once." His homely face broke
into a tired grin.

I laughed with him, but Harding did not like the joke. "It isn't funny,"
he growled. "If they can't find a decent captain to send us, why can't
they move up one of us that has at least served with a good commander in
combat, and maybe learned some of his tricks from him. Not that I would
want the job. But it would be better than Frendon. Anything would."

I raised my eyebrows at him skeptically. He got the idea and swore. "You
know I didn't mean that I want the job, so don't go goggling your
righteous eyes at me, Maise. I know my limitations, but I also know a
good captain when I see one. And what do they send us? A kid who not
only is a nut, but he's already so scared he--"

"Once in three times," Korsakov said loudly. He was apparently getting
pretty drunk. "Their computing machines would need an aspirin to handle
that situation. We go out three times but we only come back once." He
turned and peered intently at me, his heavy bushy eyebrows drawn
severely down and wiggling. "Puzzle: complete the figure without
retracing any lines or lifting the pencil from the paper. How do we
manage to go out there the third time when we haven't yet come back from
the second mission, huh?"

"Shut up, Kors," Spender said without emotion. "You're getting a
fixation."

"I'm not the astrogator," Korsakov muttered, laying his head down on the
table. "If you want a fix on our position, you will have to call on Mr.
Harding."

My bourbon was probably good, but I couldn't taste it. There was too
much else to think about. I said, "Well, what are you going to do if he
really is a Psi Corps man?"

"That," Harding said thoughtfully, "is the question."

"Maise, you're the Exec," Spender commented. "It's up to you to work us
a replacement."

"Didn't you see his orders?" I snapped. "They're dated from Central
Command Authority itself. Even if I did know somebody here in Mars
Command--which I don't--it wouldn't do any good."

"He's right," Harding grumbled. "Everybody knows that once they've
assigned a sickman, the only people who can get him reassigned are the
sickmen themselves. Maise couldn't do anything about it unless he was a
member of the Corps himself. But that settles it, though--his orders
being from Central, I mean. Nobody but a sickman would have his orders
cut at Central for a puny little ship like ours. It proves what we
thought about him, anyway."

"I don't think it prove