your father would have thought of this 'That's hitting low, Uncle Paul.

I don't think so, David.  I think you are the one who is cheating.  Your

trust fund is a huge block of Morgan shares, and other assets given to

you, on the unstated understanding that you assume your duties and

responsibilities, if only he would bawl me out, thought David fiercely,

knowing that he was being stampeded as Barney had warned him.  If only

he would order me to do it so I could tell him to shove it.  But he knew

he was being manipulated by a man skilled in the art, a man whose whole

life was the manipulation of men and money, in whose hands a

seventeen-year-old boy was as soft as dough.

You see, David, you are born to it.  Anything else is cowardice, self

indulgence, the Morgan group reached out its tentacles, like some

grotesque flesh-eating plant, to suck him in and digest him, - we can

have your enlistment papers annulled.  It will be the matter of a single

phone call - Uncle Paul, David almost shouted, trying to shut out the

all-pervasive flow of words.  My father.  He did it.

He joined the army.  Yes, David.  But it was different at that time.

One of us had to go.  He was the younger, and, of course, there were

other personal considerations.  Your mother, he let the rest of it hang

for a moment then went on, and when it was over he came back and took

his rightful place here.  We miss him now, David.  No one else has been

able to fill the gap he left.  I have always hoped that you might be the

one But I don't want to.  David shook his head.  I don't want to spend

my life in here.  He gestured at the mammoth structure of glass and

concrete that surrounded them.  I don't want to spend each day poring

over piles of paper It's not like that, David.  It's exciting,

challenging, endlessly variable Uncle Paul.  David raised his voice

again.  What do you call a man who fills his belly with rich food, and

then goes on eating?  Come now, David The first edge of irritation

showed in Paul Morgan's voice, and he brushed the question aside

impatiently.  What do you call him?  David insisted.

I expect that you would call him a glutton Paul Morgan answered.

And what do you call a man with many millions who spends his life trying

to make more?  Paul Morgan froze into stillness.  He stared at his ward

for long seconds before he spoke.  You become insolent, he said at last.

No, sir.  I did not mean it so.  You are not the glutton - but I would

be.  Paul Morgan turned away and went to his desk.  He sat in the

high-backed leather chair and lit the cigar at last.  They were silent

again for a long time until at last Paul Morgan sighed.

You'll have to get it out of your system, the way your father did.  But

how I grudge you five wasted years.  'Not wasted, Uncle Paul.  I will

come out with a Bachelor of Science degree in aeronautical engineering.

'I suppose we'll just have to be thankful for little things like that.

David went and stood beside his chair.

Thank you.  This is very important to me.  Five years, David.  After

that I want you, then he smiled slightly to signal a witticism, at least

they will make you cut your hair.

Four miles above the warm flesh-coloured earth, David Morgan rode the

high heavens like a young god.  The sun visor of his helmet was closed,

masking with its dark cyclops eye the rapt, almost mystic expression

with which he flew.  Five years had not dulled the edge of his appetite

for the sensation of power and isolation that flight in a Mirage

interceptor awoke in him.

The unfiltered sunlight blazed ferociously upon the metal of his craft,

clothing him in splendour, while far below the very clouds were

insignificant against the earth, scattered and flying like a sheep flock

before the wolf of the wind.

Today's flight was tempered by a melancholy, a sense of impending loss.

The morrow was the last day of his enlistment.  At noon his commission

expired and if Paul Morgan prevailed he would become Mister David, new

boy at Morgan Group.

He thrust the thought aside, and concentrated on the enjoyment of these

last precious minutes; but too soon the spell was broken.

Zulu Striker One, this is Range Control.  Report your position.  Range

Control, this is Zulu Striker One holding up range fifty miles.

Striker One, the range is clear.  Your target-markers are figures eight

and twelve.  Commence your run.  The horizon revolved abruptly across

the nose of the Mirage, as the wings came over and he went down under

power, falling from the heights, a controlled plunge, purposeful and

precise as the stoop of a falcon.

David's right hand moved swiftly across the weapon selector panel,

locking in the rocket circuit.

The earth flattened out ahead, immense and featureless, speckled with

low bush that bluffed past his wingtips as he let the Mirage sink lower.

At this height the awareness of speed was breathtaking, and as the first

marker came up ahead it seemed at the same instant to flash away below

the silvery nose.

Five, six, seven, the black numerals on their glaring white grounds

flickered by.

A touch of left rudder and stick, both adjustments made without

conscious effort, and ahead was the circular layout of the rocket range,

the concentric rings shrinking in size around the central mound, the

coke of flight jargon, which was the bull's-eye of the target.

David brought the deadly machine in fast and low, his mach meter

recording a speed that was barely subsonic.  He was running off the

direct line of track, judging his moment with frowning concentration.

When it came he pulled the Mirage's nose in to the pitch up and went

over on to the target with his gloved right finer curled about the

trigger lever.

The shrieking silver machine achieved her correct slightly nose-down

attitude for rocket launch at the precise instant of time that the white

blob of coke was centred in the diamond patterns of the reflector sight.

It was an evolution executed with subtle mastery of man diverse skills,

and David pressed against the y spring-loaded resistance of the trigger.

There was no change in the feel of the aircraft, and the hiss of the

rocket launch was almost lost beneath the howl of the great jet, but

from beneath his wings the brief smoke lines reached out ahead towards

the target, and in certainty of a fair strike David pushed his throttle

to the gate and waited for the rumbling ignition of his afterburners,

giving him power for the climb out of range of enemy flak.

What a way to go, he grinned to himself as he lay on his back with the

Mirage's nose pointed into the bright blue, and gravity pressing him

into the padding of his seat.

Hello, Striker One.  This is Range Control.  That was right on the nose.

Give the man a coke.  Nice shooting.

Sorry to lose you, Davey.  The break in hallowed range discipline

touched David.  He was going to miss them all of them.  He pressed the

transmit button on the maulded head of his joystick, and spoke into the

microphone of his helmet, From Striker One, thanks and farewell, David

said.  Over and out.  His ground crew were waiting for him also.

He shook hands with each of them, the awkward handshakes and rough jokes

masking the genuine affection that the years had built between them.

Then he left them and went down the vast metal-skinned cavern, redolent

with the smell of grease and oil along which the gleaming rows of