“It’s unarmed?” Jason asked.
Dickenson hesitated. “Yes. Remember the ship will be riding in close formation with an enemy squadron far some days. If we mounted a pair of Sandbatch cannon they’d give our gable away at once.”
“There’s something up there, looks like D-ray bellmouth,” Jason remarked, looking up at the bows of the ship.
“A dummy, “ Hayes explained. “You know the D-ray gives out a backlash of hard radiation; that’s a problem we haven’t managed to lick yet. Anyone using an unscreened D-ray is going to make himself a very sick man indeed. We calculate the pilot gets a better chance if we give him all possible speed and fuel.”
Jason was introduced to other details of the project, then Admiral Dickenson concluded: “I don’t want your decision now, Jason. What I want you to do is to draw some of your back pay from the accountant, take the train over to Moon City and have a little amusement. Give yourself time to think. Report back in twenty-four hours, with your decision.”
Jason saluted and went off.
“Better start looking for another volunteer,” Hayes told Dickenson ironically.
“Why so?” the other asked.
“You know the chances of getting back from this little expedition are about twenty to one against, and Jason has worked out the odds already. He spotted all the difficulties immediately and he’s sane and balanced, not a suicidal fanatic. You must look for someone less intelligent and more fanatical, Admiral.”
Admiral Dickenson scowled. “Sure the boy’s intelligent. This is no job for brute force or ignorance or fanaticism. Not only is he intelligent, but he’s calm, level-headed. Did you notice how still he stood—no twiddling his fingers or puffing nervously at cigarettes? He’s got no complexes; he’s polite all right, but not over-anxious to win my approve. No false humility either, no protesting he’s unfit for the job.”
“All of which seems to add up to just what I said. He’s intelligent, he’s no fanatic, he’s got no complexes—he’ll turn the job down.”
Next day, precisely twenty-four hours later, Jason reported to Admiral Dickenson and agreed to undertake the job. Dickenson looked at the fair-haired youngster, the sensitive features, the slender hands and thin fingers. The ancient warrior nearly burst into tears.
“Very well, Jason,” he said gruffly. “Any comments on the scheme as a whole?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to have that dummy D-ray removed and one of the genuine articles fitted instead. I understand that with a bit of luck one may survive a short squirt of radiation and a short squirt might be just the one thing necessary to insure my safe return home.”
“Very well, Jason. I’ll get Hayes to fix it.”
Even in these modern times, and even though the United Nations had been managing human affairs for several hundred years, human nature was still human nature; Italians, Russians, Germans, Spaniards, Americans and even Eskimos each considered themselves to be finer, braver, handsomer, more intelligent, or perhaps merely cleaner than other races. This oddity of human thinking had its consequences even out at Advanced Fighter Base, where the squadrons of one-man scouts were organized on a national basis. The Spanish Squadron was captained by a large individual named Louis Alvarez—or Lucho to his friends—and was entirely Spanish speaking, although only one member besides Alvarez was actually Spanish. There were two Peruvians with traces of Indian blood in them, a Mexican, a Chilean and a character called Don Miguel MacDonald, whose existence was due to the Scotsman’s prospensity for leaving his native land, settling down elsewhere, and marrying a local girl.
The Spanish Squadron monopolized one corner of the mess hall where it habitually talked Spanish with much gesticulation. It had recently been ordered to stand by to undertake a special and particularly difficult task; it thought it quite proper to be given the most difficult and dangerous work, but this opinion did not hinder its members from grumbling and complaining about the matter.
They were so much occupied with this job of grumbling that they scarcely noticed a newcomer who came into the mess. He asked a question of someone near the door, then drifted over in their direction. Captain Alvarez gave him a cold and haughty look, and went on talking. The newcomer went to sit down in the empty chair. Alvarez put out a large hand to restrain him.
“Your pardon, hijo,” he said, “here we are all Spaniards together; this corner is exclusive to us. And in addition, that seat is reserved for one whom we expect here presently.”
The newcomer did not make any objection to being called sonny. He said in an extremely casual sort of way: “Sorry, pal, I hadn’t the slightest intention of intruding. What’s the name of the man you’re keeping the chair for?”
Alvaez paused dramatically, gesticulating hand still in midair. He gave an imitation of a man interrupted in some serious business by an ill-mannered child. He looked the questioner up and down.
“Boy,” he said, “you are new here so I excuse you. When you have been with this group for some time, and if we think well of you, we may then invite you among us, but for the present you do not interest us.”
“This’ll surprise you,” the other told him calmly. “I’m the fellow you’re expecting. My name’s Jason—I’ve just got here. We’re to carry out an operation together.” He twitched the chair round and sat down on it, smiling round the group.
Alvarez recovered himself swiftly. “But, señor,” he exclaimed, “A thousand apologies. For this project we expected a seasoned fighter, some grandfather of forty with a hundred kills to his credit. I do you no insult when I say you are almost a child.”
“Don’t blame me, Captain,” Jason smiled. “I was asked to do this job and said yes. That’s the whole story from my end.”
They looked at him—young, fair-headed, boyish, smiling. Alvarez was forty; MacDonald just a little younger. The youngest of the Spanish Squadron was twenty-eight. Jason was twenty-two and looked eighteen.
Alvarez swore rapidly in Spanish, and muttered his opinion of Headquarters, who chose to send children on dangerous tasks.
“No doubt Headquarters knows its business,” he said, “and one does not of course question your courage,, or determination. But, have you encountered these Jackoes before, señor?”
Jason told him. They settled down to discuss the maneuver which they had to perform together.
Jason went out several times during the next week with the squadron to rehearse. After a number of trials, Alvarez asked to have two additional men attached to his squadron.
“I see it like this,” he explained. “The Jackoes know we operate in squadrons of seven. If they see less than this number, they will begin to be suspicious. Therefore we will have seven operating together, plus two in hiding. We will engage a Jacko squadron, we will allow ourselves to be split up, and we will turn and run. Out of seven it is certain that one of us will have a Jacko on his tail. Let the Jacko think his guns are jammed, or what he will. In any event, our man runs, the Jacko pursues. Our man makes for the rocks. Nothing surprising in this. Quite usual under the circumstances. Behind one rock there is lurking,” he paused and looked round the group, “… there is lurking our two additional ships, and Señor Jason also. As our man approaches the hiding place he signals ‘I come.’ He sweeps behind the rock—following him comes the Jacko—the two in ambush leap upon him. Before he can turn, before he can signal his companions, pam!—he is gone. Then a moment later, an apparent Jacko ship emerges from cover and joins his companions—our job is done.”
Alvarez was an able and determined commander. Using another squadron to take the place of Jackoes, the maneuver he had described was rehearsed again and again until they felt themselves ready to try it in earnest.