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. So when a flap comes -- and one will; I feel it in my bones -- you can't assume that good old Jeri, the man with the micrometer fingers, has the situation under control. You might have to save the firm. You."
Thorby had a queasy vision of waiting men and bombs in the missile room below -- waiting for him to solve precisely an impossible problem of life and death, of warped space and shifting vectors and complex geometry. "You're kidding," he said feebly. "You wouldn't leave me in control. Why, the Captain would skin you alive."
"Ah, that's where you're wrong. There always comes a day when a trainee makes his first real run. After that, he's a controlman . . . or an angel. But we don't let you worry at the time. Oh no! we just keep you worried all the time. Now here's the game. Any time I say, 'Now!' you guess who has control. You guess right, I owe you one dessert; you guess wrong, you owe me one. Now!"
Thorby thought quickly. "I guess I've got it."
"Wrong." Jeri lifted the killjoy. "You owe me one dessert -- and it's berry tart tonight; my mouth is watering. But faster; you're supposed to make quick decisions. Now!"
"You've still got it!"
"So I have. Even. Now!"
"You!"
"Nope. See? And I eat your tart -- I ought to quit while I'm ahead. Love that juice! Now!"
When Mata relieved them, Jeri owned Thorby's desserts for the next four days. "We start again with that score," Jeri said, "except that I'm going to collect that berry tart
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