Over the eastern lakes he cut fusion and watched on the altimeter dial the battle between gravity and inertia. Near the Mississippi delta he was wrenched in a sharp maneuver as the De-Meteor suddenly took over. He was fortunate to see the streaking missile glow brightly and flare out of existence in the thin regions of atmosphere miles beneath him. More than three hours of patrol, and no word from Mojave. Obediently, Grant had not called in. He set course for Mojave and was nearly ready to transmit when a bark of static filled the pressurized control bubble. Disappointed, Grant heard a male voice over the speaker. "High altitude weather observation overdue. UNR-12, please report synoptics in quadrants." They really want simulation, Grant grumbled mentally. "Southwest quadrant, southeast quadrant clear except for banner-clouding higher ranges. Northwest, scattered alto-cumulus, looks like the onset of a warm front, with the northeast quadrant moderate-high cirrus. And let me talk to Br ... to Lieutenant Ashley, please." A pause. "Ashley, Mojave." "How's my picture now?" "Your vertical is off, and you flutter. Major, the first three hours have been without direction from the base. For the next two, we're going to ask you to perform certain patrol tasks, perhaps repeat them. The process may not prove especially enjoyable. Your close cooeperation will be appreciated." "If this is all stuff we went through in training--" Grant sputtered. "Some of it may be," Bridget's voice. "The fact it's distasteful may make it the more significant. Are you ready to cooeperate?" Grant nodded at the lens and screwed up his face in an exaggerated frown. Bridget's thoroughness called for admiration. She had him at the end of a string, activating him from a plot taken directly from the pilot's manual. He would cooeperate, but he was not enthusiastic. As the exercises progressed, Grant detected subtle variations Bridget had added to the basic maneuvers. On the tight starboard circle, for instance, she had him keep his eyes on Earth, making him slightly dizzy. Then she requested a free-fall drop from a stall with the provision he this time place his attention on the instrument panel--"with no peeking outside." He complied, watching the altimeter trace forty miles toward the basement, and experienced effects no different than usual. After a while, he came to consider it a game and might have gained amusement from it, were it not for the tiredness creeping in behind his eyes and the fact two dozen technicians somewhere down there were hoping to trip a fatal, hidden synapse. "How much more of this?" Grant transmitted finally. "Getting tired?" Bridget replied, and paused for an answer. "Let's say I don't feel like six sets of tennis." "A few more, major, and we'll authorize your glide-in." If there was disappointment in her voice, it did not manifest itself. "Your next exercise is manual navigation with Jupiter as your fix."