"You've got thirty tons of fuel--you want to find the
compression ratio of the number-one firing-tube chamber--so what do you
do?"
"Start up the auxiliary, burn a little of the stuff and judge what it'll
be," the big cadet replied. "That's the way I did it on the space
freighters."
"But you're not on a space freighter now!" exclaimed Tom. "You've got to
do things the way they want it done here at the Academy. By the book!
These tables have been figured out by great minds to help you, and you
just want to burn a little of the stuff and guess at what it'll be!" Tom
threw up his hands in disgust.
"Seems to me I heard of an old saying back in the teen centuries about
leading a horse to water, but not being able to make him drink!" drawled
Roger from the doorway. He strolled in and kicked at the crumpled sheets
of paper that littered the floor, stark evidence of Tom's efforts with
Astro.
"All right, wise guy," said Tom, "suppose you explain it to him!"
"No can do," replied Roger. "I tried. I explained it to him twenty times
this morning while you were taking your control-deck manual." He tapped
his head delicately with his forefinger. "Can't get through--too thick!"
Astro turned to the window to hide the mist in his eyes.
"Lay off, Roger," snapped Tom. He got up and walked over to the big
cadet. "Come on, Astro, we haven't got much time.
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