Irving W. Lande - Slingshot

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Slingshot, by

Irving W. 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-8859-1

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLINGSHOT***

E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell,

and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

(http://www.pgdp.net)

SLINGSHOT

IRVING W. LANDE

Illustrated by Emsh

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.

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