It annoyed Link. So when he determined that he should break out of overdrive to verify his position—a dubious business considering the limits of his knowledge—he did not notify Thistlethwaite. He simply broke out of overdrive.

There should have been merely an instant of intolerable vertigo and of intense nausea, and then the sensation of a spiral fall toward infinity, but nothing more. Those sensations occurred. But as they began there was also a wild, rasping roar in the engine room. Lights dimmed. Thistlethwaite howled with fury and flung himself down into an inferno of blue arcs and stinking scorched insulation. In that incredible nightmare-like atmosphere he hit something with a stick. He pulled violently on a rope. He spun a wheel rapidly. And the arcs died. The ship’s ancient air system began to struggle with the smoke and smells.

It took him two days to make repairs, during which he did not address one syllable to Link. But Link was busy anyhow. He was taking observations and checking the process with the Practical Astrogator as he went along. Then he used the computer to make his observations mean something. He faithfully wrote all these exercises in the ship’s log. It helped to pass the time. But when determination of the ship’s position by three different methods gave the same result, he arrived at the astonishing conclusion that the Glamorgan was actually on course.

He was composing a tribute to himself for the feat when Thistlethwaite came bristling into the control room.

“I fixed what you messed up,” he said bitterly. “We can go on now. But next time you do something, don’t do it till you ask me, and I’ll fix it so you can. You could’ve wrecked us.”

Link opened his mouth to ask what could be a more complete wreck than the Glamorgan right now, but he refrained. He arranged for Thistlethwaite to go down into the engine room. He shouted down the stairways. Thistlethwaite bellowed a reply. Link checked the ship’s heading again, glanced at the ship’s chronometer, and threw the overdrive on.