Slingshot | Page 2

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