Short Fiction

gone to work in a rink when I was seventeen! It’s getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it’s done, or what with!”
And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards came and got her.

“Sit down, Ish,” the Flight Surgeon said.
They always begin that way, Isherwood thought. The standard medical opening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anything he might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression as he ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinder of a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteen hours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.
“How’s it?” the  F.S. asked.
Ish grinned and shrugged. “All right.” But he didn’t usually grin. The realization disquieted him a little.
“Think you’ll make it?”
Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usual response-pattern. “Don’t know. That’s what I’m being paid to find out.”
“Uh-huh.” The  F.S. tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth. “Look⁠—you want to talk to a man for a while?”
“What man?” It didn’t really matter. He had a feeling that anything he said or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If they wanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.
“Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket.” The Flight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. “Air Force insisted on it, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Can’t really blame them. After all, it’s their beast.”
“Don’t want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh?” Ish lit the cigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. “Sure. Bring him on.”
The  F.S. smiled. “Good. He’s⁠—uh⁠—he’s in the next room. Okay to ask him in right now?”
“Sure.” Something flickered in Isherwood’s eyes. Amusement at the Flight Surgeon’s discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.

MacKenzie didn’t seem to be taking any notes, or paying any special attention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But the questions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish could see the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under the man’s lapel.
“Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven’t you?” MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.
Ish nodded.
“How’s that?”
The corners of Isherwood’s mouth twitched, and he said “Yes” for the recorder’s benefit.
“Odd jobs, first of all?”
“Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. After I was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.”
“Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn’t it?”
“Ahuh.”
“Took some of your pay in flying lessons.”
“Right.”
MacKenzie’s face passed no judgements⁠—he simply hunched in his chair, seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, his stubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man⁠—only a step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tired strand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.
Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations. This was the man who could ground him. He was dangerous⁠—red-letter dangerous⁠—because of it.
“No family.”
Ish shrugged. “Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father was making good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need to worry about them.”
Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought. MacKenzie’s face did not go into a blank of repression⁠—but it still passed no judgements.
“How’s things between you and the opposite sex?”
“About normal.”
“No wife⁠—no steady girl.”
“Not a very good idea, in my racket.”
MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swung toward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimed between Isherwood’s eyes. “You can’t go!”
Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in his temple veins. “What!” he roared.
MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burst was over, and his face was apologetic, “Sorry,” he said. He seemed genuinely abashed. “Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go, all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions and drives.”
Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him⁠—anger, and more fear than he wanted to admit. “I’m due at a briefing,” he said tautly. “You through with me?”
MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. “Sorry.”
Ish ignored the man’s obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send a parting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. “Big gun in the psychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo’s slipping, Doc. They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy, hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn’t do anything to help me!”
“I don’t know,” MacKenzie said softly. “I wish I did.”
Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming a fresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelve hours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.
Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd⁠—that fool psychiatrist hadn’t seemed to take up that much of his time.
He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, he lost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization that nothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He was going. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of “Marty!” ringing in the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster, as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.

Ish looked up bitterly at the Receptionist. “No,” he said.
“But everybody fills out an application,” she protested.
“No. I’ve got a job,” he said as he had been saying for the last half hour.
The Receptionist sighed. “If you’ll only read the literature I’ve given you, you’ll understand that all your previous commitments have been cancelled.”
“Look, Honey, I’ve seen company poop sheets before. Now, let’s cut this nonsense. I’ve got to get back.”
“But nobody goes back.”
“Goddam it, I don’t