He continued eating mechanically, staring at his plate and trying to pin down what could bother him so much.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Farris?" Miss Wyat asked.

Klairon looked up dazed. Her voice penetrated his abstraction like cold silver bells through a fog.

"I asked if you were with the Pebble Beach on Folteen?" She met his eyes with a smile which at another time, Klairon would have taken as inviting. She was too much a lady to do more.

For a long moment Klairon stared at her not comprehending the question. Then he rose stiffly. "Excuse me, please, I'm ... just not myself this run." He bowed formally and left without waiting permission.

In his quarters, he changed to his regular uniform. For just an instant, he contemplated his special pharmacy supplies, then shook his head disgustedly. One doesn't go to the demanding task of a hop-skip-jump under the influence of drugs. And for him to use any drugs at all required the Captain's express consent.

He continued up to the bridge feeling better with every step. Perhaps action would take his mind off himself.

Minkin was there, dutifully monitoring all three stations, Communications, Piloting, and Astrogation. The slice of the bridge which was the Astrogator's domain was walled off from accidental or merely inquisitive interference of Gen hands by a sparkling force field activated by a selyn-locked switch. The delicate instrumentation could be rendered useless by the selyn potential field of even a Donor Gen.

Klairon deactivated the force barrier, leaving only the glowing red strip in the deck plates to indicate the line beyond which Gens must not approach. Then he disengaged the automatic alarm system which monitored his instruments while he was away and began his pre-hop routine.

"You're a bit early, aren't you?" Minkin asked when it became obvious that Klairon didn't intend to speak.

Klairon looked up from the cross-hairs of his viewscreen as if Minkin's presence hadn't registered before this. "Ah, yes, I wanted to check the instruments again before hop."

"What's the matter? Don't appreciate a real lady when you meet one?"

"Minni," Klairon faced him gravely, suppressing an urge to snap a tart reply, "I'm incapable of appreciating any form of femininity at the moment."

All the lightness evaporated from the Com officer's demeanor like hydrogen from an ion drive tube. "I'm sorry, Klairon. I didn't know." To Minkin, such a predicament would be a class AA disaster.

The other's sudden seriousness made Klairon laugh. "Forget it. You're not expected to know everything."

"But I do know that you don't usually baby those instruments so much. They haven't been treated so well since that spit-and-polish 'A-O-K'," Minkin imitated the singsong "Aye" of the military, "ASN cast-off we had before you. Is this a permanent reform or just for the duration?"

"Just for the duration. If I ever make a mistake, it'll be during such a time."

"You won't mess us up." Minkin's relief was plain to read. The Pebble Beach was a clean and efficient ship, but run definitely on the casual side. That was one of the reasons Klairon was so well-liked. Few Simes were casual with Gens, and even fewer multi-talented QN-1s found their way into the merchant service where everyone pitched in on two or three jobs to reduce overhead. Not every Astrogator would or could service all selyn-powered systems. The crew of the Pebble Beach considered themselves very lucky.

Klairon ran through the entire pre-hop twice and then began shooting Procyon just for practice. The pressure was starting to build again and he had to will his hands to stop shaking when he caught himself about to make an error of two degrees of arc.

"Klairon," Welch stepped off the lift and approached the red line, "I'm going to forgive your behavior this time..."

Straightening as if prodded with a shock-rod, Klairon shouted, "FORGIVE MY ...!" Then he caught himself and his expression went by stages from indignant rage to an artificial calm. He gripped the edge of his bench behind his back. "I'm sorry, sir. I seem to be under a greater strain than I can account for. We'll be ready to hop in nine minutes, thirty seconds.

Welch's frown deepened as he clasped his hands behind his back and balanced on his toes. He said, "Very well, carry on," and took the pilot's station to check with Engineering.

Minkin sat down in his chair, but he had nothing to do as they were well out of range of settled planets and there were no other ships near.

Slowly, all the amber and red lights around the bulkheads flickered and pulsated to green.

Welch said, "Prepared for hop, Mister Farris."

Klairon licked his lips with a suddenly dry tongue. "Hop minus ten seconds ..." He was annoyed that his voice quavered like an adolescent's. He hadn't been able to get a yodel like that in ten years. "Nine ..." and he hadn't sweated a hop like this, ever. "Eight ..." not even his first big jump. "Seven ..." what in the universe had gotten into him, anyway? "Six ..." it was only a hop, was he trying to make that premonition self-fulfilling? "Five ..." what number had he just called? "Four ..." couldn't concentrate. "Three ..." hold on a couple of seconds. "Two ..." it'll all be over. "One ..." now we go. "Commit!"

He bent to his plotting scope and locked the line into the computer. They had to aim for where their destination would be when they got there, not where it appeared to be now. An elementary problem in space-time coordinates if you use psycho-spatial orientation with instrumental aids, and then check it empirically with a hop-skip.

It was a mechanical routine, something the hands did while the brain thought other thoughts. Somehow the hour passed and he had the skip set up. The green lights were all around him, spinning... no ... he was turning to face the Captain whose voice was so far away. "Prepared for skip, Mister Farris."

"Skip minus ten seconds," he heard a voice say. "Nine..." it was his own. "Eight ..." it wasn't important. "Seven ..." what was important? "Six ..."... "Five ..." and it washed over him like a wave wiping out a surf-boarder.

Shaking, almost sobbing, half in fear and half in relief, Klairon buried his face in his hands. "It is. IT'S IN THIS SHIP!"

The sound of his own voice screaming, tinged with madness, shocked him back to reality. Welch and Minkin were staring at him in open-mouthed horror, and the banks of green lights pulsated menacingly behind them. He turned and half fell down the spiral stairs, boots clattering wildly in his haste.

"Secure the helm, Mister Minkin!" Welch ordered over his shoulder as he raced after Klairon. But Klairon had at least a five second lead, which was enough considering that his quarters were on the next level. Welch got there just in time to see the door close.

As he stood on the landing staring at the closed door, his frown deepened to a scowl. For just a moment, he wondered if he'd done the wrong thing in getting Klairon for this run. Then he banished the thought. It was a calculated risk; there had been no other alternative.

With a deep sigh, he activated the door signal. There was no answer. One of the unwritten laws of space was that a Sime who didn't answer his door signal was not to be disturbed. Welch waited, signalled again and waited some more. Finally, he decided this was a special case and tried the door. He didn't expect it to open, but Klairon had been in such a hurry he might not have thought to lock it, as one seldom needs locks in space.

It did open.

Klairon was pacing the room, back turned at the moment the door opened. He whirled like a caged lion and roared, "HOW DARE YOU! ... GET OUT OF HERE ... OUT!"

Welch stood his ground. "Klairon, what's got into you? Calm down, man. I only want to talk to you. I want to help if I can," advancing slowly into the room, he closed the door. "Tell me what's wrong. What happened?"