And Dusty was supposed to drive this.
Stunned, Dusty dropped into the pilot's chair and looked around him in a completely dazed manner. Below his feet were pedals and just below the surface of the slanting panel were a pair of knee-flappers that could be pressed without losing the thrust on a foot pedal. The desk-thing was studded with large levers mounted in curve-segments all carefully marked in the calibrations of the Marandanian language. To his left was a panel filled with push-buttons from the floor to the level above his head where his long arm could reach without standing up. To his right was a similar panel. Dead ahead was a flat plate that looked like frosted glass and seemed to Dusty about as useful. It neither glowed, nor showed a spot of color other than the very logical reticule-lines which were to be used for aiming the ship. Above the plate of glass was a line of meters and another line of them below.
Dusty shivered. No matter in which way he reached he could touch buttons, or thumb levers or turn dials.
Doubtless the competent Marandanian pilot played this console like a pianist—strictly from practise. A mere matter of training; when the concert master calls for 'A' the musician automatically reaches for the right position and drops his forefinger.
This was no instrument to play by ear.
Or—was it?
"Barb!"
"Yes, Dusty?"
"Barb, find that damned menslator and bring it up here. It might—"