So he reported to the Captain that they had a mathematical genius aboard.
This was not true. But it got Thorby reassigned to the starboard fire-control computer.
The greatest hazard to trading ships is in the first and last legs of each jump, when a ship is below speed-of-light. It is theoretically possible to detect and intercept a ship going many times speed-of-light, when it is irrational to the four-dimensional space of the senses; in practice it is about as easy as hitting a particular raindrop with a bow and arrow during a storm at midnight. But it is feasible to hunt down a ship moving below speed-of-light if the attacker is fast and the victim is a big lumbering freighter.
The Sisu had acceleration of one hundred standard gravities and used it all to cut down the hazard time. But a ship which speeds up by a kilometer per second each second will take three and one half standard days to reach speed-of-light.
Half a week is a long, nervous time to wait. Doubling acceleration would have cut danger time by half and made the Sisu as agile as a raider—but it would have meant a hydrogen-fusion chamber eight times as big with parallel increase in radiation shielding, auxiliary equipment, and paramagnetic capsule to contain the hydrogen reaction; the added mass would eliminate cargo capacity. Traders are working people; even if there were no parasites preying on them they could not afford to burn their profits in the inexorable workings of an exponential law of multi-dimensional physics. So the Sisu had the best legs she could afford—but not long enough to outrun a ship unburdened by cargo.
Nor could Sisu maneuver easily. She had to go precisely in the right direction when she entered the trackless night of n-space, else when she came out she would be too far from market; such a mistake could turn the ledger from black to red. Still more hampering, her skipper had to be prepared to cut power entirely, or risk having his in-ship artificial gravity field destroyed—and thereby make strawberry jam of the Family as soft bodies were suddenly exposed to one hundred gravities.
This is why a captain gets stomach ulcers; it isn't dickering for cargoes, figuring discounts and commissions, and trying to guess what goods will show the best return. It's not long jumps through the black—that is when he can relax and dandle babies. It is starting and ending a jump that kills him off, the long aching hours when he may have to make a split-second decision involving the lives—or freedom—of his family.
If raiders wished to destroy merchant ships, Sisu and her sisters would not stand a chance. But the raider wants loot and slaves; it gains him nothing simply to blast a ship.
Merchantmen are limited by no qualms; an attacking ship's destruction is the ideal outcome. Atomic target-seekers are dreadfully expensive, and using them up is rough on profit-and-loss—but there is no holding back if the computer says the target can be reached—whereas a raider will use destruction weapons only to save himself. His tactic is to blind the trader, burn out her instruments so that he can get close enough to paralyze everyone aboard—or, failing that, kill without destroying ship and cargo.
The trader runs if she can, fights if she must. But when she fights, she fights to kill.
Whenever Sisu was below speed-of-light, she listened with artificial senses to every disturbance in multi-space, the whisper of n-space communication or the "white" roar of a ship boosting at many gravities. Data poured into the ships' astrogational analog of space and the questions were: Where is this other ship? What is its course? speed? acceleration? Can it catch us before we reach n-space?
If the answers were threatening, digested data channeled into port and starboard fire-control computers and Sisu braced herself to fight. Ordnancemen armed A-bomb target seekers, caressed their sleek sides and muttered charms; the Chief Engineer unlocked the suicide switch which could let the power plant become a hydrogen bomb of monstrous size and prayed that, in final extremity, he would have the courage to deliver his people into the shelter of death; the Captain sounded the clangor calling the ship from watch-and-watch to General Quarters. Cooks switched off fires; auxiliary engineers closed down air circulation; farmers said good-by to their green growing things and hurried to fighting stations; mothers with babies mustered, then strapped down and held those babies tightly.
Then the waiting started.
But not for Thorby—not for those assigned to fire-control computers. Sweating into their straps, for the next minutes or hours the life of Sisu is in their hands. The firecontrol computer machines, chewing with millisecond meditation data from the analog, decide whether or not torpedoes can reach target, then offer four answers: ballistic "possible" or "impossible" for projected condition, yes or no for condition changed by one ship, or the other, or both, through cutting power. These answers automatic circuits could handle alone, but machines do not think. Half of each computer is designed to allow the operator to ask what the situation might be in the far future of five minutes or so from now if variables change . . . and whether the target might be reached under such changes.
Any variable can be shaded by human judgment; an intuitive projection by a human operator can save his ship—or lose it. A paralysis beam travels at speed-of-light; torpedoes never have time to get up to more than a few hundred kilometers per second—yet it is possible for raider to come within beaming range, have his pencil of paralyzing radiation on its way, and the trader to launch a target-seeker before the beam strikes . . . and still be saved when the outlaw flames into atomic mist a little later.
But if the operator is too eager by a few seconds, or overly cautious by the same, he can lose his ship. Too eager, the missile will fail to reach target; too cautious, it will never be launched.
Seasoned oldsters are not good at these jobs. The perfect firecontrolman is an adolescent, or young man or woman, fast in thought and action, confident, with intuitive grasp of mathematical relations beyond rote and rule, and not afraid of death he cannot yet imagine.
The traders must be always alert for such youngsters; Thorby seemed to have the feel for mathematics; he might have the other talents for a job something like chess played under terrific pressure and a fast game of spat ball. His mentor was Jeri Kingsolver, his nephew and roommate. Jeri was junior in family rank but appeared to be older; he called Thorby "Uncle" outside the computer room; on the job Thorby called him "Starboard Senior Firecontrolman" and added "Sir."
During long weeks of the dive through dark toward Losian, Jeri drilled Thorby. Thorby was supposed to be training for hydroponics and Jeri was the Supercargo's Senior Clerk, but the ship had plenty of farmers and the Supercargo's office was never very busy in space; Captain Krausa directed Jeri to keep Thorby hard at it in the computer room.
Since the ship remained at battle stations for half a week while boosting to speed-of-light, each fighting station had two persons assigned watch-and-watch. Jeri's junior controlman was his younger sister Mata. The computer had twin consoles, either of which could command by means of a selector switch. At General Quarters they sat side by side, with Jeri controlling and Mata ready to take over.
After a stiff course in what the machine could do Jeri put Thorby at one console, Mata at the other and fed them problems from the ship's control room. Each console recorded; it was possible to see what decisions each operator had made and how these compared with those made in battle, for the data were from records, real or threatened battles in the past.
Shortly Thorby became extremely irked; Mata was enormously better at it than he was.
So he tried harder and got worse. While he sweated, trying to outguess a slave raider which had once been on Sisu's screens, he was painfully aware of a slender, dark, rather pretty girl beside him, her swift fingers making tiny adjustments among keys and knobs, changing a bias or modifying a vector, herself relaxed and unhurried. It was humiliating afterwards to find that his pacesetter had "saved the ship" while he had failed.
Worse still, he was aware of her as a girl and did not know it—all he knew was that she made him uneasy. After one run Jeri called from ship's control, "
End of drill. Stand by." He appeared shortly and examined their tapes, reading marks on sensitized paper as another might read print. He pursed his lips over Thorby's record. "Trainee, you fired three times . . . and not a one of your beasts got within fifty thousand kilometers of the enemy. We don't mind expense—it's merely Grandmother's blood. But the object is to blast him, not scare him into a fit. You have to wait until you can hit."
"I did my best!"
"Not good enough. Let's see yours, Sis."
The nickname irritated Thorby still more. Brother and sister were fond of each other and did not bother with titles. So Thorby had tried using their names . . . and had been snubbed; he was "Trainee," they were "Senior Controlman" and "Junior Controlman." There was nothing he could do; at drill he was junior. For a week, Thorby addressed Jeri as "Foster Ortho-Nephew" outside of drills and Jeri had carefully addressed him by family title. Then Thorby decided it was silly and went back to calling him Jeri. But Jeri continued to call him "Trainee" during drill, and so did Mata.
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 up 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.
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 at 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?"
"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."
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