"Everything okay?" Gwyn asked, forcing all concern from her voice. "Everything is okay," Morrow affirmed quietly. "How much do I owe you?" "Four coffees? Forty-five cents." He laid the change on the counter, then stooped and kissed her cheek lightly. "I gotta go home and get some sleep," he murmured. She smiled, a little wistfully. "Thanks for coming." He went out into the cool darkness, then hurried down to the bar on the corner and went in to use the men's room. Then he came out, crossed the street, and climbed aboard his little motor-bike. Thoughts drifted lazily through his mind as he chugged contentedly homeward.... * * * * * Thoughts--and memories. They were cruising along peacefully at 40,000 feet. Morrow felt as if he were molded into the snug rear cockpit, an integral part of the tons of sleek, deadly metal that was the old F-94 jet-fighter. But he'd experienced that feeling so often it no longer mattered, then. Before him was the familiar maze of instrument dials and signal lights and switches crammed around a glowing, green-blotched radar scope. Around him was the clear, transparent canopy, with the round crash-helmet of Smitty's head poking up from the front cockpit ahead of him. Below, off the edge of the razor-thin wing, was the criss-crossed gray surface of the Arctic ice-pack. The sky was an intense blue-black sprinkled with the hard, bright sparks of stars. There were faint, rhythmic sounds around him. Familiar sounds. The warm, dry air blowing through his flight suit, circulating over his body. The air pushing into his face-mask. The rolling motion of the seat-cushions, massaging his backside with mechanical dispassion. Then the flat, metallic voice in his earphones. "_Forty-three degrees left. Contact in five minutes!_" "_Roger!_" Smitty's voice answered. The ship tilted gently. Centrifugal force pressed Morrow against his seat. The world turned slowly beneath them. Forty-three degrees. Two minutes later, a bright spark appeared on his radar scope. "_Air spotted!_" he spoke into his mike. "_Two degrees right!_" "_Over to you!_" the metallic voice from ground radar answered. And the jet shifted slightly. Two degrees. "_Contact in two minutes_," Morrow chanted. "_One-thirty ... One ... Thirty--_" "_Contact!_" Smitty's voice cracked. The F-94 whipped over into a turn. The force of two gravities shoved Morrow down in his seat. For a brief moment--a breathless, eternal moment, all of two seconds--another F-94 exactly like theirs appeared directly before them. Long enough for red lights to glow and camera guns to record a direct hit. The practice mission was completed--almost. Then Smitty snap-rolled the ship, missing the other ship almost by inches. The g's piled up, cramming Morrow down in his seat, pulling at his facial muscles. Then his vision cleared and he straightened up, bruised and somewhat battered.