orders to us, just like
it says in the book at the academy. After which, happily, he went to his
cabin, and let us go back to our work.

* * * * *

That was the introduction of Commander Frendon to the crew. He made a
distinct impression. Entirely bad. Veteran small-ship personnel in this
war have shown themselves to be extremely clannish, at best, deriving
their principal sense of security not from the strength of the fleet
which they never see and rarely contact, but from their familiarity with
and confidence in each other's capabilities. Now these men had a new CO
who was not only a stranger, but one who they felt sure was a member of
the feared and mistrusted Psi Corps, a sickman, a man whose battle
tactics were reputedly nothing but a bunch of blind, wild guesses.
Previously, I had been the unwanted and suspected stranger, so I knew
how Frendon would feel.

The situation developed rapidly, probably because we had only six days
before our scheduled departure into the combat zone. That afternoon,
Korsakov and Harding were supposed to be checking the wiring of
fire-control circuits. Base mechanics had installed the gear and tested
it, but it is standard operating procedure for the ship's crew to do
their own checking afterwards, the quality of the work by electronics
mechanics on planetary assignment being what it is these days.

I found them sitting on the deck, engaged in a desultory, low-voiced
conversation. They had stripped the conduit ducts of plating, but there
was no sign that they had done anything further.

"All right, you guys," I said. "Get up and finish that check. We may
have to use those missiles one day soon, and I'd like to be sure they go
where they are sent."

Korsakov looked up at me, his broad, thick mouth spread in an unpleasant
toothy grin and his bushy eyebrows raised. "What difference will it
make, my friend?"

"None," supplied Harding. Then he added, "As a matter of fact, it might
even be better to leave them scrambled. If we strike an alien, our new
captain is going to close his eyes and punch buttons at random,
probably. Why shouldn't we leave the fire controls at random, too?"

"They might," Korsakov said, still grinning inanely, "even cancel out
his error."

"Cut it out," I said. "You know better than that."

"Maybe you do, Maise." Harding replied, "but we don't."

My face must have telegraphed my mood, because he lurched to his feet
and quickl