Pushbutton War Read online

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  PUSHBUTTON WAR

  By JOSEPH P. MARTINO

  Illustrated by Schoenherr

  [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding ScienceFiction August 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  _In one place, a descendant of the Vikings rode a ship such as Lief never dreamed of; from another, one of the descendants of the Caesars, and here an Apache rode a steed such as never roamed the plains. But they were warriors all._

  The hatch swung open, admitting a blast of Arctic air and a man clad ina heavy, fur-lined parka. He quickly closed the hatch and turned to theman in the pilot's couch.

  "O.K., Harry. I'll take over now. Anything to report?"

  "The heading gyro in the autopilot is still drifting. Did you write itup for Maintenance?"

  "Yeah. They said that to replace it they'd have to put the ship in thehangar, and it's full now with ships going through periodic inspection.I guess we'll have to wait. They can't just give us another ship,either. With the hangar full, we must be pretty close to the absoluteminimum for ships on the line and ready to fly."

  "O.K. Let me check out with the tower, and she'll be all yours." Hethumbed the intercom button and spoke into the mike: "RI 276 to tower.Major Lightfoot going off watch."

  When the tower acknowledged, he began to disconnect himself from theship. With smooth, experienced motions, he disconnected the mike cable,oxygen hose, air pressure hose, cooling air hose, electrical heatingcable, and dehumidifier hose which connected his flying suit to theship. He donned the parka and gloves his relief had worn, and steppedthrough the hatch onto the gantry crane elevator. Even through the heavyparka, the cold air had a bite to it. As the elevator descended, heglanced to the south, knowing as he did so that there would be nothingto see. The sun had set on November 17th, and was not due up for threemore weeks. At noon, there would be a faint glow on the southernhorizon, as the sun gave a reminder of its existence, but now, at fourin the morning, there was nothing. As he stepped off the elevator, theground crew prepared to roll the gantry crane away from the ship. Heopened the door of the waiting personnel carrier and swung aboard. Theinevitable cry of "close that door" greeted him as he entered. Hebrushed the parka hood back from his head, and sank into the first emptyseat. The heater struggled valiantly with the Arctic cold to keep theinterior of the personnel carrier at a tolerable temperature, but itnever seemed able to do much with the floor. He propped his feet on thefootrest of the seat ahead of him, spoke to the other occupant of theseat.

  "Hi, Mike."

  "Hi, Harry. Say, what's your watch schedule now?"

  "I've got four hours off, back on for four, then sixteen off. Why?"

  "Well, a few of us are getting up a friendly little game before we goback on watch. I thought you might want to join us."

  "Well, I--"

  "Come on, now. What's your excuse this time for not playing cards?"

  "To start with, I'm scheduled for a half hour in the simulator, andanother half hour in the procedural trainer. Then if I finish the examin my correspondence course, I can get it on this week's mail plane. IfI don't get it in the mail now, I'll have to wait until next week."

  "All right, I'll let you off this time. How's the course coming?"

  "This is the final exam. If I pass, I'll have only forty-two morecredits to go before I have my degree in Animal Husbandry."

  "What on earth do you want with a degree like that?"

  "I keep telling you. When I retire, I'm going back to Oklahoma and raisehorses. If I got into all the card games you try to organize, I'd retirewith neither the knowledge to run a horse ranch, nor the money to startone."

  "But why raise horses? Cabbages, I can see. Tomatoes, yes. But whyhorses?"

  "Partly because there's always a market for them, so I'll have a fairamount of business to keep me eating regularly. But mostly because Ilike horses. I practically grew up in the saddle. By the time I was oldenough to do much riding, Dad had his own ranch, and I helped earn mykeep by working for him. Under those circumstances, I just naturallylearned to like horses."

  "Guess I never thought of it like that. I was a city boy myself. Theonly horses I ever saw were the ones the cops rode. I didn't get muchchance to became familiar with the beasts."

  * * * * *

  "Well, you don't know what you missed. It's just impossible to describewhat it's like to use a high-spirited and well-trained horse in yourdaily work. The horse almost gets to sense what you want him to do next.You don't have to direct his every move. Just a word or two, and a touchwith your heel or the pressure of your knee against his side, and he'sgot the idea. A well-trained horse is perfectly capable of cutting aparticular cow out of a herd without any instructions beyond showing himwhich one you want."

  "It's too bad the Army did away with the cavalry. Sounds like you belongthere, not in the Air Force."

  "No, because if there's anything I like better than riding a good horse,it's flying a fast and responsive airplane. I've been flying fightersfor almost seventeen years now, and I'll be quite happy to keep flyingthem as long as they'll let me. When I can't fly fighters any more, thenI'll go back to horses. And much as I like horses, I hope that's goingto be a long time yet."

  "You must hate this assignment, then. How come I never hear you complainabout it?"

  "The only reason I don't complain about this assignment is that Ivolunteered for it. And I've been kicking myself ever since. When Iheard about the Rocket Interceptors, I was really excited. Imagine aplane fast enough to catch up with an invading ballistic missile andshoot it down. I decided this was for me, and jumped at the assignment.They sounded like the hot fighter planes to end all hot fighter planes.And what do I find? They're so expensive to fly that we don't get anytraining missions. I've been up in one just once, and that was myfamiliarization flight, when I got into this assignment last year. Andthen it was only a ride in the second seat of that two-seat version theyuse for checking out new pilots. I just lay there through the wholeflight. And as far as I could see, the pilot didn't do much more. Hejust watched things while the autopilot did all the work."

  "Well, don't take it too hard. You might get some flights."

  "That's true. They do mistake a meteor for a missile now and then. Butthat happens only two or three times a year. That's not enough. I wantsome regular flying. I haven't got any flying time in for more than ayear. The nearest I come to flying is my time in the procedural trainer,to teach me what buttons to push, and in the simulator, to give me thefeel of what happens when I push the buttons."

  "That's O.K. They still give you your flying pay."

  "I know, but that's not what I'm after. I fly because I love flying. Iuse the flying pay just to keep up the extra premiums the insurancecompanies keep insisting on so long as I indulge my passion for fighterplanes."

  "I guess about the only way you could get any regular flying on this jobwould be for a war to come along."

  "That's about it. We'd fly just as often as they could recover our shipsand send us back up here for another launch. And that would go on untilthe economy on both sides broke down so far they couldn't make any moremissiles for us to chase, or boosters to send us up after them. Nothanks. I don't want to fly that badly. I like civilization."

  "In the meantime, then, you ought to try to enjoy it here. Where elsecan you spend most of your working hours lying flat on your back on themost comfortable couch science can devise?"

  "That's the trouble. Just lying there,
where you can't read, write,talk, or listen. It might be O.K. for a hermit, but I'd rather flyfighter planes. Here's the trainer building. I've got to get out."

  * * * * *

  Seven o'clock. Harry Lightfoot licked the flap on the envelope, sealedit shut, stuck some stamps on the front, and scrawled "AIR MAIL" underthe stamps. He dropped the letter into the "STATESIDE" slot. The examhadn't been so bad. What did they think he was, anyway? A city slickerwho had never seen a live cow in his life? He ambled into the off-dutypilots' lounge. He