hard. You might get some flights."

"That's true. They do mistake a meteor for a missile now and then. But
that happens only two or three times a year. That's not enough. I want
some regular flying. I haven't got any flying time in for more than a
year. The nearest I come to flying is my time in the procedural trainer,
to teach me what buttons to push, and in the simulator, to give me the
feel of what happens when I push the buttons."

"That's O.K. They still give you your flying pay."

"I know, but that's not what I'm after. I fly because I love flying. I
use the flying pay just to keep up the extra premiums the insurance
companies keep insisting on so long as I indulge my passion for fighter
planes."

"I guess about the only way you could get any regular flying on this job
would be for a war to come along."

"That's about it. We'd fly just as often as they could recover our ships
and send us back up here for another launch. And that would go on until
the economy on both sides broke down so far they couldn't make any more
missiles for us to chase, or boosters to send us up after them. No
thanks. I don't want to fly that badly. I like civilization."

"In the meantime, then, you ought to try to enjoy it here. Where else
can you spend most of your working hours lying flat on your back on the
most comfortable couch science can devise?"

"That's the trouble. Just lying there, where you can't read, write,
talk, or listen. It might be O.K. for a hermit, but I'd rather fly
fighter planes. Here's the trainer building. I've got to get out."

* * * * *

Seven o'clock. Harry Lightfoot licked the flap on the envelope, sealed
it shut, stuck some stamps on the front, and scrawled "AIR MAIL" under
the stamps. He dropped the letter into the "STATESIDE" slot. The exam
hadn't been so bad. What did they think he was, anyway? A city slicker
who had never seen a live cow in his life? He ambled into the off-duty
pilots' lounge. He had an hour to kill before going on watch, and this
was as good a place as any to kill it. The lounge was almost empty. Most
of the pilots must have been asleep. They couldn't all be in Mike's
game. He leaned over a low table in the center of the room and started
sorting through the stack of magazines.

"Looking for anything in particular, Harry?"

He turned to face the speaker. "No, just going through these fugitives
from a dentist's office to see if there's anything I ha