Jeri looked over his sister’s record and nodded. “Very nice, Sis! You’re within a second of post-analyzed optimum, and three seconds better than the shot that got the so-and-so. I have to admit that’s sweet shooting . . . because the real run is my own. That raider off Ingstel . . . remember?”
“I certainly do.” She glanced at Thorby.
Thorby felt disgusted. “It’s not fair!” He started hauling at safety-belt buckles.
Jeri looked surprised. “What, Trainee?”
“I said it’s not fair! You send down a problem, I tackle it cold — and get bawled out because I’m not perfect. But all she had to do is to fiddle with controls to get an answer she already knows . . . to make me look cheap!”
Mata was looking stricken. Thorby headed for the door. “I never asked for this! I’m going to the Captain and ask for another job.”
“Trainee!”
Thorby stopped. Jeri went on quietly. “Sit down. When I’m through, you can see the Captain — if you think it’s advisable.”
Thorby sat down.
“I’ve two things to say,” Jeri continued coldly. “First –” He turned to his sister. “Junior Controlman, did you know what problem this was when you were tracking?”
“No, Senior Controlman.”
“Have you worked it before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How was it you remembered it?”
“What? Why, you said it was the raider off Ingstel. I’ll never forget because of the dinner afterwards — you sat with Great Grandmo — with the Chief Officer.”
Jeri turned to Thorby. “You see? She tracked it cold . . . as cold as I had to when it happened. And she did even better than I did; I’m proud to have her as my junior tracker. For your information, Mister Stupid Junior Trainee, this engagement took place before the Junior Controlman became a trainee. She hasn’t even run it in practice. She’s just better at it than you are.”
“All right,” Thorby said sullenly. “I’ll probably never be any good. I said I wanted to quit.”
“I’m talking. Nobody asks for this job; it’s a headache. Nobody quits it, either. After a while the job quits him, when post-analysis shows that he is losing his touch. Maybe I’m beginning to. But I promise you this: you’ll either learn, or I will go to the Captain and tell him you don’t measure up. In the meantime . . . if I have any lip out of you, I’ll haul you before the Chief Officer!” He snapped, “Extra drill run. Battle stations. Cast loose your equipment.” He left the room.
Moments later his voice reached them. “Bogie! Starboard computer room, report!”
The call to dinner sounded; Mata said gravely, “Starboard tracker manned. Data showing, starting run.” Her fingers started caressing keys. Thorby bent over his own controls; he wasn’t hungry anyhow. For days Thorby spoke with Jeri only formally. He saw Mata at drill, or across the lounge at meals; he treated her with cold correctness and tried to do as well as she did. He could have seen her at other times; young people associated freely in public places. She was taboo to him, both as his niece and because they were of the same moiety, but that was no bar to social relations.
Jeri he could not avoid; they ate at the same table, slept in the same room. But Thorby could and did throw up a barrier of formality. No one said anything — these things happened. Even Fritz pretended not to notice.
But one afternoon Thorby dropped into the lounge to see a story film with a Sargonese background; Thorby sat through it to pick it to pieces. But when it was over he could not avoid noticing Mata because she walked over, stood in front of him, addressed him humbly as her uncle and asked if he would care for a game of spat ball before supper?
He was about to refuse when he noticed her face; she was watching him with tragic eagerness. So he answered, “Why, thanks, Mata. Work up an appetite.”
She broke into smiles. “Good! I’ve got Ilsa holding a table. Let’s!”
Thorby beat her three games and tied one . . . a remarkable score, since she was female champion and was allowed only one point handicap when playing the male champion. But he did not think about it; he was enjoying himself.