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had been a genuine confidence, and Cleve knew then how good his chances really were. Whatever the advantages of ability, there was something even more important. It was motive. He had come to meet his enemy, without reservation. The discomfort was there, even after talking to Desmond, of perhaps encountering one that would prove his equal; it was always a chance, but, even so, he felt encouraged. He had not come merely to survive. He suddenly felt the uplift of being that much above those who had, who lived on a subordinate plane of endeavor.

4
    At 5:15 in the morning it was piercingly cold, with an icy moon still bright in the sky. The windows of the barracks were dark as Cleve walked down the road to where a truck waited in front of the mess, its parking lights on and an asthmatic smoke wreathing from its exhaust. The mud beneath his feet was frozen into hard ridges and swirls. The cold bit at the tips of his fingers through his gloves. He had given up eating breakfast on mornings like these. The result was an insistent hunger later on, but he preferred the extra sleep. He had finished all the training flights and indoctrination. During the week past he had started flying missions. There had been four of them, all uneventful. This was to be his fifth. He was scheduled on Desmond’s wing.
    After the briefing, they dressed in a locker room grim with the light from the early day and a single unfrosted bulb. Desmond always loaded himself with equipment in excess of that which everybody carried in standard seat packs. His pistol he wore at his waist, the holster tied down against his thigh with leather thongs. On the other hip was a heavy hunting knife and a canvas packet of extra ammunition clips. Besides that, he filled his flying-suit pockets with plastic boxes of jellied candy, cigarettes, and hand warmers, wrapping friction tape on the outside of the pockets to hold them firmly Everything had to be secured or it would be lost
upon bailing out, ripping right through cloth at the shock of the parachute opening.
    There was some erratic humor. Robey, one of the flight leaders, read an imaginary telegram he had received from Big Stan Stalenkowicz—“You all remember him as tackle on last year’s team.” Stan was going to be at the game today, and he wanted they should get out there and really fight. In reply, there were some pledges to win this one for Big Stan.
    Robey was credited with four victories. He was the leading man in the squadron, and he did not look the part at all. He had a small, pale mustache, which seemed to have been pasted as an afterthought onto the face as bland as a piece of fruit. His complexion was bad. The one thing that distinguished him was the self-assurance of an heir. One more aircraft destroyed, and he would have his title. Because of this, he was treated with deference. In return, he was patronizing. He moved among them as if they were, even unknowingly, his flock.
    â€œGoing to open up a hardware store, Des?”
    â€œVery funny.”
    Cleve dressed himself slowly to reduce the time he would have to spend standing around and taking little part in the talk. He was not fully at ease. It was still like being a guest at a family reunion, with all the unfamiliar references. He felt relieved when finally they rode out to their ships.
    Then it was intoxicating. The smooth takeoff, and the free feeling of having the world drop away. Soon after leaving the ground, they were crossing patches of stratus that lay in the valleys as heavy and white as glaciers. North for the fifth time. It was still all adventure, as exciting as love, as frightening. Cleve rejoiced in it.

    They climbed higher and higher, along the coast. It became difficult to distinguish earth from water where they met. The frozen river mouths blended into white land areas. The rice paddies south of Pyongyang looked like cracked icing on pale French pastry. He saw the knotted string of smoke go back as Desmond