Bleck's color faded with the commander's last words. "Why the hell all the realism, Hiller? Your rank puffing you up?" Keeping his eyes on Bleck, the commander went on, "One minute to test drill. Only this isn't a test drill. Repeat, this is _not_ a test drill. It's the real thing. We are now into the Belt. Repeat, this is the real thing." Bleck clawed over the bulkheads of master control's cubicle searching tactilely for the deceleration straps, his eyes riveted blankly on Hiller. "I take complete responsibility for this deception," Hiller spoke to the crew, "and I can justify it. Yes, Hollender, Eastburn, and Merrick were in on it. They also agree with me that our chances of getting through are good as long as everyone does his job. You should be glad I saved you worrying. "We're inside the Belt now and the way to get out alive is to stay alert and follow the drill plan. I'll keep you informed from master control how we're doing without pulling punches. Let's have nothing on the intercom unless it's strictly business." * * * * * Bleck had found the straps, but he had not fastened any. Instead he crouched, burrowing his head into one of the pads. He was curling up in a knot and sobbing. "I figured you'd break," Hiller mumbled more to himself than to the quasi-comatic nuclear engineer. Breaking, this was the best place for him. He wouldn't exactly boost the others' morale were he around them. Nor with Hiller's dirty pool, could Bleck get the chance now to lower morale enough to push over a mutiny. "Art, let's gyro her to the transit angle," he broadcast. "I'll cross-check on my indicator up here." A faint vibration seeped through his feet as the electric motors revved. Watching the unmoving star-scape through the front ports, he waited for the slow shifting of the field. The effect was as if the heavens had begun an expansive revolution about the ship, the stars drifting lazily from their familiar positions in the ports. The commander watched the positional needle creep away from the arbitrary course zero. It swept beyond 10 and slowed at 15, halting a little beyond 16. "I show 16.2," Hiller communicated. "Check," Art answered on the intercom. There it was, physically as much as any commander could do under the circumstances. The rest was largely luck--and, of course, how fast he acted to offset any bad luck. Hiller took the time to explain to the crew the tactics planned in traversing the Belt. "You guys are gamblers or you wouldn't have volunteered for this commute," he concluded. "The only difference with the hand you're holding now is that somebody else had to figure the odds for you. They're not bad odds either. If you grouse and jump for the straps every time a plum taps the hull, they're 50-50. Keep your heads and follow my instructions and the odds go in our favor.