A door closed below. The little man’s voice could be heard, swearing sulfurously. He got something from somewhere and the door clanged behind him again, cutting off his voice once more.

Link resumed his survey. There was the control board, reasonably easy to understand. There was the computer, simple enough for him to operate. There were reference books. A Galactic Directory for this sector. Alditch’s Practical Astrogator. A luridly bound volume of Space-Commerce Regulations. The Directory was brand new. The others were old and tattered volumes.

Link went carefully over the ship’s log, which contained every course steered, time elapsed, and therefore distance run in parsecs and fractions of them. He could take the Glamorgan back to the last three ports she’d visited by reversing the recorded maneuvers. But that didn’t seem enterprising.

He skimmed through the Astrogator. He’d be somewhere not too many millions of miles from the sun of the planet Trent. He’d take a look at the Trent listing in the Directory, copy out its coordinates and proper motion, check the galactic poles and zero galactic longitude by observation out the ports, and then get at the really tricky stuff when he learned the ship’s destination.

He threw on the heater switch so he could see out the ports and observe the sun which shone on Trent. Instantly an infuriated bellow came up from below.

“Turn off the heat!” raged Thistlethwaite from below. “Turn it off!”

“But the ports are frosted,” Link called back. “I need to see out! We need the heaters!”

“I was sittin’ on one! Turn ’em off!”

A door clanged below. Link shrugged. If Thistlethwaite had to sit on a heater, the heater shouldn’t be on. Delay was indicated.