E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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SLINGSHOT
BY
IRVING W. LANDE
Illustrated by Emsh
The slingshot was, I believe, one of the fewweapons 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 voicein the intercom was thin with tension.
Captain Paul Coulter, commandingSpace Fighter 308, 58th Squadron,33rd Fighter Wing, glanced up outof his canopy in the direction indicated,and smiled to himself at theinstinctive reaction. Nothing therebut the familiar starry backdrop, themoon far down to the left. If thelight wasn't right, a ship might beinvisible at half a mile. He squeezedthe throttle mike button. "Any IFF?"
"No IFF."
"O.K., let me know as soon as youhave his course." Coulter squashedout his cigar and began his cockpitcheck, grinning without humor as henoticed that his breathing had deepenedand his palms were moist onthe controls. He looked down tomake sure his radio was snug in itspocket on his leg; checked the thighharness of his emergency rocket,wrapped in its thick belly pad; checkedthe paired tanks of oxygen behindhim, hanging level from his shouldersinto their niche in the "cradle."He flipped his helmet closed, lockedit, and opened it again. He tosseda sardonic salute at the photographof a young lady who graced the sideof the cockpit. "Wish us luck, sugar."He pressed the mike button again.
"You got anything yet, Johnny?"
"He's going our way, Paul. Haveit exact in a minute."
Coulter scanned the full arch ofsky visible through the curving panelsof the dome, thinking the turgidthoughts that always came when actionwas near. His chest was full ofthe familiar weakness—not fear exactly,but a tight, helpless feelingthat grew and grew with the waiting.
His eyes and hands were busy inthe familiar procedure, readying theship for combat, checking and re-checkingthe details that could meanlife and death, but his mind watcheddisembodied, yearning back to earth.
Sylvia always came back first. Invitingsmile and outstretched hands.Nyloned knees, pink sweater, andthat clinging, clinging white silkskirt. A whirling montage of laughing,challenging eyes and tossing sky-blackhair and soft arms tighteningaround his neck.
Then Jean, cool and self-possessedand slightly disapproving,with warmth and humor peepingthrough from underneath when shesmiled. A lazy, crinkly kind of smile,like Christmas lights going on oneby one. He wished he'd acted moregrown up that night they watchedthe rain dance at the pueblo. For thehundredth time, he went over whathe remembered of their last date,seeing the gleam of her shoulder, andthe angry disappointment in her eyes;hearing again his awkward apologies.She was a nice kid. Silently his mouthformed the words. "You're a nicekid."
I think she loves me. She was justmad because I got drunk.
The tension of approaching combatsuddenly blended with the memory,welling up into a rush of tendernessand affection. He whispered hernam