In the committee room at United Nations Military Headquarters on Moon Base a meeting was reaching its conclusion. There were empty coffee cups on the table and ash trays piled with cigarette stubs. Men in the uniforms of several nations, civilians mostly wearing spectacles, and neatly dressed, self-possessed stenographers were beginning to fold documents back into brief cases and button up uniforms or jackets and glance at wrist watches.

“Finally,” the chairman said, “it remains for Admiral Dickenson to select the man for the job.”

Everyone turned to look at Admiral Dickenson. So far this had been a technical discussion, and he was representing Advanced Fighter Group. He had therefore not said much up till this moment.

Dickenson was a gray-haired American officer, with a face someone had once described as having been carved out of teak with a dull ax.

“What sort of man do you want?” he growled.

“You know what we want, Admiral,” the chairman said. “The best you’ve got.”

Dickenson began flipping through the pages of a typed document.

“Our men are all good,” he said. “To get out into Fighter Group, stay there and continue to remain alive, they’ve got to be good.”

“The best, Admiral,” the chairman insisted.

Dickenson continued to turn the pages for a moment longer, then suddenly tossed the catalogue on the table. “I don’t have to look,” he told them with a sigh, “I know the man you want… I’ll give you Jason.”

“Jason?” someone asked. “Never heard of him… What’s his record?”

“Aged twenty-two—five kills to date.”

“Only five? But we want your top-line man!”

“He’s obviously inexperienced,” another officer protested.

“If you refuse him for this mission nobody will be better pleased than me,” Dickenson snapped. “He’s one of the most likeable boys we’ve got. But you ask me for the most suitable man to do this job, and I say Jason. I stick to that.”