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test-fired his guns. He checked his own. The sound of them was reassuring.
    They climbed into the contrail level. Long, solid wakes of white began flowing behind them. Formations left multiple ribbons of this, streaming sky pennants. Frost formed on the rear of Cleve’s canopy. He was chilly, but not uncomfortable. They were north, and he was busy, looking hard, clearing himself, Desmond, and the two other ships in his flight. The sky seemed calm but hostile, like an empty arena. There was little talking.
    In half an hour they had reached the Yalu, an unreal boundary winding far below. The sun was higher now. The sky was absolutely clear. His sunglasses made it a deeper blue, like deep ocean. He could see a hundred miles into a China that ended only with a vast horizon, beyond the lives of ten million rooted people. At forty thousand feet they patrolled north and south, turning each time in great, shallow sweeps.
    They had been doing this for about ten minutes when somebody called out contrails north of the river. Cleve looked. He could not see them. Then he heard,
    â€œThey’re MIGs.”
    He heard Desmond: “All right, drop them.”
    He dropped his tanks. They tumbled away. He looked north. Still he saw nothing. He was leaning forward in his seat, intently. He stared across the sky with care, inch by inch.
    â€œHow many of them are there?” somebody asked.

    â€œThey’re MIGs!”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œMany, many.”
    He looked frantically. He knew they must be there. He began to suffer moments of complete unreality. He felt he was staring holes in the sky.
    â€œWhere are they crossing?” somebody called.
    â€œJust east of Antung.”
    Then at last he saw them, more than he could count. It seemed unbelievable that he had been unable to locate them only seconds before. He could not make out the airplanes, but the contrails were nosing south unevenly, like a great school of fish. They were coming across the river. They were going to fight.
    Soon they were near enough to distinguish: flight after flight of from four to six ships, the flights in a long, tenuous stream, all above them, at forty-five thousand, he guessed. The van of this column was approaching fast. Suddenly, he understood why these formations were called trains. He expected the fight of his life momentarily.
    â€œLet’s take it around to the right,” he heard Desmond say.
    They started a turn toward a position beneath the MIGs, with unbelievable lassitude it seemed, and began traveling south with them. Cleve felt very alone in the cockpit. He was acutely aware then of being far into enemy territory. He squirmed in his seat. His mouth and throat were dry. It burned to inhale. Still they went south, the MIGs staying above. It was like watching a fuse burn.
    At that altitude they could not climb the five thousand feet up to the MIGs without losing speed and falling behind or else leaving themselves almost motionless in the air to be attacked,
so they continued underneath and a little to one side, watching the ships and contrails floating high above like the surface after a deep dive. Cleve was shocked by the number of them. He could count more than fifty. At that moment he had only one friendly flight besides his own in sight. There were sixteen friendly ships altogether, four flights.
    Suddenly, the radio exploded with voices. The fight had started somewhere. He felt his nerves twitching. Then there were four of them, Desmond called them out, turning down for a pass. They did not come all the way, however. They swept overhead, going at an angle. Cleve saw them closely for the first time. He watched the nearest one sail across, silver and abrupt, with speed fences on the wings, as soundless as a great fish. Then they were gone.
    Two others started down in a high side pass. They turned into them, and the MIGs pulled up and continued on. It was all sparring. Desmond was cautious. He kept them out of