THROUGH THE WARPED Continuum drove Wanderer, her structure vibrating to the pulse of her Inertial Drive and Mannschenn Drive generators.  Through her own distorted Space-Time she dove, and ahead the shimmering spiral that was the target star waxed with every passing day.  And there, too, ominously black against the glimmering drift, was the Horsehead Nebula.  Oddly, frighteningly, there was no anamorphosis - but within that vast, swirling mass there was a deformation of radiation and gravity, of all the laws by which the physical universe is governed, that countered and overrode the minor deformations induced by the ship's Mannschenn Drive Unit.  It stood there, monstrous against the opalescent haze, a veritable nightmare.  It compelled the eye and the mind behind the eye, forcing upon the unwilling senses a false orientation, an emotional up and down that did not jibe with the up and down resultant from the ship's trajectory and acceleration.  The spectacle never ceased to be frightening.

Trafford found it better not to look through the viewports, found it better to concentrate upon the control instruments.  Wanderer was approaching the focal point, the corner that she would have to turn before setting course for Iralia.  If there were to be an attack, it would be here, during the brief minutes of maneuvering in the normal Continuum, with the Interstellar Drive shut down, with the ship exposed to fire from missiles.

If there were to be an attack, it would be here - assuming that there was an enemy to do the attacking, assuming that whoever it was that had revived the slave trade knew about Wanderer, knew that she was bound from Karakella to Iralia by the shortest and most economical route.  There could be agents on that planet; there certainly were agents, representing more than a few powers.  Some would be natives, no doubt; some would be apparently innocuous members of the staffs of the various embassies, even the Iralian Embassy itself.  Every intelligent being in the universe has his price.

Too, thought Trafford, he wouldn't put it past Smith to leak information in the right (or the wrong) quarters.  There is no point in baiting a mousetrap - a rat-trap, he corrected himself - if the rats don't know that it is there.

But the screen of the Mass Proximity Indicator remained blank, apart from the occasional flicker of interference, and Metzenther made no reports of any vessels in the near vicinity.  Metzenther...  Yes, thought Trafford, the telepath was now the weak link in the chain.  While he was his normal, frustrated self he could be expected to function efficently - but now, how much frustration was there?  How much sublimation?

He discussed matters with Irene in the privacy of their quarters.  "Should I clamp down?" he asked.  "After all, Psionic Communications Officers are expected to be a bit weird, and a man who's leading a normal life just isn't weird."

"Isn't he?" countered his wife.  "You'd be surprised.  I sailed with one Master in the Dog Star Line and it was common knowledge that the Catering Officer was laying on all home comforts for him, but he was still as nutty a [sic] a fruit cake."

"Yes, yes.  But there's nuttiness and nuttiness.  And it's a widely held belief that a normal sex life interferes with the exercise of what used to be called psychic talents."

"This is a ship you're running, Benjamin, not a Sunday School Outing."

"Yes, my dear.  This is a ship I'm running.  I know damn well that in a merchant vessel I have no right to interfere in the private lives of my officers - but I have the right to demand that my officers do their jobs."