Stingers, slung beneath the stubby delta-wings. The Stingers were twice the length of the Hornet itself, projecting fore and aft of the ship for five feet in either direction. The Hornet looked ungainly, riding atop those slim needles, like some grotesque parasite hitching a ride on two silver arrows.

They're—quite small. Who had said that? Mackley. Captain Mackley, the glib Information Officer who'd told Cressey everything he was allowed to know about Hornets before he saw one.

I'll be frank with you, Mr. Cressey. Strategic Command has Hornets listed not as aircraft, but as portable launching racks. Their job is to take Stingers to the Outspace ships. There's a man in them because we can't build a computer as efficient as man at such light weight. And we couldn't afford to if we had the necessary knowledge.

Cressey remembered his shock at being told he was a light-weight computer, and some of the bitterness. He watched the loading crew lock the Stingers into position beneath the Hornet's wings and throw the hooked boarding ladder over the edge of the cockpit. Cressey mounted past the red-painted NO STEP signs on the wings and settled himself in the cramped cockpit. As the crew carried the ladder away, he flipped the switch by his left hand and listened to the hum as the canopy rolled forward and locked into place with a metallic clack. NO STEP, he thought wearily. His own god-damned life, entrusted to a piece of equipment too delicate to step on.

He swung the fish-bowl over his head and locked it into place. He coupled the hose leading from his right hip to a similar hose which disappeared into the floor of the cockpit, and partially inflated his suit. No detectable leaks. If his check crew had done their job, he was ready.

Opening the communications channel, he listened to the other 'hot' Hornets checking off.

"427."

"Ready out."

"493."

"Ready out."

"495."

 Prev. P 2/11 next