the constellations aren't in the right places anymore.

I began noticing these things a couple of days ago and spoke to Murdo.
I suggested we turn back. I told him it was my duty as a skipper to
look out for the welfare of my passengers. And that included not
continuing if vital instruments showed signs of failure.

He sneered at me and said, "I thought you were a big game hunter,
Holloway?"

I told him I'd hunted big game--yes.

"It doesn't sound like it. You sound like a timid old woman. So you've
made some miscalculations. The course is still right. It's on the
flight pattern in the automatic control board and I know it's correct
because I gave it to you."

"But if instruments fail nothing stays right."

"Okay--you're the skipper. If you've turned yellow and want to show
your tail I guess there's nothing I can do about it."

He almost got his jaw broken, but I was able to hold myself. Then,
suddenly, I didn't care. I didn't care whether Murdo stayed alive or
got killed. As to the others--they'd come on the cruise with their
eyes open. They deserved whatever they got. And I certainly didn't
give a damn about myself. Guess I wasn't cut out to skipper a ship. A
skipper should care. That's all he _should_ do. Just care. I'd rather
dream about Melody.

I don't know what the date is. The chronometer stopped so I don't even
know what time it is. But what does it matter about the time if you
don't even know what day it is? We just go on and on.

Murdo--I can't figure out. Windbag or not--braggart or no--he has an
iron will. I think he's scared but he won't admit it. And some
stubborn streak inside him won't let him turn tail and run. He hides
his fear behind long accounts of his hunting trips. He describes the
vicious animals he's killed. He bores us with accounts of his skill as
a great hunter.

The rest listen because they have to. I go to my cabin and remember
Melody.

The rest are scared too, but they're too scared of Murdo to let him
know it. That's an odd one. Scared for your life but afraid to tell
the big man because he might kill you. Would Murdo kill in a fit of
rage? I don't know.

Keebler stays drunk so none of it bothers him. Keebler's wife, I
think, is in love with Murdo but it's a kind of little-girl love. She
never quite grew up. Kelvey glues himself to Murdo and sticks like a
plaster. He seems to consider Murdo a haven, as though Murdo's bulk
will make everything all right.

Jane Kelvey h