But most people were polite enough not to mention that in public. Much less broadcast it, in detail, over the enunciator.

He began to see why people tended to flip out on the Francis Mueller. And he wondered, as he was getting dressed in the crowded but mostly silent compartment, how much worse it could get.

"What do you mean we're lost?"

Warrant Officer Kearns had just brought Tyler to the bridge to meet the captain. The first words out of his new commander's mouth were not ones to settle Sean's . . . apprehension.

Captain Zemet was incredibly handsome, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a chin that you could use to crack walnuts. He probably could have been a holovid star with one exception; he was short, even by Grayson standards. On Manticore the word "dwarf" might have been used. He was looking up at the not much taller lieutenant with an expression of absolute perplexity on his face.

"We're not lost, Sir," the lieutenant standing braced in front of the captain replied. "We just appear to be . . . off course."

"Do you know why?" the captain asked.

"Not yet, Sir," the lieutenant said. "We appear to have suffered a change in course due to a . . . gravitational anomaly."

"Gravitational anomaly?" the captain replied.

"Yes, Sir," the sweating lieutenant replied.

"We're lost." The speaker was a tall man by Grayson standards, with a pale complexion and a thin, ascetic face. He was dressed entirely in black. Either Death had decided to visit the Francis Mueller, a possibility that had some validity all things considered, or Sean was in the presence of the ship's chaplain.

"We're lost, wandering helpless in the depths of space!" the chaplain said. It was the same reedy voice from morning prayers.

"We're not lost, Chaplain Olds," the captain said. "We simply have to make a course correction. How much of a course correction?" he asked the astrogator.

"We're still computing that, Sir," the lieutenant replied. "But we're at least a hundred and twenty thousand kilometers off base course."

"Good Tester," the captain swore. "It occurs to me that we made a close pass by Blackbird Six. You did figure that into your equations, didn't you, Astro?"

"Err," the lieutenant hesitated. "Let me check my notes."

"You didn't, did you?" the captain said. "It suddenly occurs to me that if you didn't figure it into your calculations, you probably also didn't consider that it was out there, did you? It crosses my mind that you didn't mention that we were doing a close pass until Tactical picked up the moon on lidar at under sixty-three thousand kilometers. I remember thinking that was cutting it a bit close, all things considered."

"I'm . . . not sure, Sir," the lieutenant said.

"Sweet Tester!" the chaplain exclaimed. "In my wildest nightmares, I never considered that we could slam unthinking into a celestial body! The ship would be strewn across its surface! Unless we noticed in time and sent out a distress call, we would be lost for all time! No one would ever find the wreckage! We would die, lost and alone, our bodies and souls left to drift helplessly in the depths of space!"

"Tomorrow's gonna be a doozy," the warrant muttered under his breath.

"Sir." The speaker was a short—how else—broad, lieutenant commander, presumably the XO. Tyler hadn't seen him arrive, he had just appeared out of nowhere as if teleported in. "There are penalties in the rules for court-martial regarding failure to perform prescribed duties and placing a ship in unnecessary hazard. We could convene a summary court and have the Astrogator spaced."

"I don't think that will be necessary, XO," the captain said helplessly. "Chaplain, why don't you go tend to your flock? Or maybe say a few private prayers for our well-being in your cabin. Astro, go punch in the gravitational pull of Blackbird Six and see if that works." He turned to Tyler and the warrant and gave them both a brilliant smile. "I take it this is the new medic?"

"Captain Zemet, Sick Berth Attendant Tyler," the warrant said. "Late of the Manticoran Navy."

"Good to meet you, Taylor," the captain said, holding out his hand. "You've joined the best ship in the Grayson Navy and, I think, the best in the Alliance. I'm sure you'll fit in well. All you have to do is give me one hundred percent of your abilities."

"Yes, Sir," Sean replied, wondering if a little 120,000 kilometer course error, not to mention forgetting that you were doing a close pass of a celestial body, was one hundred percent of the astrogator's abilities. The scary part was that it seemed to be. "I'll try to do my best. And it's Tyler, Sir."

"Glad to hear it, Taylor," the captain said. "Give him the tour of the ship, Chief. I've got a few things on my plate at the moment."

"Yes, Sir," the warrant replied.

"Good meeting you, Taylor," the captain said. "Glad to have you aboard."

It appeared that the chief chose to skip the instructional walk-around as he led Tyler back to the sickbay.

Doc flopped into his chair and opened up the bottom drawer, pouring a shot into his tea again.

"So, what's your impression so far?" he asked, taking a sip.

"You only lose one guy a week?" Sean said with a quivering laugh.

"You noticed," the warrant said, lifting the bladder. "Medicinal belt?"

"Not yet," Tyler said, deeply tempted. "Is it just me, or is everyone on this vessel insane?"

"Certainly the entire chain of command," the warrant replied, taking another sip. "You haven't even met the Chief Engineer, who at least is competent."

"And . . . the Chaplain?" Sean asked, carefully.

"Chaplains, by law, have the run of the ship and are an entity to themselves," Doc replied with a grimace. "In the case of Chaplain Olds, he has two problems: an overactive imagination, and insomnia. I can't do anything about the former but I've tried to prescribe sleeping pills. No luck, he considers them to be a Devil's Brew. So he lies awake all ship's night, imagining all the horrible things that can, and very occasionally do, go wrong on the ship. He's also . . . egged on by some of the ship's company that have more of a sense of humor than common sense. Ribart, down in Engineering, is forever coming up with new things that 'need your prayers, Chaplain.' I've considered just tranking Ribart to get him off the ship, but that seems over the top. Then there's the automatic deference to chaplains that is instilled in Grayson at the bone."

"I'll admit that after the morning prayer I'm a little . . . apprehensive. And I've never considered that an astrogator might just forget that there is a planet around. But I still think that what the Chaplain needs is a good lay; he seems really uptight."

The chief grimaced and Sean realized what he'd said.

"I hadn't meant to impugn your faith, Chief . . ." Tyler said formally.

"Oh, it's not that," the warrant replied wearily. "You weren't here for the infamous STD incident." Doc took a healthy slug of his tea and then poured a straight-up refill.

"STD?" Tyler said. "I'm not sure what that stands for."

"Sexually transmitted disease," the warrant said dryly. "I'm aware that they've been wiped out among the Manticorans, but they do occasionally crop up in Silesia. We had a little . . . incident on our last cruise that way. Let's just say the Chaplain was not one of those who did not contract it."

Tyler looked at him questioningly and the warrant shrugged.

"Long story. Stupid story. Maybe some other time."

The chief took another sip, obviously gathering his thoughts.

"It's like this—you know the Grayson Navy has expanded nearly fifty fold since we joined the Alliance?"