Thorby never heard it. Jeri glanced at him and answered, “I do not advise it, Captain.”
“Very well.”
The Senior Portside Firecontrolman, in gross violation of regulations, came in and watched the silent struggle, sweat greasing his face. Thorby did not know it. Nothing existed but knobs, switches, and buttons, all extensions of his nervous system. He became possessed of an overwhelming need to sneeze — repressed it without realizing it.
Thorby made infinitesimal adjustments up to the last moment, then absent-mindedly touched the button that told the computer to launch as the projected curve maximized. Two heartbeats later an atomic missile was on its way.
Jeri reached for the selector switch — stopped as he saw Thorby go into frenzied activity, telling his board to launch again on the assumption that the target had cut power. Then incoming data stopped as the ship went blind. Paralysis hit them.
Post-analysis showed that the paralyzing beam was on them seventy-one seconds. Jeri came out of it when it ceased; he saw Thorby looking dazedly at his board . . . then become violently active as he tried to work a new solution based on the last data.
Jeri put a hand on him. “The run is over, Thorby.”
“Huh?”
“You got him. A sweet run. Mata would be proud of you.”
Sisu was blind for a day, while repairs were made in her n-space eyes. The Captain continued to boost; there was nothing else to do. But presently she could see again and two days later she plunged into the comforting darkness of multi-space. The dinner in Thorby’s honor was that night.
Grandmother made the usual speech, giving thanks that the Family was again spared, and noting that the son of Sisu beside her was the instrument of that happy but eminently deserved outcome. Then she lay back and gobbled her food, with her daughter-in-law hovering over her.
Thorby did not enjoy the honor. He had no clear recollection of the run; it felt as if he were being honored by mistake. He had been in semi-shock afterwards, then his imagination started working.
They were only pirates, he knew that. Pirates and slavers, they had tried to steal Sisu, had meant to enslave the Family. Thorby had hated slavers before he could remember — nothing so impersonal as the institution of slavery, he hated slavers in his baby bones before he knew the word.
He was sure that Pop approved of him; he knew that Pop, gentle as he was, would have shortened every slaver in the Galaxy without a tear.
Nevertheless Thorby did not feel happy. He kept thinking about a live ship — suddenly all dead, gone forever in a burst of radiance. Then he would look at his forefinger and wonder. He was caught in the old dilemma of the man with unintegrated values, who eats meat but would rather somebody else did the butchering.
When the dinner in his honor arrived he was three nights short on sleep and looked it. He pecked at his food.
Midway in the meal he became aware that Grandmother was glaring; he promptly spilled food on his dress jacket. “Well!” she snarled. “Have a nice nap?”
“Uh, I’m sorry, Grandmother. Did you speak to me?”
He caught his Mother’s warning look but it was too late; Grandmother was off. “I was waiting for you to say something to me!”
“Uh . . . it’s a nice day.”
“I had not noticed that it was unusual. It rarely rains in space.”
“I mean it’s a nice party. Yes, a real nice party. Thank you for giving it, Grandmother.”
“That’s better. Young man, it is customary, when a gentleman dines with a lady, to offer her polite conversation. This may not be the custom among fraki, but it is invariable among People.”
“Yes, Grandmother. Thank you. Grandmother.”
“Let’s start again. It’s a nice party, yes. We try to make everyone feel equal, while recognizing the merits of each. It is gratifying to have a chance — at last — to join with our Family in noting a virtue in you . . . one commendable if not exceptional. Congratulations. Now it’s your turn.”
Thorby slowly turned purple.