chances against what we're likely to encounter at the Center are laughably low."
"They're no guarantee of survival," Torwald admitted. "But, they may give us an edge. Wait till you see them in action." A voice from the intercom interrupted the conversation.
"Kelly, coffee to the bridge." Kelly took a quick leave of the others in the supply room, dashed across the companionway into the galley, drew a pitcher of coffee from the dispenser, then ran forward to the bridge up the companionway between Communications and Navigation. As he entered, he found the skipper in her customary chair, Bert in the mate's chair next to her, and K'Stin standing between them. One of the Viver's eyes darted around to a rear aperture to see who was behind him, and his leg spurs unsheathed about an inch in anticipation of defense. It was an unnerving habit that Kelly had noticed before.
"Just me, K'Stin. Here's the coffee, Skipper. How do the instruments read?"
"Nothing that makes any sense. I've just been familiarizing K'Stin with the controls."
"Yes. Since you will all probably be killed, B'Shant and I must know how to pilot this vessel home."
Kelly leaned over the skipper's shoulder and looked at the panel. By now he had had some basic instruction in the ship's controls, but he had never seen the dials and screens behaving like this. Two screens were blank, but three others glowed nonsensically with a multitude of colors.
"Whatever kind of hyperspace we're in," the skipper continued, "it's not the one that the Whoopee Drive takes us into. Instruments don't act like this during a standard jump. Sphere's been soaking up the computer's memory banks for the last couple of hours. Pretty soon it's going to know all of human history and most of human knowledge." She fiddled and fumed for a while, then lit up one of her cigars.
"Kelly," she said, finally, "when you go back, tell Torwald to start setting up some kind of survival training system. We've got lots of time on our hands and little to do. You younger hands haven't had training like that and the rest of us are rusty. It'll give us something to do, and maybe leave us a little better prepared for what's ahead."
From somewhere, Torwald unearthed a stack of Navy manuals, and he, Ham and Bert put together classes in escape and evasion, camouflage, ballistics, field medical procedure, basic scavenger mechanics, and dozens of other subjects. The course served to keep them mentally active and, as Torwald explained, they cultivated a receptive frame of mind—something always valuable when one hasn't the first idea of what will happen next. The extra work also helped keep the crew from getting on each other's nerves. At best the Space Angel's complement was used to a freighter's short jumps; the crew had not been chosen to function smoothly through long periods of tedium, as had the crews of big explorer ships.
For weapons training, Torwald rigged dummy pistols and beam rifles from scrap metal and plastic, with functioning sights and triggers that activated harmless light beams. To keep the crew in shape while confined to the ship's cramped area, he had the younger crew members carry heavy packs the length of the ship at a dead run along the companionways dozens of times daily. The Vivers regarded these exercises with tolerant amusement.
One day, when Torwald was giving Kelly unarmed —and unrequested—combat instruction, Sphere at last spoke up.
We are now in real space.
Kelly beat Torwald through the door by two paces and they both dashed for Finn's navigation bubble, closely followed by the rest of the crew. Beneath the clear blister, they stood speechless, seeing the stars as men had never seen them before; even the Vivers seemed awed.
Single stars could be seen, double stars, triples, stars in clusters of hundreds and of thousands. Stars of every color were visible: red giants glowed big as the moon on a clear summer night, pinpoint blue-white dwarfs, so bright it was painful to look at
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