Rick swallowed hard. "Can I sit in the plane for a few minutes and study, sir?"
Lipton smiled. "Sure. Call me when you're ready."
Rick climbed into the pilot's seat and took the stick, put his feet in the stirrups, and started getting acquainted with the feel of the controls while eyes and brain concentrated on the incredible clutter of instruments that every pilot has to know better than the working of his own hand.
More study wouldn't help. It was now or never. He called to the pilot. "Ready, sir."
Lipton climbed up on the wing and motioned to Rick to put on the helmet and plug in his phones. There was a spare helmet-and-phone set in the rear seat for the Air Force officer. Rick switched the radio on and heard the soft hum of dynamotors. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do you read me?"
"All right, Rick. Follow your check list and start the blowtorch going."
Rick mopped sweat from his face and went through the starting procedure. The jet flared into sudden life with a roar.
"Ready to taxi," he said.
"Roger. Proceed when ready."
Cautiously Rick fed throttle, aware of the tremendous power under his hand—power that could be deadly if misused. Using the brakes he turned the jet and then let it roll forward to the edge of the black strip that marked the runway.