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
