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and he insisted on being briefed there. He listened carefully to our reports and our theories, including Drent's and Linnea's.

  "You sure called it," he said. "Two Zhill gofers and a pusillanimous killer." He looked at the rest of us. "We never would have looked here; the only thing between those children and death was your remote-control models. Will you testify when the time comes?"

  "Yes," we all said. "Of course!" "Certainly."

  "This time, we'll be doing the intimidating for a change. This may not stop 'em; not yet. But it’ll knock 'em silly."

  When he had it all, he transmitted a summary of the Squadrons' performance, including names with our permission, and authorized it for immediate public release. He then sent the children back to Dinnorbinn in his own Command hovercraft, all except Drent and Linnea, who insisted on staying with me.

  In the sudden quiet, he asked for a tour. He examined the aircraft minutely, watched two of us fly them, and had us fire at various targets. He looked at the crashed Zhenders, which were thoroughly ruined, and shook his head.

  "The Settlement'll replace these. I'll see to it," he said to the Zhender Commander.

  "Thank you," said Shondlep, a little jug-eared fellow.

  "It’s for us to thank you," said DiMarco. He turned to Snapey. "Your group's too. How much does a rig like this cost?"

  Snapey considered. "For the aircraft and cameras, twenty-five to thirty-five hundred Blooven. The cockpit assembly, installed: a time and a half as much."

  DiMarco nodded. I learned later that he was already planning the Watch's Semivirtual Surveillance Squadron. One of the radio operators came over. "Is there someone here named Bretcher, sir?"

  "That's me," I said.

  "There's a call on the Command Box for you. Unauthorized female."

  I laughed. "I know who that is. That's a good word for her." DiMarco nodded and the man gave me the pick-up unit. "Dram? This is me."

  "Bret!" Her voice was so clear I could almost see her. "Are you really all right?"

  "I? Certainly," I said. "I was never in any danger. But we have an angel of courage for a daughter and a wounded hero for a son."

  "The wound was nothing serious." Her voice went up. "So I was told!"

  "Nothing serious, and he's been patched up by the Watch's Chief Assistant Medic himself."

  "And Linnea?"

  "She's fine, too. We'll see you and the little ones this evening; we still have to drive . . ."

  "Oh, no. We're coming out. I've just made arrangements and have only one more thing to do. The whole Settlement is talking about you and your so-called Blue Squadron. It's enough to make one ill. I can't wait to see you."

  "I sure love you, Dram."

  There was a vulnerable little pause before she snorted and broke off.

  When the Command Craft came back, Mayor Kendring himself was aboard, but I had eyes for only one. She had a heavy cloth bag with her, so when she ran over, with Blee and Geffer trotting after her, she could hug me with only one arm. She then seized Drent and Linnea, hugged and kissed them, looked them up and down, kissed them again, checked Drent's bandages, kissed them again. She hugged and kissed me again, as if she couldn't get enough of me.

  "Daddy was wonderful!" said Linnea.

  "Nobody can fly like Dad!" crowed Drent. "You should have seen him!"

  "I wish I could have," she said. Then, for me only, "Flight Captain Bretcher." The fatuous title sounded wildly exotic from her lips.

  "Dram!" I said.

  She spoke, still just for me. "One thing only has changed. This hobby remains too expensive and simply too silly for words."

  "I know," I said. "I've never disagreed. I just haven’t . . ."

  "But I have always given in."

  "You have indeed, and I'm . . ."

  "But I haven't given in with good grace." She paused. "Not like you, when you give in, my brave Flight Captain."

  "Not brave," I said. "I told you I was never in danger."

  "Oh, yes you were. Do you think I don't know what courage it took to intervene, to take the initiative, to attack those Circlists? What if a child had been killed, or even seriously hurt? Everyone would have blamed you and cursed you for meddling. You might even have been prosecuted, never mind that the children were marked for death already. You took a terrible chance, and I know why."

  "You do?" I said stupidly.

  She spoke softly so her voice wouldn’t break. "Yes I do. It was for love."

  She put the cloth bag into my hands. I slowly removed the object inside, fascinated to see what it could be. A book of some sort? All four children broke into wild cheers.

  Old Earth Fighter Aircraft. That's what it was.

  # # #

  About the Author:

  Mark spent his childhood and undergraduate years in California. After graduation from UCLA with a B.Sc. in chemistry, he joined the army as an infantry lieutenant, and while serving as a platoon leader in the 101st Airborne Division in Viet Nam, was twice decorated for valor, once by the U.S. Army, and once by the South Vietnamese government (which insisted on using the word 'gallantry' rather than 'valor' in its citation). He also received the purple heart, having unfortunately been trapped by a booby-trap, which would seem to make him a booby. Sorry about that.

  Upon returning home, he earned a Ph.D. in biochemistry (cellular and molecular biology) and, as an unrepentant Viet Nam veteran, was probably the most unpopular graduate student in the Western Hemisphere. He followed up with a pair of two-year post-doctoral fellowships, one at Imperial College in London (H.G. Wells's old alma mater), and one at the State University of New York in Brooklyn. He then took up a research career in the medical diagnostics industry, managing to develop some products and bring his paper trail in the scientific literature up to 23 patents and publications. In his sparse spare time he worked on honing skills in a lifelong love: the crafting of hard science fiction.

  Mark and his wife Decia, married now for some 43 years, have brought up three magnificent boys, all of whom have established independent households with children of their own. He now teaches college chemistry, an occasional class in securities licensing, and continues to pound away at science fiction.