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check the relative positions of the constellations. Grimes refrained from pointing out the sun that he wanted to head for, a second magnitude luminary in the constellation of The Bunny, as this grouping of stars had been dubbed by the first settlers on Lindisfarne. There was, if one had a strong imagination, a suggestion of rabbit's ears and woman's breasts, thought Grimes while his navigator fumbled and bumbled. If this were a real bunny, he thought sardonically, young Tangye'd be on target a damn sight sooner! And how long would it be before Brandt, the obnoxious fool, started to whine about being kept too long in a condition of free fall? Meanwhile, other people besides the navigator were exhibiting shortcomings.

    "Number One," Grimes said mildly, "you didn't make the usual announcement on the intercom. Stand by for free fall, setting trajectory and all the rest of it."

    "You never told me to, sir."

    "It's part of your job to look after these details," snapped Grimes.

    "Commander Tallis didn't want announcements made every five minutes. Sir."

    "Neither do I. But I want those announcements made that are required by Survey Service regulations."

    Then Brandt came through on the intercom. "Doctor Brandt here. What is going on up there?"

    "Stand by for setting trajectory," said Brabham sulkily into his microphone.

    "On target, sir," announced Tangye. "I mean, I've found the target."

    "Then get on to it."

    The directional gyroscopes rumbled into motion. Slowly the ship turned about her axes, centrifugal forces giving an off-center surrogate of gravity. Grimes, looking up into the cartwheel sight set into the dome, saw The Bunny swim slowly into view.

    The gyroscopes stopped.

    "On target, sir."

    "Mphm. Have you allowed for galactic drift, Mr. Tangye?"

    "Eh. . . no, sir."

    "Then please do so."

    There was more delay while Tangye fumbled through the ephemeris, fed data into the control room computer. All this should have been done before liftoff, thought Grimes disgustedly. Damn it all, this puppy couldn't navigate a plastic duck across a bathtub! He watched the nervous young man, glowering.

    "Allowance! applied, sir." The gyroscopes restarted as the navigator spoke.

    "Being applied, you mean. And are you sure that you're putting it on the right way? All right, all right. Leave it. I worked it out roughly before we pushed off."

    "On trajectory, sir."

    "Thank you." Grimes himself announced over the PA system that the Mannschenn Drive was about to be restarted and that acceleration would be resumed immediately thereafter.

    He pushed the button to start the interstellar drive. He could imagine those shining rotors starting to turn, spinning faster and faster, spinning, processing at right angles to all the dimensions of normal space, tumbling through the dark infinities, dragging the ship and all aboard her with them as the temporal precession field built up.

    There was the disorientation in space and time to which no spaceman ever becomes inured. There was the uncanny sensation of déjà vu. There was, as far as Grimes was concerned, an unusually strong premonition of impending doom. It persisted after everything had returned to normal—to normal, that is, as long as one didn't look out through the viewports at the contorted nebulosities that glimmered eerily where the familiar stars had been. The ship, her restarted inertial drive noisily clattering, the thin, high whine of the Mannschenn Drive pervading every cubic millimeter of her, was speeding through the warped continuum toward her destination.

    "Thank you, gentlemen," said Grimes heavily. (Thank you for what?) "Normal Deep Space watches and routine, Number One."

    "Normal Deep Space watches and routine, sir," replied Brabham.

    Grimes unbuckled himself from his chair, got up and went down to his quarters. He poured himself a stiff brandy. Even if he hadn't earned it, he felt that he needed it.

Chapter 7

    Nonetheless, Grimes was much happier now that