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fairer?”
    â€œNothing.”

    â€œThe only thing is to play it smart. You never know who you’re running into. It’s probably some cull, but it might be old Casey himself.”
    â€œIt might be who?”
    â€œCasey Jones.”
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œDo you mean it?” Desmond said. “I thought he was pretty well known.”
    â€œNot to me. Who is he, the great Russian champion?”
    â€œI don’t know. He flew a black-striped ship, very distinctive. Ask Imil about him sometime. He can tell you. Only don’t believe everything he says.
    â€œHe came back with three cannon hits on his ship one day. He was lucky to even get back. There was one right in front of the cockpit that left a hole you could stick your head through, and two more just as big in the wing. That was Casey. According to the story, they fought for about twenty minutes, and the colonel didn’t even get a chance to fire his guns. He looked like he’d had a heart attack when he landed, I know that much. I saw him at the debriefing.
    â€œWhen I first got here, every time Casey flew, there was a big fight. They used to know when he was taking off, I don’t know how, but ground control would call him off by name. The MIG formations were trains, so they called him Casey Jones. Train number one, or whatever it was, leaving Antung, Casey Jones at the throttle. When you heard that, you started watching yourself, too.”
    â€œWhat became of him?”
    â€œI guess he finished his tour and went home. He just stopped flying. It’s been a long time since anybody’s seen him.”

    They listened to the mission then, but Cleve sat preoccupied, with thoughts of a vanished enemy. He had gone, this man whose name no one knew, taking his excellence with him. The skies were empty now of the fever of his presence; and Cleve, though he had not fought, resisted a feeling of personal loss. Something irreplaceable had been taken from the war. He felt cheated. It was only after some time that he was able to suppress the whole thing as illusion. It was always the old ones who were the greatest.
    Nothing much seemed to be going on, up north. There were long periods of silence, broken only by turns being called and fuel checks. Finally, they began heading back, no sightings. Desmond turned the radio off.
    â€œHow often do you get into fights?” Cleve asked.
    â€œYou can’t ever tell when there’ll be one. Sometimes there are three a day, and sometimes a week will go by without one. It’s like trying to pick the horses. You check everything, the past performances, who’s up that day, the weather, the odds. You get it all doped out, and then it’s luck after that. How’s your luck, Cleve?”
    â€œIt’s been pretty good. Nothing exceptional.”
    â€œThat’s all you need. I’ll take a lucky man every time, myself.”
    There was a pause. Desmond sat looking out the window toward the mountains that rose in the north. The ships would be returning over them in fifteen or twenty minutes.
    â€œIf you really want to get them, Cleve,” he said at last, “more than anything else, that’s the biggest thing. You can play it safe and never get in a tight spot, and you’ll go home after a hundred missions with the usual medals and, who knows, maybe a couple of victories, just by waiting for the sure things. On the other hand,
you can take chances, and you’ll probably be a hero when you go back. And you’ll probably go back. It just depends on what you want most. You’ll see for yourself. After ten missions everybody is an expert.
    â€œVictories mean a lot, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s something more important to be gotten out of Korea.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œMy ass.”
    Cleve laughed.
    â€œThat’s the way I feel,” Desmond said.
    For a naked moment, they looked at each other. It