ILLUSTRATED by BERNKLAU
According to tradition,the man who held theGalactic Medal of Honorcould do no wrong. In astrange way, Captain DonMathers was to learnthat this was true.
Don Mathers snapped toattention, snapped a crispsalute to his superior, said,"Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathersreporting, sir."
The Commodore looked up athim, returned the salute, lookeddown at the report on the desk.He murmured, "Mathers, OneMan Scout V-102. Sector A22-K223."
"Yes, sir," Don said.
The Commodore looked up athim again. "You've been outonly five days, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir, on the third day Iseemed to be developing troublein my fuel injectors. I stuck itout for a couple of days, butthen decided I'd better come infor a check." Don Mathers added,"As per instructions, sir."
"Ummm, of course. In a Scoutyou can hardly make repairs inspace. If you have any doubts atall about your craft, orders areto return to base. It happens toevery pilot at one time or another."
"Yes, sir."
"However, Lieutenant, it hashappened to you four times outof your last six patrols."
Don Mathers said nothing. Hisface remained expressionless.
"The mechanics report thatthey could find nothing wrongwith your engines, Lieutenant."
"Sometimes, sir, whatever iswrong fixes itself. Possibly a spotof bad fuel. It finally burns outand you're back on good fuelagain. But by that time you'realso back to the base."
The Commodore said impatiently,"I don't need a lesson inthe shortcomings of the One ManScout, Lieutenant. I piloted onefor nearly five years. I knowtheir shortcomings—and those oftheir pilots."
"I don't understand, sir."
The Commodore looked downat the ball of his thumb. "You'reout in space for anywhere fromtwo weeks to a month. All alone.You're looking for Kraden shipswhich practically never turn up.In military history the only remotelysimilar situation I canthink of were the pilots ofWorld War One pursuit planes,in the early years of the war,when they still flew singly, notin formation. But even they wereup there alone for only a coupleof hours or so."
"Yes, sir," Don said meaninglessly.
The Commodore said, "We,here at command, figure on youfellows getting a touch of spacecafard once in a while and, ah,imagining something wrong inthe engines and coming in.But," here the Commodore clearedhis throat, "four times outof six? Are you sure you don'tneed a psych, Lieutenant?"
Don Mathers flushed. "No,sir, I don't think so."
The Commodore's voice wentmilitarily expressionless. "Verywell, Lieutenant. You'll have thecustomary three weeks leave beforegoing out again. Dismissed."
Don saluted snappily, wheeledand marched from the office.
Outside, in the corridor, hemuttered a curse. What did thatchairborne brass hat knowabout space cafard? About thedepthless blackness, the wretchednessof free fall, the tides ofprimitive terror that swept youwhen the animal realization hitthat you were away, away, awayfrom the environment that gaveyou birth. That you were alone,alone, alone. A million, a million-millionmiles from your nearestfellow human. Space cafard, ina craft little larger than a good-sizedcloset! What did the Commodoreknow about it?
Don Mathers had convenientlyforgotten the other's claim tofive years' service in the Scouts.
He made his way from SpaceCommand Headquarters, ThirdDivision, to Harry's NuevoMexico Bar