The commander watched the positional needle creep away from the arbitrary course zero. It swept beyond 10 and slowed at 15, halting a little beyond 16.
"I show 16.2," Hiller communicated.
"Check," Art answered on the intercom.
There it was, physically as much as any commander could do under the circumstances. The rest was largely luck—and, of course, how fast he acted to offset any bad luck.
Hiller took the time to explain to the crew the tactics planned in traversing the Belt.
"You guys are gamblers or you wouldn't have volunteered for this commute," he concluded. "The only difference with the hand you're holding now is that somebody else had to figure the odds for you. They're not bad odds either. If you grouse and jump for the straps every time a plum taps the hull, they're 50-50. Keep your heads and follow my instructions and the odds go in our favor.
"We're going to be hit, we're going to be hit again, and maybe a couple of dozen times after that. If a big one slams straight into us, somebody might get a bloody nose. But we can get through even if the ship turns out to look like a thick piece of Swiss cheese.
"Right now we're sailing in between thinned-out stuff, Hollender tells me. The first hour will be a tea party compared to the second.
"The air pump room sits smack in ship center. Anyone who'd like to zip his suit and shut himself in with the pumps has my permission. Speak up now; I can't force co-operation in something like this."
The intercom stayed silent.