The man who came aboard, from the warship hanging somewhere out there among the stars, was the very avatar of the Fleet in that second decade of the ninth century. Incarnate in space-blue and silver stars, with smoothly smiling face, shaven with a more than military meticulousness, that radiated power and the confidence of power. Power flanked and overshadowed his medium-tall figure, in the shape of two armed robot marines. The eyes of the Panclast masked their smoldering lights as they met those beneath the winged officer's cap; but the latter, aristocratically bored, noticed little or nothing. "You appear to have had an accident, Captain Yaher," said the lieutenant with unblinking calm. "We noticed from a distance that your undershell was badly scored as if by collision with some solid body. Unfortunately ... and remarkably. Is any of your equipment out of order?" Mury shrugged without effort, jerked a gloved thumb at the dangling wire. The lieutenant raised narrow eyebrows. "Damaged before you lifted?" "We were inspected thoroughly on the runway. It must have happened during initial acceleration." The other frowned, fine vertical lines creasing his smooth forehead. "Odd." Mury smiled a thin, crooked smile. "You military men don't know what can happen aboard a run-down towship. Anything, literally. The merchant fleet isn't at its best since the embargo." "I know," said the officer curtly. "Even in the Fleet--" He stopped short, and his eyes, shifting, found a new subject ready-made in the slumped figure of Arliess. "Was this man seriously injured, Captain?" "Just stunned, I think. He's an astrogator, and astrogators are tough." * * * * * The officer laughed perfunctorily. He moved forward and made a brief, distasteful examination of Arliess' tousled head, then stepped back, rubbing his fingers together. "There's no fracture. But if he's concussed, he's in no shape to stand heavy acceleration." Mury said smoothly, "We're not going to be using any. We're up to speed and our orders are to handle that power cylinder like a soap bubble." The young lieutenant stroked his smooth chin, standing with feet braced against the tilt of the floor beneath which the rockets rumbled steadily, holding him erect as if under Earth gravity. The two men at the control board watched him with stares equally unblinkingly but far different in sentiment. Mury's was inscrutable; it might have veiled anything. Ryd's was all sick fear and certainty that something would betray them before the nerve-racking scene was played out. "I think," said the blue-clad officer, "that if it won't incommode you too much to hold this acceleration a bit longer--" "Not at all," said Mury, and Ryd silently but no less hysterically cursed his facile confidence. "... I'll cross over again and send a ship's doctor to attend to your astrogator. A shot in the arm should bring him around."