“Huh? No.”
“Hand the man the prize.” Jeri fiddled with the switch behind the screen. “Which of us is in control in case we have to launch a bomb now?”
“How can I tell? Take that off, Jeri; it makes me nervous.”
“That’s the game. Maybe I’m controlling and you are just going through motions; maybe you are the man at the trigger and I’m asleep in my chair. Every so often I’ll fiddle with the switch — but you won’t know how I’ve left it. So when a flap comes — and one will; I feel it in my bones — you can’t assume that good old Jeri, the man with the micrometer fingers, has the situation under control. You might have to save the firm. You.”
Thorby had a queasy vision of waiting men and bombs in the missile room below — waiting for him to solve precisely an impossible problem of life and death, of warped space and shifting vectors and complex geometry. “You’re kidding,” he said feebly. “You wouldn’t leave me in control. Why, the Captain would skin you alive.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. There always comes a day when a trainee makes his first real run. After that, he’s a controlman . . . or an angel. But we don’t let you worry at the time. Oh no! we just keep you worried all the time. Now here’s the game. Any time I say, ‘Now!’ you guess who has control. You guess right, I owe you one dessert; you guess wrong, you owe me one. Now!”
Thorby thought quickly. “I guess I’ve got it.”
“Wrong.” Jeri lifted the killjoy. “You owe me one dessert — and it’s berry tart tonight; my mouth is watering. But faster; you’re supposed to make quick decisions. Now!”
“You’ve still got it!”
“So I have. Even. Now!”
“You!”
“Nope. See? And I eat your tart — I ought to quit while I’m ahead. Love that juice! Now!”
When Mata relieved them, Jeri owned Thorby’s desserts for the next four days. “We start again with that score,” Jeri said, “except that I’m going to collect that berry tart. But I forgot to tell you the big prize.”
“Which is?”
“Comes the real thing, we bet three desserts. After ifs over, you guess and we settle. Always bet more on real ones.”
Mata sniffed. “Bud, are you trying to make him nervous?”
“Are you nervous, Thorby?”
“Nope!”
“Quit fretting, Sis. Got it firmly in your grubby little hands?”
“I relieve you, sir.”
“Come on, Thorby; let’s eat. Berry tarts — aaah!”
Three days later the score stood even, but only because Thorby had missed most of his desserts. Sisu was enormously slowed, almost to planetary speeds, and Losian’s sun loomed large on the screens. Thorby decided, with mildest regret, that his ability to fight would not be tested this jump.
Then the general alarm made him rear up against safety belts. Jeri had been talking; his head jerked around, he looked at displays, and his hands moved to his controls. “Get on it!” he yelped. “This one’s real.”
Thorby snapped out of shock and bent over his board. The analog globe was pouring data to them; the ballistic situation had built up. Good heavens, it was close! And matching in fast! How had anything moved in so close without being detected? Then he quit thinking and started investigating answers . . . no, not yet . . . before long though . . . could the bandit turn a little at that boost and reduce his approach? . . . try a projection at an assumed six gravities of turning . . . would a missile reach him? . . . would it still reach him if he did not —
He hardly felt Mata’s gentle touch on his shoulder. But he heard Jeri snap, “Stay out, Sis! We’re on it, we’re on it!”
A light blinked on Thorby’s board; the squawk horn sounded, “Friendly craft, friendly craft! Losian planetary patrol, identified. Return to watch-and-watch.”
Thorby took a deep breath, felt a great load lift.
“Continue your run!” screamed Jeri.
“Huh?”
“Finish your run! That’s no Losian craft; that’s a raider! Losian’s can’t maneuver that way! You’ve got it, boy, you’ve got it! Nail him!”