Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

He raised an eyebrow at her. Jealousy? His chances were evidently better than he had ever suspected. “I meant to tell you about that,” he said, “the first time we’re by ourselves.”

“Hm-m-m,” she said. Then, “We’ve been in Russia for several days now. What do you think of it?”

Hank said, “I think it’s pretty good. And I have a sneaking suspicion that in another ten years, when a few changes will have evolved, she’ll be better still.”

She looked at him blankly. “You do? Frankly, I’ve been somewhat disappointed.”

“Sure. But wait’ll you see our country in ten years. You know, Char, this world of ours has just got started.”

Don Mathers snapped to attention, snapped a crisp salute to his superior, said, “Sublieutenant 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?”

Don Mathers flushed. “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

The Commodore’s voice went militarily expressionless. “Very well, Lieutenant. You’ll have the customary three weeks leave before going out again. Dismissed.”

Don saluted snappily, wheeled and marched from the office.

Outside, in the corridor, he muttered a curse. What did that chairborne brass hat know about space cafard? About the depthless blackness, the wretchedness of free fall, the tides of primitive terror that swept you when the animal realization hit that you were away, away, away from the environment that gave you birth. That you were alone, alone, alone. A million, a million-million miles from your nearest fellow human. Space cafard, in a craft little larger than a good-sized closet! What did the Commodore know about it?

Don Mathers had conveniently forgotten the other’s claim to five years’ service in the Scouts.

He made his way from Space Command Headquarters, Third Division, to Harry’s Nuevo Mexico Bar. He found the place empty at this time of the day and climbed onto a stool.

Harry said, “Hi, Lootenant, thought you were due for a patrol. How come you’re back so soon?”

Don said coldly, “You prying into security subjects, Harry?”

“Well, gee, no Lootenant. You know me. I know all the boys. I was just making conversation.”

“Look, how about some more credit, Harry? I don’t have any pay coming up for a week.”

“Why, sure. I got a boy on the light cruiser New Taos. Any spaceman’s credit is good with me. What’ll it be?”

“Tequila.”

Tequila was the only concession the Nuevo Mexico Bar made to its name. Otherwise, it looked like every other bar has looked in every land and in every era. Harry poured, put out lemon and salt.

Harry said, “You hear the news this morning?”

“No, I just got in.”

“Colin Casey died.” Harry shook his head. “Only man in the system that held the Galactic Medal of Honor. Presidential proclamation, everybody in the system is to hold five minutes of silence for him at two o’clock, Sol Time. You know how many times that medal’s been awarded, Lootenant?” Before waiting for an answer, Harry added, “Just thirty-six times.”

Don added dryly, “Twenty-eight of them posthumously.”

“Yeah.” Harry, leaning on the bar before his sole customer, added in wonder, “But imagine. The Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which can do no wrong. Imagine. You come to some town, walk into the biggest jewelry store, pick up a diamond bracelet, and walk out. And what happens?”

Don growled, “The jewelry store owner would be over-reimbursed by popular subscription. And probably the mayor of the town would write you a letter thanking you for honoring his fair city by deigning to notice one of the products of its shops. Just like that.”

“Yeah.” Harry shook his head in continued awe. “And, imagine, if you shoot somebody you don’t like, you wouldn’t spend even a single night in the Nick.”

Don said, “If you held the Medal of Honor, you wouldn’t have to shoot anybody. Look, Harry, mind if I use the phone?”

“Go right ahead, Lootenant.”

Dian Fuller was obviously in the process