But you didn't look at them, because the stars were points on a tri-di screen, and you were back in school working a problem in navigation and hoping you didn't get a wrong answer. You loved it--or you went crazy. Larry loved it. Or maybe it wasn't love. It was like a woman. It was in his blood. He stopped punching the keys of the calculator and used both hands to press the studs controlling the gyro motors, watching the needles of gyro meters until they pointed to the right numbers. He took several deep breaths, squirming back in his seat against the form-fitting cushion of foam rubber. He made sure his elbows rested securely in their little niches so that his arms wouldn't pull out of their sockets. Then he touched the controls, feeling the surge of power as his ship, an SP47, responded, hearing the subsonic vibration around him as atoms broke into little bits in the fission chambers of the rockets and spewed out of them into space. The G needle moved past three, past four, past five. It moved into the part of the dial where the glossy white changed to pink. It crept slowly toward the darker pink, toward the deep red. _I don't WANT an ice cream cone._ It was his sister's voice, real as audible sound. He had been six years old when she had said that, back in Springfield. The voices came. The images came. Vivid and unimaginative. True reproductions. That's what acceleration did to the brain. It squeezed the juice out of brain cells into nerve networks. It could get you-- Larry jerked back to an awareness of what he was doing. Sweating, he coaxed the G needle back down a little. Not much. It had been close. Why had he done it? Fear. He could let himself realize that, now that he was alone. Fear of a robot that had stolen a ship and gone out into space, when robots only obeyed orders. It was an instinctive thing, bred in all men for generations. _You ought to be whipped!_ That was dad. Good old dad. Larry had been about nine then. He had run away--hitchhiked four hundred miles to watch a spaceship leave the ground and climb up out of sight. _Pip-pip, pip-pip, pip-pip._ Larry lifted his fingers from the controls gradually in response to the signal from the board. The G needle dropped back into the white. The voices were gone, the images, the thoughts. He grinned on one side of his face. This was the end of the radar line. Now his work would begin. Around his ship charged ions were streaming past. Some of them would have come from the junk ship. The _tracker_, a sensitive electronic instrument projecting from the shell, would read them--their concentration, velocity, and direction. From that he could project the position and trajectory of the junk ship. Or maybe he could see it already. He flicked on the video eyes of the ship and waited for the screen to light up. There _was_ a ship ahead.