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Hitting a ship in space at ultralight velocities was something else again. Young Kraybo could play baseball blindfolded, but he wasn’t yet capable of making the master guesses that would protect a merchantship like the Naipor.

But what was the matter with him? He had, of course, a fire-control computer to help him swing and aim his guns, but he didn’t seem to be able to depend on his guesswork. He had more than once fired at a spot where the computer said the ship would be instead of firing at the spot where it actually arrived a fraction of a second later.

There were only two things that could be troubling him. Either he was doing exactly as he said–ignoring his guesses and following the computer–or else he was inherently incapable of controlling his guesswork and was hoping that the computer would do the work for him.

If the first were true, then Kraybo was a fool; if the second, then he was a liar, and was no more capable of handling the fire control of the Naipor than the captain was.

The Guesser hated to have Kraybo punished, really, but that was the only way to make a youngster keep his mind on his business.

After all, thought The Guesser, that’s the way I learned; Kraybo can learn the same way. A little nerve-burning never hurt anyone.

But that last thought was more to bolster himself than it was to justify his own actions toward Kraybo. The lieutenant was at the door of the captain’s office, with The Guesser right behind him.

* * * * *

The door dilated to receive the three–the lieutenant, The Guesser, and the sergeant-at-arms–and they marched across the room to the captain’s desk.

The captain didn’t even bother to look up until High Lieutenant Blyke saluted and said: “The Guesser, sir.”

And the captain gave the lieutenant a quick nod and then looked coldly at The Guesser. “The ship has been badly damaged. Since there are no repair docks here on Viornis, we will have to unload our cargo and then go–empty–all the way to D’Graski’s Planet for repairs. All during that time, we will be more vulnerable than ever to Misfit raids.”

His ice-chill voice stopped, and he simply looked at The Guesser with glacier-blue, unblinking eyes for ten long seconds.

The Guesser said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Nothing that would do him any good.

The Guesser disliked Grand Captain Reed–and more, feared him. Reed had been captain of the Naipor for only three years, having replaced the old captain on his retirement. He was a strict disciplinarian, and had a tendency to punish heavily for very minor infractions of the rules. Not, of course, that he didn’t have every right to do so; he was, after all, the captain.

But the old captain hadn’t given The Guesser a nerve-burning in all the years since he had accepted The Guesser as The Guesser. And Captain Reed–

The captain’s cold voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Well? What was it? If it was a mechano-electronic misfunction of the computer, say so; we’ll speak to the engineer.”

The Guesser knew that the captain was giving him what looked like an out–but The Guesser also knew it was a test, a trap.

The Guesser bowed his head very low and saluted. “No, great sir; the fault was mine.”

Grand Captain Reed nodded his head in satisfaction. “Very well. Intensity Five, two minutes. Dismissed.”

The Guesser bowed his head and saluted, then he turned and walked out the door. The sergeant-at-arms didn’t need to follow him; he had been let off very lightly.

He marched off toward the Disciplinary Room with his head at the proper angle–ready to lift it if he met a lesser crewman, ready to lower it if he met an executive officer.

He could already feel the terrible pain of the nerve-burner coursing through his body–a jolt every ten seconds for two minutes, like a whip lashing all over his body at once. His only satisfaction was the knowledge that he had sentenced Kraybo to ten minutes of the same thing.