ead inside if he
looked carefully enough.

"Morning, Colonel," said Johnny, forcing his voice to be casual and
cheerful. "You're up early this morning."

"Morning, Colonel, yourself," said Mitch, looking up.

"Big date today?"

"Well--yeah, you might say so," Mitch said, smiling faintly and with
obvious effort. "Thought I might go once around lightly," he said,
hooking his thumb upwards. Upwards through the concrete ceiling, into
the air, through the air, up where there was no air for a man to
breathe. Once around lightly.

Around the world. Lightly.

"Tell you what, Mitch."

"O.K., tell me what," he said.

"You like the movies?" Johnny asked. "You like to get a little adventure
in your soul? You like a little vicarious thrill now and then?"

"Yeah, I like that."

"Tell you what. We'll go. No, don't thank me. We'll go. Tonight. Eight
o'clock, you come by."

"Wives and everybody?" Mitch asked.

"Why not?" Johnny said. "They're cooped up in the house all day."

They both knew the wives would be in Control in an hour, listening to
the radio chatter, waiting, eyes wide, shoulders stiff and tight.

"Fine," said Mitch. "Fine."

A crew-chief came up and touched Johnny's shoulder. "Colonel Youngbear,"
he said, "Observation is going up."

Johnny stood and looked out the tiny window at the red-painted B-52.

"See you tonight, Mitch. Eight o'clock? Don't forget. Westerns."

"See you," said Mitch. He looked back down at the helmet and was turning
it over and over again when Johnny left.

* * * * *

The Observation B-52 climbed, screaming.

Johnny lit a cigarette and watched out the port at the contrails rolling
straight and white behind the jets.

He sat by the radioman, a Sergeant, ignoring the rest of the officers in
the converted bomb-bay.

"Hope he makes it, Colonel," said the Sergeant.

"He'll make it," Johnny said flatly, irritated. Relenting, he added in a
gentler tone, "The pilot section breaks away. If he gets in serious
trouble, he can dump it and ride the nose down. Like a bird. He'll make
it."

There was a raucous buzz, and a squawk box said: "On my mark it will be
Zero minus four minutes ... mark!" The voice of Control, 35,000 feet
below.

The B-52 swung ponderously onto the base leg of its circle, and there
was a creaking of stretching metal inside.

"Minus two minutes." _Not my day, anyway_, Johnny thought. He lit
another cigarette.

"Control," sai