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<h1><b><span class="sp1">DOGFIGHT&mdash;1973</span></b></h1>

<h2><i>By<br />
Mack Reynolds</i></h2>

<div class="bk1"><p class="pr1"><big><b>Flying at 1600 m.p.h. you act with split-second
timing after you sight the enemy. And you're
allowed only one mistake&mdash;your last!</b></big></p></div>

<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">My</span> radar picked him up
when he was about five
hundred miles to my
north-northeast and about forty-five
miles above me. I switched
the velocity calculator on him as
fast as I could reach it.</p>

<p>The enemy ship was doing sixteen,
possibly even sixteen and a
half. I took the chance that it
was most likely an Ivar Interceptor,
at that speed, and punched
out a temporary evasion pattern
with my right hand while with
my left I snapped an Ivar K-12
card into my calculator along with
his estimated speed, altitude and
distance. It wasn't much to go
on as yet but he couldn't have
much more on me, if as much;
inwardly I congratulated myself
on the quick identification I'd
managed.</p>

<p>He was near enough now for
my visor screen to pick him up.
At least he was alone, that was
something. My nearest squadron
mate was a good minute and a
half away. It might as well have
been a century.</p>

<p>Now, this is what is always
hard to get over to a civilian; the
time element. Understand, it will
take me a while to tell this but
it all took less than sixty seconds
to happen.</p>

<p>He had guessed my evasion pattern
already&mdash;either guessed it or
had some new calculator that was
far and beyond anything our
techs were turning out. I could
tell he'd anticipated me by the
Bong-Sonic roll he slipped into.</p>

<p>I quickly punched up a new
pattern based on the little material
I had in the calculator. At least
I'd caught the roll. I punched that
up, hurriedly, slipped it into the
IBM, guessed that his next probability
was a pass, took a chance
on that and punched it in.</p>

<p>I was wrong there. He didn't
take his opportunity for a front-on
pass. He was either newly out
of their academy or insultingly
confident. My lips felt tight as
I canceled the frontal pass card,
punched up two more to take its
place.</p>

<p>The base supervisor cut in on
the phone. "It looks like old Dmitri
himself, Jerry, and he's flying
one of the new K-12a models. Go
get him, boy!"</p>

<p>I felt like snapping back. He
knew better than to break in on
me at a time like this. I opened
my mouth, then shut it again. Did
he say K-12a? <i>Did he say K-12a?</i></p>

<p>I squinted at the visor screen.
The high tail, the canopy, the oddly
shaped wing tanks.</p>

<p>I'd gone off on the identification!</p>

<p>I slapped another evasion pattern
into the controls, a standard
set, I had no time to punch up
an improvisation. But he was on me
like a wasp. I rejected it, threw in
another set. Reject. Another!</p>

<p>Even as I worked, I kicked the
release on my own calculator,
dumped it all, selected like a flash
an Ivar K-12a card, and what
other estimations I could make
while my mind was busy with the
full-time job of evasion.</p>

<p>My hands were still making the
motions, my fingers were flicking
here, there, my feet touching here,
there. But my heart wasn't in it.</p>

<p>He already had such an advantage
that it was all I could do to
keep him in my visor screen. He
was to the left, to the right. I
got him for a full quarter-second
in the wires, but the auto gunner
was too far behind, much too
far.</p>

<p>His own guns flicked red.</p>

<p>I punched half a dozen buttons,
slapped levers, tried to scoot for
home.</p>

<p>To the left of my cubicle two
lights went yellowish and at the
same time my visor screen went
dead. I was blind.</p>

<p>I sank back in my chair, helpless.</p>

<hr />

<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The</span> speed indicator wavered,
went slowly, deliberately to
zero; the altimeter died; the fuel
gauge. Finally, even the dozen or
so trouble-indicators here, there,
everywhere about the craft. Fifteen
million dollars worth of warcraft
was being shot into wreckage.</p>

<p>I sat there for a long, long minute
and took it.</p>

<p>Then I got to my feet and
wearily opened the door of my
cubicle. Sergeant Walters and the
rest of the maintenance crew were
standing there. They could read
in my face what had happened.</p>

<p>The sergeant began, "Captain,
I ..."</p>

<p>I grunted at him. "Never mind,
Sergeant. It had nothing to do
with the ship's condition." I turned
to head for the operations office.</p>

<p>Bill Dickson strolled over from
the direction of his own cubicle.
"Somebody said you just had a
scramble with old Dmitri himself."</p>

<p>"I don't know," I said. "I don't
know if it was him or not. Maybe
some of you guys can tell a man's
flying but I can't."</p>

<p>He grinned at me. "Shot you
down, eh?"</p>

<p>I didn't answer.</p>

<p>He said, "What happened?"</p>

<p>"I thought it was an Ivar K-12,
and I put that card in my calculator.
Turned out it was one of
those new models, K-12a. That
was enough, of course."</p>

<p>Bill grinned at me again.
"That's two this week. That flak
got you near that bridge and now
you get ..."</p>

<p>"Shut up," I told him.</p>

<p>He counted up on his fingers
elaborately. "The way I figure it,
you lose one more ship and you're
an enemy ace."</p>

<p>He was irrepressible. "Damn
it," I said, "will you cut it out!
I've got enough to worry about
without you working me over.
This means I'll have to spend another
half an hour in operations
going over the fight. And that
means I'll be late for dinner again.
And you know Molly."</p>

<p>Bill sobered. "Gee," he said,
"I'm sorry. War is hell, isn't it?"</p>
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