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 Liefnever dreamed of; from another, one of the descendants of theCaesars, and here an Apache rode a steed such as never roamed theplains. 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 ex