His performance picked up, partly through the grimness with which he worked, partly because he did have feeling for complex geometry, and partly because the beggar’s boy had had his brain sharpened by an ancient discipline. Jeri never again compared aloud the performances of Mata and Thorby and gave only brief comments on Thorby’s results: “Better,” or “Coming along,” and eventually, “You’re getting there.” Thorby’s morale soared; he loosened up and spent more time socially, playing spat ball with Mata rather frequently.
Toward the end of journey through darkness they finished the last drill one morning and Jeri called out, “Stand easy! I’ll be a few minutes.” Thorby relaxed from pleasant strain. But after a moment he fidgeted; he had a hunch that he had been in tune with his instruments. “Junior Controlman . . . do you suppose he would mind if I looked at my tape?”
“I don’t think so,” Mata answered. “I’ll take it out; then it’s my responsibility.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“You won’t,” Mata answered serenely. She reached back of Thorby’s console, pulled out the strip record, blew on it to keep it from curling, and examined it. Then she pulled her own strip, compared the two.
She looked at him gravely. “That’s a very good run, Thorby.”
It was the first time she had ever spoken his name. But Thorby hardly noticed. “Really? You mean it?”
“It’s a very good run . . . Thorby. We both got hits. But yours is optimum between ‘possible’ and ‘critical limit’ — whereas mine is too eager. See?”
Thorby could read strips only haltingly, but he was happy to take her word for it. Jeri came in, took both strips, looked at Thorby’s, then looked more closely. “I dug up the post-analysis before I came down,” he said.
“Yes, sir?” Thorby said eagerly.
“Mmm . . . I’ll check it after chow — but it looks as if your mistakes had cancelled out.”
Mata said, “Why, Bud, that’s a perfect run and you know it!”
“Suppose it is?” Jeri grinned. “You wouldn’t want our star pupil to get a swelled head, would you?”
“Pooh!”
“Right back to you, small and ugly sister. Let’s go to chow.”
They went through a narrow passage into trunk corridor of second deck, where they walked abreast. Thorby gave a deep sigh.
“Trouble?” his nephew asked.
“Not a bit!” Thorby put an arm around each of them. “Jeri, you and Mata are going to make a marksman out of me yet.”
It was the first time “Thorby had addressed his teacher by name since the day he had received the scorching. But Jeri accepted his uncle’s overture without stiffness. “Don’t get your hopes up, bunkmate. But I think we’ve got it licked.” He added, “I see Great Aunt Tora is giving us her famous cold eye. If anybody wants my opinion, I think Sis can walk unassisted — I’m sure Great Aunt thinks so.”
“Pooh to her, too!” Mata said briskly. “Thorby just made a perfect run.”
Sisu came out of darkness, dropping below speed-of-light Losian’s sun blazed less than fifty billion kilometers away; in a few days they would reach their next market The ship went to watch-and-watch battle stations.
Mata took her watch alone; Jeri required the trainee to stand watches with him. The first watch was always free from strain; even if a raider had accurate information via n-space communicator of Sisu’s time of departure and destination, it was impossible in a jump of many light-years to predict the exact time and place where she would poke her nose out into rational space.
Jeri settled in his chair some minutes after Thorby had strapped down with that age-old tense feeling that this time it was not practice. Jeri grinned at him. “Relax. If you get your blood stream loaded, your back will ache, and you’ll never last”
Thorby grinned feebly. “I’ll try.”
“That’s better. We’re going to play a game.” Jeri pulled a boxlike contrivance out of a pocket, snapped it open.
“What is that?”
“A ‘killjoy.’ It fits here.” Jeri slipped it over the switch that determined which console was in command. “Can you see the switch?”