Rick tested the balance of the now-ungainly arrow and shook his head. "I'm not sure I can hit anything with it."
"Get the bow!" Zircon commanded. "Scotty, put a screw through the base of the ball to hold it on the shaft. I'm going to rig a backstop so Rick can practice."
The scientist found a tarpaulin and strung it up like a curtain across the stern. At the center of the tarpaulin he pinned a work glove.
Rick studied the setup. The canvas would give, absorbing the shock of the arrow and allowing it to fall on deck. It would be all right. He didn't want to chance losing the ball.
He consulted with Scotty, and they paced off the approximate distance he would have to shoot, then he climbed on the pilothouse roof to get the proper elevation. Spreading the bow a few times to loosen his muscles, he began to practice.
The arrow was terribly nose heavy, and its whole response to the bow was changed. At first he missed by two or three feet. Then, as he continued to practice, his accuracy began to improve.
He stopped after a while and had a coke. "I'll never be able to shoot a normal arrow again," he complained.
Scotty grinned. "Make this shot and you'll never have to shoot again."
By the time Chahda emerged, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Rick was on target. Four out of five shots hit the glove. Then, nine out of ten were in the palm.
Zircon called a halt, took the glove from the tarp, and slipped it on. He tucked a folded handkerchief into the glove, then stood with hand outstretched before the tarp. "Hit it," he invited.