to do a +friend a favor, and she'd still have +Paul all to herself, she calmed down. +They made their arrangements quickly, +and switched off.</p> + +<p>He hesitated a minute before he +called Marge. She was quite a dish +to give up. Once she'd seen him with +Sylvia, he'd be strictly <i>persona non +grata</i>—that was for sure. It was an +unhappy thought. Well, maybe it was +in a good cause. He shrugged and +called her.</p> + +<p>She nearly cut him off when she +first heard his request, but he did +some fast talking. The idea of several +days at the cottage intrigued her, and +when he described how smitten +Kovacs had been, she brightened up +and agreed to come. He switched off, +adjusted the drape of his genuine +silk scarf, and stepped out of the +booth.</p> + +<p>Kovacs and the kids were waiting. +The armament officer had apparently +been telling them of Paul's exploits. +They glowed with admiration. The +oldest boy, about eleven, had true +worship in his eyes. He hesitated a +moment, then asked gravely: "Would +you tell us how you kill a Red, sir?"</p> + +<p>Paul eyed the time-honored weapon +that dangled from the youngster's +hand. He bent over and tapped it +with his finger. His voice was warm +and confiding, but his eyes were far +away.</p> + +<p>"I think next we're going to try +a slingshot," he said.</p> + + +<p class="theend">THE END</p> + + + + +<div class="trans1"><p class="zerop"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b><br /> +This etext was produced from <i>Astounding Science Fiction</i> November 1955. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright +on this publication was renewed. 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Lande, Illustrated by + Emsh + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Slingshot + + +Author: Irving W. Lande + + + +Release Date: August 30, 2007 [eBook #22462] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLINGSHOT*** + + +E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustrations. + See 22462-h.htm or 22462-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/4/6/22462/22462-h/22462-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/4/6/22462/22462-h.zip) + + + + + +SLINGSHOT + +by + +IRVING W. LANDE + +Illustrated by Emsh + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + _The slingshot was, I believe, one of the few + weapons of history that wasn't used in the last war. + That doesn't mean it won't be used in the next!_ + + +"Got a bogey at three o'clock high. Range about six hundred miles." +Johnson spoke casually, but his voice in the intercom was thin with +tension. + +Captain Paul Coulter, commanding Space Fighter 308, 58th Squadron, 33rd +Fighter Wing, glanced up out of his canopy in the direction indicated, +and smiled to himself at the instinctive reaction. Nothing there but the +familiar starry backdrop, the moon far down to the left. If the light +wasn't right, a ship might be invisible at half a mile. He squeezed the +throttle mike button. "Any IFF?" + +"No IFF." + +"O.K., let me know as soon as you have his course." Coulter squashed out +his cigar and began his cockpit check, grinning without humor as he +noticed that his breathing had deepened and his palms were moist on the +controls. He looked down to make sure his radio was snug in its pocket +on his leg; checked the thigh harness of his emergency rocket, wrapped +in its thick belly pad; checked the paired tanks of oxygen behind him, +hanging level from his shoulders into their niche in the "cradle." He +flipped his helmet closed, locked it, and opened it again. He tossed a +sardonic salute at the photograph of a young lady who graced the side of +the cockpit. "Wish us luck, sugar." He pressed the mike button again. + +"You got anything yet, Johnny?" + +"He's going our way, Paul. Have it exact in a minute." + +Coulter scanned the full arch of sky visible through the curving panels +of the dome, thinking the turgid thoughts that always came when action +was near. His chest was full of the familiar weakness--not fear exactly, +but a tight, helpless feeling that grew and grew with the waiting. + +His eyes and hands were busy in the familiar procedure, readying the +ship for combat, checking and re-checking the details that could mean +life and death, but his mind watched disembodied, yearning back to +earth. + +Sylvia always came back first. Inviting smile and outstretched hands. +Nyloned knees, pink sweater, and that clinging, clinging white silk +skirt. A whirling montage of laughing, challenging eyes and tossing +sky-black hair and soft arms tightening around his neck. + +Then Jean, cool and self-possessed and slightly disapproving, with +warmth and humor peeping through from underneath when she smiled. A +lazy, crinkly kind of smile, like Christmas lights going on one by one. +He wished he'd acted more grown up that night they watched the rain +dance at the pueblo. For the hundredth time, he went over what he +remembered of their last date, seeing the gleam of her shoulder, and the +angry disappointment in her eyes; hearing again his awkward apologies. +She was a nice kid. Silently his mouth formed the words. "You're a nice +kid." + +_I think she loves me. She was just mad because I got drunk._ + +The tension of approaching combat suddenly blended with the memory, +welling up into a rush of tenderness and affection. He whispered her +name, and suddenly he knew that if he got back he was going to ask her +to marry him. + +He thought of his father, rocking on the porch of the Pennsylvania farm, +pipe in his mouth, the weathered old face serene, as he puffed and +listened to the radio beside him. He wished he'd written him last night, +instead of joining the usual beer and bull session in the wardroom. He +wished--. He wished. + +"I've got him, Paul. He's got two point seven miles of RV on us. Take +thirty degrees high on two point one o'clock for course to IP." + + * * * * * + +Automatically he turned the control wheel to the right and eased it +back. The gyros recorded the turn to course. + +"Hold 4 G's for one six five seconds, then coast two minutes for initial +point five hundred miles on his tail." + +"Right, Johnny. One sixty-five, then two minutes." He set the timer, +advanced the throttle to 4 G's, and stepped back an inch as the +acceleration took him snugly into the cradle. The Return-To-Station-Fuel +and Relative-Velocity-To-Station gauges did their usual double takes on +a change of course, as the ship computer recorded the new information. +He liked those two gauges--the two old ladies. + +Mrs. RSF kept track of how much more fuel they had than they needed to +get home. When they were moving away from station, she dropped in +alarmed little jumps, but when they were headed home, she inched along +in serene contentment, or if they were coasting, sneaked triumphantly +back up the dial. + +Mrs. RVS started to get jittery at about ten mps away from home, and +above fifteen, she was trembling steadily. He didn't blame the old +ladies for worrying. With one hour of fuel at 5 G's, you didn't fire a +single squirt unless there was a good reason for it. Most of their time +on a mission was spent free wheeling, in the anxiety-laden boredom that +fighting men have always known. + +_Wish the Red was coming in across our course._ It would have taken less +fuel, and the chase wouldn't have taken them so far out. But then they'd +probably have been spotted, and lost the precious element of surprise. + +He blessed the advantage of better radar. In this crazy "war," so like +the dogfights of the first world war, the better than two hundred mile +edge of American radar was more often than not the margin of victory. +The American crews were a little sharper, a little better trained, but +with their stripped down ships, and midget crewmen, with no personal +safety equipment, the Reds could accelerate longer and faster, and go +farther out. You had to get the jump on them, or it was just too bad. + +The second hand hit forty-five in its third cycle, and he stood loose in +the cradle as the power died. + +_Sixty-two combat missions but the government says there's no war._ His +mind wandered back over eight years in the service. Intelligence tests. +Physical tests. Psychological tests. Six months of emotional adjustment +in the screep. Primary training. Basic and advanced training. The pride +and excitement of being chosen for space fighters. By the time he +graduated, the United States and Russia each had several satellite +stations operating, but in 1979, the United States had won the race for +a permanent station on the Moon. What a grind it had been, bringing in +the supplies. + +A year later the Moon station had "blown up." No warning. No survivors. +Just a brand-new medium-sized crater. And six months later, the new +station, almost completed, went up again. The diplomats had buzzed like +hornets, with accusations and threats, but nothing could be +proven--there _were_ bombs stored at the station. The implication was +clear enough. There wasn't going to be any Moon station until one +government ruled Earth. Or until the United States and Russia figured +out a way to get along with each other. And so far, getting along with +Russia was like trying to get along with an octopus. + +Of course there were rumors that the psych warfare boys had some gimmick +cooked up, to turn the U. S. S. R. upside down in a revolution, the next +time power changed hands, but he'd been hearing that one for years. +Still, with four new dictators over there in the last eleven years, +there was always a chance. + +Anyway, he was just a space jockey, doing his job in this screwball +fight out here in the empty reaches. Back on Earth, there was no war. +The statesmen talked, held conferences, played international chess as +ever. Neither side bothered the other's satellites, though naturally +they were on permanent alert. There just wasn't going to be any Moon +station for a while. Nobody knew what there might be on the Moon, but if +one side couldn't have it, then the other side wasn't going to have it +either. + +And meanwhile, the struggle was growing deadlier, month by month, each +side groping for the stranglehold, looking for the edge that would give +domination of space, or make all-out war a good risk. They hadn't found +it yet, but it was getting bloodier out here all the time. For a while, +it had been a supreme achievement just to get a ship out and back, but +gradually, as the ships improved, there was a little margin left over +for weapons. Back a year ago, the average patrol was nothing but a +sightseeing tour. Not that there was much to see, when you'd been out a +few times. Now, there were Reds around practically every mission. + +_Thirteen missions to go, after today._ He wondered if he'd quit at +seventy-five. Deep inside him, the old pride and excitement were still +strong. He still got a kick out of the way the girls looked at the +silver rocket on his chest. But he didn't feel as lucky as he used to. +Twenty-nine years old, and he was starting to feel like an old man. He +pictured himself lecturing to a group of eager kids. + +_Had a couple of close calls, those last two missions._ That Red had +looked easy, the way he was wandering around. He hadn't spotted them +until they were well into their run, but when he got started he'd made +them look like slow motion, just the same. If he hadn't tried that +harebrained sudden deceleration.... Coulter shook his head at the +memory. And on the last mission they'd been lucky to get a draw. Those +boys were good shots. + + * * * * * + +"We're crossing his track, Paul. Turn to nine point five o'clock and +hold 4 G's for thirty-two seconds, starting on the count ... +five--four--three--two--one--go!" He completed the operation in silence, +remarking to himself how lucky he was to have Johnson. The boy loved a +chase. He navigated like a hungry hawk, though you had to admit his +techniques were a bit irregular. + +Coulter chuckled at the ad lib way they operated, remembering the +courses, the tests, the procedures practiced until they could do them +backwards blindfolded. When they tangled with a Red, the Solter +co-ordinates went out the hatch. They navigated by the enemy. There were +times during a fight when he had no more idea of his position than what +the old ladies told him, and what he could see of the Sun, the Earth, +and the Moon. + +And using "right side up" as a basis for navigation. He chuckled again. +Still, the service had had to concede on "right side up," in designing +the ships, so there was something to be said for it. They hadn't been +able to simulate gravity without fouling up the ships so they had to +call the pilot's head "up." There was something comforting about it. +He'd driven a couple of the experimental jobs, one with the cockpit set +on gimbals, and one where the whole ship rotated, and he hadn't cared +for them at all. Felt disoriented, with something nagging at his mind +all the time, as though the ships had been sabotaged. A couple of pilots +had gone nuts in the "spindizzy," and remembering his own feelings as he +watched the sky go by, it was easy to understand. + +Anyway, "right side up" tied in perfectly with the old "clock" system +Garrity had dug out of those magazines he was always reading. Once they +got used to it, it had turned out really handy. Old Doc Hoffman, his +astrogation prof, would have turned purple if he'd ever dreamed they'd +use such a conglomeration. But it worked. And when you were in a hurry, +it worked in a hurry, and that was good enough for Coulter. He'd +submitted a report on it to Colonel Silton. + +"You've got him, Paul. We're dead on his tail, five hundred miles back, +and matching velocity. Turn forty-two degrees right, and you're lined up +right on him." Johnson was pleased with the job he'd done. + +Coulter watched the pip move into his sightscreen. It settled less than +a degree off dead center. He made the final corrections in course, set +the air pressure control to eight pounds, and locked his helmet. + +"Nice job, Johnny. Let's button up. You with us, Guns?" + +Garrity sounded lazy as a well-fed tiger. "Ah'm with yew, cap'n." + +Coulter advanced the throttle to 5 G's. And with the hiss of power, SF +308 began the deadly, intricate, precarious maneuver called a combat +pass--a maneuver inherited from the aerial dogfight--though it often +turned into something more like the broadside duels of the old sailing +ships--as the best and least suicidal method of killing a spaceship. To +start on the enemy's tail, just out of his radar range. To come up his +track at 2 mps relative velocity, firing six .30 caliber machine guns +from fifty miles out. In the last three or four seconds, to break out +just enough to clear him, praying that he won't break in the same +direction. _And to keep on going._ + +_Four minutes and thirty-four seconds to the break._ Sixty seconds at 5 +G's; one hundred ninety-two seconds of free wheeling; and then, if they +were lucky, the twenty-two frantic seconds they were out here +for--throwing a few pounds of steel slugs out before them in one +unbroken burst, groping out fifty miles into the darkness with steel and +radar fingers to kill a duplicate of themselves. + +_This is the worst. These three minutes are the worst._ One hundred +ninety-two eternal seconds of waiting, of deathly silence and deathly +calm, feeling and hearing nothing but the slow pounding of their own +heartbeats. Each time he got back, it faded away, and all he remembered +was the excitement. But each time he went through it, it was worse. Just +standing and waiting in the silence, praying they weren't +spotted--staring at the unmoving firmament and knowing he was a +projectile hurtling two miles each second straight at a clump of metal +and flesh that was the enemy. Knowing the odds were twenty to one +against their scoring a kill ... unless they ran into him. + + * * * * * + +At eighty-five seconds, he corrected slightly to center the pip. The +momentary hiss of the rockets was a relief. He heard the muffled +yammering as Guns fired a short burst from the .30's standing out of +their compartments around the sides of the ship. They were practically +recoilless, but the burst drifted him forward against the cradle +harness. + +And suddenly the waiting was over. The ship filled with vibration as +Guns opened up. _Twenty-five seconds to target._ His eyes flicked from +the sightscreen to the sky ahead, looking for the telltale flare of +rockets--ready to follow like a ferret. + +_There he is!_ At eighteen miles from target, a tiny blue light +flickered ahead. He forgot everything but the sightscreen, concentrating +on keeping the pip dead center. The guns hammered on. It seemed they'd +been firing for centuries. At ten-mile range, the combat radar kicked +the automatics in, turning the ship ninety degrees to her course in one +and a half seconds. He heard the lee side firing cut out, as Garrity +hung on with two, then three guns. + +He held it as long as he could. Closer than he ever had before. At four +miles he poured 12 G's for two seconds. + +They missed ramming by something around a hundred yards. The enemy ship +flashed across his tail in a fraction of a second, already turned around +and heading up its own track, yet it seemed to Paul he could make out +every detail--the bright red star, even the tortured face of the pilot. +Was there something lopsided in the shape of that rocket plume, or was +he just imagining it in the blur of their passing? And did he hear a +_ping_ just at that instant, feel the ship vibrate for a second? + +He continued the turn in the direction the automatics had started, +bringing his nose around to watch the enemy's track. And as the shape of +the plume told him the other ship was still heading back toward Earth, +he brought the throttle back up to 12 G's, trying to overcome the lead +his pass had given away. + +Guns spoke quietly to Johnson. "Let me know when we kill his RV. Ah may +get another shot at him." + +And Johnny answered, hurt, "What do you think I'm doing down +here--reading one of your magazines?" + +Paul was struggling with hundred-pound arms, trying to focus the +telescope that swiveled over the panel. As the field cleared, he could +see that the plume was flaring unevenly, flickering red and orange along +one side. Quietly and viciously, he was talking to himself. "Blow! +Blow!" + + * * * * * + +And she blew. Like a dirty ragged bit of fireworks, throwing tiny +handfuls of sparks into the blackness. Something glowed red for a while, +and slowly faded. + +_There, but for the grace of God...._ Paul shuddered in a confused +mixture of relief and revulsion. + +He cut back to 4 G's, noting that RVS registered about a mile per second +away from station, and suddenly became aware that the red light was on +for loss of air. The cabin pressure gauge read zero, and his heart +throbbed into his throat as he remembered that _pinging_ sound, just as +they passed the enemy ship. He told Garrity to see if he could locate +the loss, and any other damage, and was shortly startled by a low amazed +whistle in his earphones. + +"If Ah wasn't lookin' at it, Ah wouldn't believe it. Musta been one of +his shells went right around the fuel tank and out again, without +hittin' it. There's at least three inches of tank on a line between the +holes! He musta been throwin' curves at us. Man, cap'n, this is our +lucky day!" + +[Illustration] + +Paul felt no surprise, only relief at having the trouble located. The +reaction to the close call might not come till hours later. "This kind +of luck we can do without. Can you patch the holes?" + +"Ah can patch the one where it came in, but it musta been explodin' on +the way out. There's a hole Ah could stick mah head through." + +"That's a good idea." Johnson was not usually very witty, but this was +one he couldn't resist. + +"Never mind, Guns. A patch that big wouldn't be safe to hold air." + + * * * * * + +They were about eighty thousand miles out. He set course for Earth at +about five and a half mps, which Johnson calculated to bring them in on +the station on the "going away" side of its orbit, and settled back for +the tedious two hours of free wheeling. For ten or fifteen minutes, the +interphone crackled with the gregariousness born of recent peril, and +gradually the ship fell silent as each man returned to his own private +thoughts. + +Paul was wondering about the men on the other ship--whether any of them +were still alive. Eighty thousand miles to fall. That was a little +beyond the capacity of an emergency rocket--about 2 G's for sixty +seconds--even if they had them. What a way to go home! He wondered what +he'd do if it happened to him. Would he wait out his time, or just +unlock his helmet. + +Guns' drawl broke into his reverie. "Say, cap'n, Ah've been readin' in +this magazine about a trick they used to use, called skip bombin'. +They'd hang a bomb on the bottom of one of these airplanes, and fly +along the ground, right at what they wanted to hit. Then they'd let the +bomb go and get out of there, and the bomb would sail right on into the +target. You s'pose we could fix this buggy up with an A bomb or an H +bomb we could let go a few hundred miles out? Stick a proximity fuse on +it, and a time fuse, too, in case we missed. Just sittin' half a mile +apart and tradin' shots like we did on that last mission is kinda hard +on mah nerves, and it's startin' to happen too often." + +"Nice work if we could get it. I'm not crazy about those broadside +battles myself. You'd think they'd have found something better than +these thirty caliber popguns by now, but the odds say we've got to throw +as many different chunks of iron as we can, to have a chance of hitting +anything, and even then it's twenty to one against us. You wouldn't have +one chance in a thousand of scoring a hit with a bomb at that distance, +even if they didn't spot it and take off. What you'd need would be a +rocket that could chase them, with the bomb for a head. And there's no +way we could carry that size rocket, or fire it if we could. Some day +these crates will come with men's rooms, and we'll have a place to carry +something like that." + +"How big would a rocket like that be?" + +"Five, six feet, by maybe a foot. Weigh at least three hundred pounds." + +It was five minutes before Guns spoke again. "Ah been thinkin', cap'n. +With a little redecoratin', Ah think Ah could get a rocket that size in +here with me. We could weld a rail to one of the gun mounts that would +hold it up to five or six G's. Then after we got away from station, Ah +could take it outside and mount it on the rail." + +"Forget it, lad. If they ever caught us pulling a trick like that, +they'd have us on hydroponic duty for the next five years. They just +don't want us playing around with bombs, till the experts get all the +angles figured out, and build ships to handle them. And besides, who do +you think will rig a bomb like that, without anybody finding out? And +where do you think we'd get a bomb in the first place? They don't leave +those things lying around. Kovacs watches them like a mother hen. I +think he counts them twice a day." + +"Sorry, cap'n. Ah just figured if you could get hold of a bomb, Ah know +a few of the boys who could rig the thing up for us and keep their +mouths shut." + +"Well, forget about it. It's not a bad idea, but we haven't any bomb." + +"Right, cap'n." + + * * * * * + +But it was Paul who couldn't forget about it. All the rest of the way +back to station, he kept seeing visions of a panel sliding aside in the +nose of a sleek and gleaming ship, while a small rocket pushed its +deadly snout forward, and then streaked off at tremendous acceleration. + +Interrogation was brief. The mission had turned up nothing new. Their +kill made eight against seven for Doc Miller's crew, and they made sure +Miller and the boys heard about it. They were lightheaded with the +elation that followed a successful mission, swapping insults with the +rest of the squadron, and reveling in the sheer contentment of being +back safe. + +It wasn't until he got back to his stall, and started to write his +father a long overdue letter, that he remembered he had heard Kovacs say +he was going on leave. + +When he finished the letter, he opened the copy of "Lady Chatterley's +Lover" he had borrowed from Rodriguez's limited but colorful library. He +couldn't keep his mind on it. He kept thinking of the armament officer. + +Kovacs was a quiet, intelligent kid, devoted to his work. Coulter wasn't +too intimate with him. He wasn't a spaceman, for one thing. One of those +illogical but powerful distinctions that sub-divided the men of the +station. And he was a little too polite to be easy company. + +Paul remembered the time he had walked into the Muroc Base Officer's +Club with Marge Halpern on his arm. The hunger that had lain undisguised +on Kovacs' face the moment he first saw them. Marge was a striking +blonde with a direct manner, who liked men, especially orbit station +men. He hadn't thought about the incident since then, but the look in +Kovacs' eyes kept coming back to him as he tried to read. + +He wasn't sure how he got there, or why, when he found himself walking +into Colonel Silton's office to ask for the leave he'd passed up at his +fiftieth mission. He'd considered taking it several times, but the +thought of leaving the squadron, even for a couple of weeks, had made +him feel guilty, as though he were quitting. + +Once he had his papers, he started to get excited about it. As he +cleaned up his paper work and packed his musette, his hands were +fumbling, and his mind was full of Sylvia. + + * * * * * + +The vastness of Muroc Base was as incredible as ever. Row on uncounted +row of neat buildings, each resting at the top of its own hundred-yard +deep elevator shaft. A pulsing, throbbing city, dedicated to the long +slow struggle to get into space and stay there. The service crew eyed +them with studied indifference, as they writhed out of the small hatch +and stepped to the ground. They drew a helijet at operations, and headed +immediately for Los Angeles. + +Kovacs had been impressed when Paul asked if he'd care to room together +while they were on leave. He was quiet on the flight, as he had been on +the way down, listening contentedly, while Paul talked combat and women +with Bob Parandes, another pilot going on leave. + +They parked the helijet at Municipal Field and headed for the public PV +booths, picking up a coterie of two dogs and five assorted children on +the way. The kids followed quietly in their wake, ecstatic at the sight +of their uniforms. + +Paul squared his shoulders, as befitted a hero, and tousled a couple of +uncombed heads as they walked. The kids clustered around the booths, as +Kovacs entered one to locate a hotel room, and Paul another, to call +Sylvia. + +"Honey, I've been so scared you weren't coming back. Where are you? When +will I see you? Why didn't you write?..." She sputtered to a stop as he +held up both hands in defense. + +"Whoa, baby. One thing at a time. I'm at the airport. You'll see me +tonight, and I'll tell you the rest then. That is, if you're free +tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. Are +you free?" + +Her hesitation was only momentary. "Well, I was going out--with a girl +friend. But she'll understand. What's up?" + +He took a deep breath. "I'd like to get out of the city for a few days, +where we can take things easy and be away from the crowds. And there is +another guy I'd like to bring along." + +"We could take my helijet out to my dad's cottage at--_What did you +say?_" + +It was a ticklish job explaining about Kovacs, but when she understood +that he just wanted to do a friend a favor, and she'd still have Paul +all to herself, she calmed down. They made their arrangements quickly, +and switched off. + +He hesitated a minute before he called Marge. She was quite a dish to +give up. Once she'd seen him with Sylvia, he'd be strictly _persona non +grata_--that was for sure. It was an unhappy thought. Well, maybe it was +in a good cause. He shrugged and called her. + +She nearly cut him off when she first heard his request, but he did some +fast talking. The idea of several days at the cottage intrigued her, and +when he described how smitten Kovacs had been, she brightened up and +agreed to come. He switched off, adjusted the drape of his genuine silk +scarf, and stepped out of the booth. + +Kovacs and the kids were waiting. The armament officer had apparently +been telling them of Paul's exploits. They glowed with admiration. The +oldest boy, about eleven, had true worship in his eyes. He hesitated a +moment, then asked gravely: "Would you tell us how you kill a Red, sir?" + +Paul eyed the time-honored weapon that dangled from the youngster's +hand. He bent over and tapped it with his finger. His voice was warm and +confiding, but his eyes were far away. + +"I think next we're going to try a slingshot," he said. + + +THE END + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + +This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ November 1955. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright +on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors +have been corrected without note. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLINGSHOT*** + + +******* This file should be named 22462.txt or 22462.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/4/6/22462 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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