explosive lugs, as ordered by Over-Technician Akrant. They checked out correctly on Test Circuit B.” She choked. “Sir.”
“Akrant, your report?”
The Over-Technician answered easily enough—too easily, Nelirikk thought.
“All tested according to spec, General, and was rechecked. It wasn’t until we set down that I discovered that Corporal Dikl had utilized reserve circuits which required pilot intervention to operate in atmosphere.”
Corporal Dikl broke into a fresh sweat, her eyes showing a bit of white around the edges.
Nelirikk, hearing as the General no doubt heard, could have advised her not to worry, but a no-troop speaks when a no-troop is spoken to, and at no other time. Nelirikk turned his attention to the proliferation of information about him.
The air power charts showed the largest aircraft concentrations on the coast. The nearest to Field Headquarters was a small base, doubtless related to the—yes; a town and a large holding were equidistant from the field. Which meant it most likely held civilian craft—easy pickings. Another screen showed the numbers of the dropjets sent to secure it, and the transport bringing in a hundred of the deadly Spraghentz—the infantry—support aircraft—that would occupy it.
Other screens—uplinks and downlinks—were coming on line now: locations of ships in orbit, radar and other scans, visual searches, live transmissions from the front.
“No, sir,” said Corporal Dikl, with unsoldierly fervor, “I was working from training manuals. I’d never done the procedure before.”
Nelirikk squinted his eyes slightly, focusing on a screen across the room showing the view from the combat camera of an interceptor. He found the cue number, checked the screens.
Bomb and strafing run. That same small airfield, on automatic target. The plane lifted and—Nelirikk’s heart climbed into his throat. He blinked, checked the vision screen against the radar scans, but it had moved to the next scan—looked back at the radar screen.
It wasn’t there.
He sighed. His once-exemplary eyesight was failing and had played him a shabby trick. As if such a ship would be found among a small field of backward civilian craft.
“On Akrant’s orders?” the General demanded of the corporal. Nelirikk sniffed. Now, there was a dead career. Called without rank twice by the General during Inquiry? Might as well begin tearing off the stripes and swallowing the badges.
Again the camera-screen showed the tiny airfield, this time from the vantage of a low-level run. And there, among the tall trees and with a slight hill behind it, was a thing of awful beauty.
The beauty lay in the deadly, competent lines.
The awfulness—was it that such a ship should die—if die it must—fighting, rather than destroyed ignominiously upon the ground? Or was it that he was reminded all at once of his own ship—the Command’s ship. Always the Command’s ship, for a troop owns nothing but his rank and his booty.
Duty turned him toward the Captain.
Thought stopped him.
He was Nelirikk No-Troop, permitted to speak when spoken to. He had been given leave by his assigned commander to speak to the Inquiry. Speaking without permission would cost—
The missiles were launched: they struck and crumbled a building. The view in the screen slipped as the plane turned and set up for the next run. The radar cross-scans showed no sign, the computer listeners heard no slightest whisper, the metallics—
And what would it cost him? He’d had ten Cycles of shame.
Decisively, he sought the Captain’s eyes; signed for permission to speak.
The Captain’s face clouded. He deliberately looked away. Nelirikk glanced back at the screen. Someone—an air controller—had finally sighted the beautiful ship. It sat in a visual freeze-frame as the computer made analysis, the null-image of the comparative radar etched over it.
The view from the field showed an aircraft rising in opposition. An antique by its look and
“Akrant, your report?”
The Over-Technician answered easily enough—too easily, Nelirikk thought.
“All tested according to spec, General, and was rechecked. It wasn’t until we set down that I discovered that Corporal Dikl had utilized reserve circuits which required pilot intervention to operate in atmosphere.”
Corporal Dikl broke into a fresh sweat, her eyes showing a bit of white around the edges.
Nelirikk, hearing as the General no doubt heard, could have advised her not to worry, but a no-troop speaks when a no-troop is spoken to, and at no other time. Nelirikk turned his attention to the proliferation of information about him.
The air power charts showed the largest aircraft concentrations on the coast. The nearest to Field Headquarters was a small base, doubtless related to the—yes; a town and a large holding were equidistant from the field. Which meant it most likely held civilian craft—easy pickings. Another screen showed the numbers of the dropjets sent to secure it, and the transport bringing in a hundred of the deadly Spraghentz—the infantry—support aircraft—that would occupy it.
Other screens—uplinks and downlinks—were coming on line now: locations of ships in orbit, radar and other scans, visual searches, live transmissions from the front.
“No, sir,” said Corporal Dikl, with unsoldierly fervor, “I was working from training manuals. I’d never done the procedure before.”
Nelirikk squinted his eyes slightly, focusing on a screen across the room showing the view from the combat camera of an interceptor. He found the cue number, checked the screens.
Bomb and strafing run. That same small airfield, on automatic target. The plane lifted and—Nelirikk’s heart climbed into his throat. He blinked, checked the vision screen against the radar scans, but it had moved to the next scan—looked back at the radar screen.
It wasn’t there.
He sighed. His once-exemplary eyesight was failing and had played him a shabby trick. As if such a ship would be found among a small field of backward civilian craft.
“On Akrant’s orders?” the General demanded of the corporal. Nelirikk sniffed. Now, there was a dead career. Called without rank twice by the General during Inquiry? Might as well begin tearing off the stripes and swallowing the badges.
Again the camera-screen showed the tiny airfield, this time from the vantage of a low-level run. And there, among the tall trees and with a slight hill behind it, was a thing of awful beauty.
The beauty lay in the deadly, competent lines.
The awfulness—was it that such a ship should die—if die it must—fighting, rather than destroyed ignominiously upon the ground? Or was it that he was reminded all at once of his own ship—the Command’s ship. Always the Command’s ship, for a troop owns nothing but his rank and his booty.
Duty turned him toward the Captain.
Thought stopped him.
He was Nelirikk No-Troop, permitted to speak when spoken to. He had been given leave by his assigned commander to speak to the Inquiry. Speaking without permission would cost—
The missiles were launched: they struck and crumbled a building. The view in the screen slipped as the plane turned and set up for the next run. The radar cross-scans showed no sign, the computer listeners heard no slightest whisper, the metallics—
And what would it cost him? He’d had ten Cycles of shame.
Decisively, he sought the Captain’s eyes; signed for permission to speak.
The Captain’s face clouded. He deliberately looked away. Nelirikk glanced back at the screen. Someone—an air controller—had finally sighted the beautiful ship. It sat in a visual freeze-frame as the computer made analysis, the null-image of the comparative radar etched over it.
The view from the field showed an aircraft rising in opposition. An antique by its look and
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