At four-thirty the officers of the Caine were all seated around the wardroom table, except for Keith, Gorton, and the captain. Keefer and Maryk were drinking coffee. The others smoked or drummed their fingers on the green baize. Nobody spoke. The room was unnaturally tidy for that time of day. The magazines and paper-bound novels were racked, and the coding devices usually scattered on the table were absent.
“This is known in literature,” Keefer remarked in a low tone, stirring his coffee, “as a pregnant pause.”
“Go easy on the smart talk for a while, Tom,” murmured Adams.
“I’m simply observing,” said Keefer, “that our new captain has a sense of drama. I thoroughly approve.”
“Knock it off,” whispered Maryk, as the knob of the captain’s door turned. Gorton came out and looked around the table. “All present, Captain,” he called through the open door. Queeg entered the wardroom. With a scrape of chair legs the officers stood. The Caine officers had not performed this courtesy in a year; several of them had never done it; but they all rose instinctively.
“Sit down, sit down, gentlemen,” said Queeg in a light, joking tone. He sat in his chair, laid a fresh pack of cigarettes and a packet of matches in front of him, and looked around with a smile as his officers took their seats. He tore open the pack deliberately, lit a cigarette, and took the two steel balls out of his pocket. Rubbing them softly back and forth in his fingers, he began to speak. Occasionally he glanced up at their faces; otherwise he kept his eyes on the cigarette or the steel balls.
“Well, gentlemen, I just thought we ought to get acquainted. We’re going to be shipmates for a long time. You’re probably wondering about me, and I confess I’m a little curious about you, though I’ve formed some pretty good first impressions. I think this is a fine ship with a splendid wardroom of officers. I think we’re going to have a good cruise, and, I hope, as Captain de Vriess put it, some good hunting. I intend to give you every co-operation, and I expect the same in return. There is such a thing as loyalty upward, and such a thing as loyalty downward. I desire and expect to get absolute loyalty upward. If I do, you’ll get loyalty downward. If I don’t—well, I’ll find out why, and I’ll see to it that I do.” He laughed, indicating that this was a joke, and the officers nearest him smiled.
“Now, there are four ways of doing a thing aboard ship—the right way, the wrong way, the Navy way, and my way. I want things on this ship done my way. Don’t worry about the other ways. Do things my way, and we’ll get along—Okay. Now, are there any questions?”
He looked around. There were no questions. He nodded with smiling satisfaction. “Now, I’m a book man, as anyone who knows me will tell you. I believe the book is there for a purpose, and everything in it has been put in it for a purpose. When in doubt, remember we do things on this ship by the book. You go by the book and you’ll get no argument from me. You deviate from the book and you better have a half dozen damn good reasons—and you’ll still get a hell of an argument from me. And I don’t lose arguments on board this ship. That’s one of the nice things about being captain.” He laughed again, and received the same smiles. Keefer was slowly shredding a cigarette as he listened.
“I want you to remember one thing,” Queeg went on. “Aboard my ship, excellent performance is standard. Standard performance is substandard. Sub-standard performance is not permitted to exist. Now, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and this ship has been sailing a hell of a long time without me, and as I say, I regard you as a splendid wardroom of officers. If there’s anything that I want changed in anybody’s department you’ll find out about it fast enough. Meantime you will go on with your duties as before, remembering, as I say, that on my ship excellent performance is standard.”
Keefer dropped the shred of the cigarette slowly into his coffee cup.
“Well, now that I’ve shot my face off,” said Queeg, “I’ll give anyone else who wants to the chance to do the same…. Nobody? Okay. Then let’s have taut watches beginning as of now, if you feel that in any way you haven’t been standing taut watches. And let’s have a taut ship. And, as I say, remember about loyalty upward and loyalty downward, and about excellent performance being standard. And, as I say, I regard you as a fine set of officers, and it’s a privilege to be in a wardroom with you, and—and let’s keep it that way. And that’s all I have to say. And I thank you, and”—he laughed once more, an informal laugh that dismissed any tinge of martial austerity in what he had said—“all ashore that’s going ashore.”
He rose, picking up his cigarettes. The officers stood. “Don’t get up, don’t get up,” he said. “Thank you all.” He went into his cabin.
The officers looked around at each other. After a moment’s stillness Gorton inquired, “Anybody got anything on his mind?”
“When is the gig shoving off for the beach?” said Keefer.
“At 1800,” said Gorton. “I’m glad you asked, because you’ll have the gangway then.”
“In a pig’s eye,” said Keefer genially. “I’ll be in the gig. I’ve got me a date with a college graduate from the OWI office. She knows words of two syllables. It promises to be a highly intellectual evening, after life on the Caine.”
“Well, in words of one syllable, you’re a dead duck,” said Gorton. “New watch-standing orders. Four officers aboard at all times in port. Me or the captain, and all three—repeat, all three—officers of the duty section. I believe your section has the duty?”
Keefer looked around and said, “Okay. Who’s standing by for good old Tommy?”
“I’ll take it, Tom,” said Maryk.
“Thanks, Steve. I’ll do the same—”
“Sorry, boys,” put in Gorton. “No stand-bys.”
Keefer gnawed at his lips, scowling. Barrow rose, polishing his fingernails on his gabardine lapel. “I can take a dictionary along in the gig, Tommy,” he said daintily, “and bone up on two-syllable words. Does she know how to say ‘Gladly’?” There was a bark of male laughter from all the officers.
“Oh, look, Burt,” pleaded Keefer. “It’s absolutely pointless. We’re standing a cold-iron watch. There’s nothing to do but log vegetables aboard. Hell’s bells, in Tulagi we didn’t keep four aboard, with the Tokyo Express running every night.”
“Tom, I have never heard anything more persuasive,” said Gorton. “Your arguments move me to tears. Now will you go in and straighten out the captain?”
Carmody yawned and put his head on his hands. He said sleepily, “I see where the great American novel gets another chapter written tonight.”
Keefer rose, uttered a short, blistering obscenity, and went to his room. He picked up the volume of Aurelius from his cluttered desk, and flung himself on his bunk. For ten minutes he read the soothing stoicisms of the Roman emperor. Then Gorton poked his head into the room.
“Skipper wants to see you. Put on your saddle and report to the sawdust ring.”
“With pleasure,” growled Keefer, leaping out of his bed.
Captain Queeg was standing at the washbasin in his room, shaving. “Hello, hello, Tom,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.” He did not invite Keefer to sit. De Vriess had also ignored that formality with his department heads. They had been in the habit of dropping into the armchair without being asked. Keefer was not sure of his ground with Queeg. He leaned against the captain’s bunk, and lit a cigarette to show that he was not overawed. Queeg scraped away at his lathered face, humming. He wore only short drawers, and Keefer inspected with secret amusement the unprepossessing figure: flat hairless white chest, bulging little round stomach, and pallid skinny legs.
“Lousy light,” remarked Queeg, squinting at his image in the mirror. “A wonder De Vriess didn’t cut his throat.”
“We can get you a brighter bulb, sir.”
“Well, I don’t think that will be necessary—Tell me, Tom, what do you think of your assistant, Keith?”
“Willie? He’s a good kid.”
“I mean, as an officer?”
“Well, he has a lot to learn, like any ensign. He’ll be fine.”
“I’m not interested in what he’ll be. As of now, I agree with you that he’s a nice kid—and also extremely immature. Particularly for a custodian of registered publications.”
Keefer said hastily, “Sir, I’m certain Keith can handle that assignment to perfection—”
“What training has he had for it?”
“Training?”
“I understand you had five months in communication school.”
“Yes, sir. But you don’t need that to—”
“Has he studied the registered publications manual?”
“I assume that in V-7 school they gave them the basic—”
“You can’t assume a damn thing in the Navy, Tom,” said Queeg sharply, shifting his eyes to Keefer’s face and away again. “Could he pass a test on that manual this afternoon?”
“Well, without warning—”
“Could you?”
“I certainly could,” snapped Keefer, offended.
Rinsing his razor, Queeg said pleasantly, “I’m sure of it. That’s why I think you should resume the duties of custodian.”
“But, sir—”
“The boy obviously knows nothing about classified stowage, Tom. Why, secret pubs are jammed and flopped around in that safe like garbage. And he has pubs in the radio shack, pubs on the bridge—not a single custody receipt to show for them, either. Is that your idea of registered stowage, hey?”
It was exactly Keefer’s idea, as a matter of fact. Willie had inherited an appalling mess, but the novelist had airily laughed, saying, “This isn’t a battleship, Willie. Forget about that custody-receipt malarkey. We’re all pals together on the Caine.” The ensign had innocently believed him.
Keefer said, “Well of course, sir, things could be a bit more shipshape—I’ll get on his tail—”
“Nothing doing. You relieve him.”
“Sir, pardon me, there isn’t a ship in this squadron with a full lieutenant as custodian—it’s an ensign’s collateral duty—always is—”
“Well, I don’t want to be unreasonable about it,” said Queeg. “How long do you think it would take you to train up Keith as a custodian?”
“A few days, a week at most, and Willie can know that manual by heart.”
“Fine. We’ll let it go at that.”
“Aye aye, sir. Thank you.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Queeg. “Meantime I want you to relieve him. This evening.”
“What! And go through an inventory and a transfer report? And then, again, in reverse, three days from now?”
“We have lots of time and transfer forms.”
“Sir, a department head who’s a top watch-stander doesn’t have an infinite amount of time. If you expect efficient performance of my main duties—”
“I expect efficient performance of all your duties. This business may cut into your novel-writing a little. But of course, none of us is aboard to write novels.” In the poisoned silence that followed, Queeg opened his drawers. They slid to the deck, and he kicked them into a corner. “Well,” he said cheerfully, picking up a towel, “I hope the shower has hot water.”
Keefer said in a slow, strangled tone, “Sir, do you object to my working on a novel?”
“Not at all, Tom,” said Queeg, taking a faded blue bathrobe out of his narrow closet. “An outside interest of an intellectual kind is recommended for all officers, as a stimulant to clear thinking and alertness.”
“Fine,” said Keefer.
“So long as your department is in every respect up to the mark, of course,” said Queeg. “I mean all reports up to date, all changes entered, all correspondence cleared, all enlisted training at the maximum, your own training accomplished, and, in general, everything so perfectly in hand that nothing remains to be done in your spare hours. Until such time, I think the Navy has first call on you.”
“I don’t suppose there are many officers in the Navy who can say their departments are in such shape—”
“Not one in a hundred, maybe. The average officer nowadays is lucky if he can keep abreast of his work and get six hours’ sleep a night. I guess that’s why we don’t have many novelists in the Navy,” said Queeg with a giggle. “But Captain de Vriess described you as a man of exceptional ability and I have every reason to hope that his judgment was sound.”
Keefer put his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t rush off,” said the captain, unwrapping a soap cake. “Like to talk a bit more.”
“I thought you were going to take a shower, sir.”
“Well, we can still talk. Come along.”
“Now, Tom, what kind of radio guard are we standing at the moment?” he shouted over the drumming of the water on the metal deck of the shower room.
A conference during a shower was new to Keefer. He pretended not to hear Queeg. After a moment the captain turned around, glowering from under his eyebrows as he soaped his groin. “Well?”
“I can’t hear you very well over that water, Captain.”
“I said what kind of radio guard are we standing?”
Two hours earlier, Keefer’s chief radioman had reported to the communications officer that Queeg had been in the shack, minutely cross-examining him about the radio guard. The new captain had been violently displeased to learn that they were merely copying local harbor broadcasts. So Keefer phrased his answer carefully. “Well, sir, we’re following standard Pearl Harbor procedure. We copy the harbor circuit.”
“What!” Captain Queeg looked amazed. “How about the Fox schedule? Aren’t we guarding that?” He lifted his leg and soaped underneath it.
“We pick up the skeds from the Betelgeuse. They guard for all destroyers in port. It’s standard procedure,” shouted Keefer.
“You needn’t scream. I hear you. Standard procedure for whom? For destroyers in the same nest as the Betelgeuse? We’re an hour away by motor whaleboat. What happens if an urgent despatch comes through for us?”
“They’re supposed to give it to us at once over the harbor circuit.”
“Supposed to. And suppose they don’t?”
“Look, Captain, suppose the Betelgeuse blows up? Suppose we do? You have to assume certain normal conditions—”
“You can’t assume a goddamned thing in this Navy,” said Queeg. “Get that idea out of your head. Nothing will be assumed on this ship from now on, not a goddamned thing.” He rinsed the soap from his body and shut off the water. “Hand me that towel, please.” Keefer complied.
“Now listen, Tom,” said the captain, in pleasanter tones, rubbing himself with the towel, “in this Navy a commanding officer gets a chance to make one mistake—just one mistake, that’s all. They’re just waiting for me to make that one mistake. I’m not going to make that mistake, and nobody on this ship is going to make it for me. I can keep my own radio gang from doping off, it if takes six months’ restriction apiece, and breaking them all to seaman second class, to wake them up. But I can’t do anything about some silly ape who dopes off on the Betelgeuse. Therefore I won’t have the Betelgeuse standing guard for me. We’ll stand our own guard, and we’ll stand it around the clock, and we’ll stand it beginning as of now. Is that clear?”
“That’s clear, sir.”
Queeg looked at him amiably. “Say, how about coming to the club with me and having a few?”
“Sorry, sir. Under the new watch orders I have to stay aboard.”
“Oh, damn,” said the captain regretfully, as though he and Keefer were both victims of a silly rule. “Well, another time. Say, I’d like to read your novel one of these days. Has it got plenty of sex in it?” He giggled hopefully.
Keefer said, “Will that be all now, sir?”
“That’s all, Tom,” said Queeg, shuffling down the passageway.
The communications officer went into his room. He lay back on his bunk and picked up Aurelius. He lit a cigarette and took quick, deep puffs. Soon he lay in a cloud of gray curling smoke, reading.
Willie Keith came to the quarterdeck at eleven o’clock that night, looking for Keefer. The gangway petty officer, spruce and surly in white uniform, told him that the OOD was inspecting the forward lines. Willie walked out on the breezy forecastle and found Keefer sitting on a folded blanket, his back against the anchor, his feet dangling over the side, his gun belt lying on the deck. He was smoking, and staring up at the black starry night. “Hi,” said Willie.
“Hi.”
“Busy?”
“Not very. Composing a sonnet.”
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“Not at all. It’s a stinking sonnet. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been hitting that registered pubs manual for three hours. I think I’ve got the first part memorized.”
“Well done.”
“Mind if I go over and visit my friend on the Moulton?”
“Go ahead.”
“I looked in on Mr. Gorton to ask him. But he was asleep.”
“Hell, you don’t need the exec’s permission to visit in the nest. Shove off.”
“Thanks. Lots of luck with the sonnet.”
In the immaculate wardroom of the Moulton several officers were sitting around in dejected attitudes, reading magazines or drinking coffee, but Keggs was not among them. Willie went up the passageway to Keggs’s room, and pulled aside the green curtain. His friend was slumped at the desk, snoring, his long face resting on a pile of unfolded blue-prints. The desk lamp was shining directly upon his closed eyes. His hands dangled awkwardly, the knuckles brushing the deck. Willie hesitated, then touched Keggs’s shoulder. The ensign started up wildly, with a gasp. He glared at Willie in horror for a moment, then recognition dawned and he greeted his friend with a sweet, sad smile. “Hello, Willie.”
“What the hell are you studying blueprints for?” said Willie.
“I’m taking an engineering course.”
“Engineering? You’re a deck man.”
“Skipper’s got all the engineering men studying deck and all the deck men studying engineering. Makes us rounded officers, he says.”
“That’s great,” said Willie, “providing you don’t have to run a department and stand watches and fight a war—I thought we could play a game of chess, maybe.”
“Jesus, I’d love it, Willie,” said Keggs cautiously. He peeked out into the passageway. “Looks like the coast is clear. I’m game. Come on.” They went into the wardroom. Keggs took down a board and a box of red and black plastic chessmen, saying to a pudgy lieutenant, “When will he be back?”
“Not before midnight, I guess,” mumbled the lieutenant, who was slouched almost horizontal in an armchair, gazing dully at a ragged Life.
“This is great, Willie. Glad you came over. Say, the hell with it. Let’s have a couple of cokes.”
“Sure.”
Keggs disappeared into the pantry and emerged in a moment with two frosty bottles. “Anybody else?” he queried, looking around. Most of the officers ignored him. Two of them turned lackluster eyes on him and shook their heads. “If I drink another coke,” said the sloucher in the armchair, “I’ll go into shock.”
Willie said, “You fellows still restricted?”
“Till Sunday,” said Keggs.
“When we’ll probably get a despatch,” said the sloucher, “to proceed to Truk and sweep mines.”
As Willie set up the chessmen, Keggs took a long pull at the coke bottle. “Ah, this is a great coke. I feel good. You guys mind if I turn on the radio?” Nobody answered. He switched on a blast of jazz. “Hot dog. For a change, no Hawaiian music. Get those men ready, Willie. I’m going to take your pants. Breep-de-broop, breep-de-broop—”
He danced as he sang, a queer angular jig, his elbows stuck out, his arms dangling. The lieutenant in the armchair regarded him with a mixture of disgust and pity. “It’s amazing,” he said, “what a cat nap will do for that poor fagged-out son of a bitch.”
Keggs dropped into the chair opposite Willie and moved the red king’s pawn. “Look, Willie, just remember this. When you hear a buzzer ring twice, that’s it. Game’s over. That’s the signal from the gangway that he’s come back on board. Just disappear, like the rest of us. Use the starboard passageway and you probably won’t run into him—”
“Suppose I do run into him?”
“Be nonchalant,” spoke up the lieutenant in the armchair. “Kiss his behind and stroll off whistling Anchors Aweigh.”
“How’s your new skipper?” said Keggs.
“A human being, for a change.”
A couple of the officers yawned, stretched, and went to their rooms. “This is wonderful,” said Keggs, draining his coke. “We should do this more often, Willie.”
The wardroom door opened, and Iron Duke Sammis entered, followed by Queeg. Keggs was unperturbed. He moved a bishop and looked up, grinning. Then he saw the other officers getting to their feet, their faces dead blank. He uttered a strangled, sorrowful neigh and leaped up, over-turning the chessboard. The chessmen bounced and clattered all over the deck.
“Gentlemen,” said Iron Duke Sammis, “this is Commander Queeg, the new commanding officer of the Caine. Good evening, Mr. Keith.”
“Good evening, sir. Good evening, Captain,” said Willie.
“Well, I’m glad to see I own a chess player,” said Queeg. “I’ve always wanted to pick up the game.”
“Wonderful relaxation,” said the Iron Duke. “Too bad it eats up so much time. I haven’t shot a game since the war started. But since my communicator seems to have the leisure, I may go in for it again—”
“Sir, all tonight’s decodes are on your desk,” said Keggs tremulously, “and I did two and a half engineering assignments this evening—”
“Could you interrupt your game long enough to let Captain Queeg and myself have a little fresh coffee?”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”
The two captains went into Sammis’ cabin. Keggs ran to the pantry and came out with Silexes full of clear water.
“What the hell,” said Willie, “are you a steward’s mate, too? Where’s your burnt cork?”
“Easy, Willie. I’m wardroom mess treasurer. It’s quicker to make it myself than to go roust out a mess boy, that’s all.” He began to pick up the chess pieces.
“Game’s over, I take it.”
“Oh, hell, yes.”
“Well, I’ll stick around for some of that coffee—if I’m allowed to drink from the same bowl as the gods.”
Keggs looked over his shoulder at the captain’s cabin. “Sure, stick around. But please, Willie, don’t say those things—he hears.”
When Willie left Keefer on the forecastle to go to the Moulton, the communications officer stared skyward for a while, then took a pad, pencil, and flashlight from his pocket and began to scribble verses. In a few minutes the dim figure of Maryk came up the forecastle. Greeting Keefer morosely, the first lieutenant pulled open a narrow hatch forward of the anchor engine, reached his hand inside, and turned a switch. A shaft of yellow light rose from the hatch. Keefer said, “What goes on in the paint locker, this time of night?”
“Title B inventory.”
“Are you still at that? Sit down for a second, you poor beast of burden.”
Maryk scratched his round, close-cropped head, yawned, and accepted a cigarette. The light streaming up from the paint locker accentuated the lines of fatigue in his face and the puffy creases under his eyes. “Well, it’s going to be a close call,” he said, “but I think I’ll make it by 0900 Friday. What are you doing—working on your book?”
“Well, doing a little writing.”
“Maybe you better secure on that stuff for a while, Tom—at least while you’re on watch—until this new skipper gets squared away.”
“What the hell is an eight-to-midnight gangway watch in Pearl, Steve? We ought to have one petty officer and a messenger, and that’s all.”
“I know. But this bird is fresh off a carrier.”
“What do you think of him?”
Maryk puffed at his cigarette, and a worried, thoughtful expression came over his face. He had ugly, yet not unpleasant features: a wide mouth, a small nose, protruding brown eyes, and round, heavy jaws. His massive body gave him an air of power and determination, weakened by the gentle, good-natured puzzlement visible now in his face. “I’m not sure.”
“Better or worse than De Vriess?”
Maryk paused and said, “Captain de Vriess wasn’t a bad officer.”
“For crying out loud, Steve. He ran this ship like a garbage scow. Stand her up against the Moulton—”
“Pretty good ship handler, though.”
“Sure. Is that all being a captain means? I think Queeg’s what the doctor ordered for the Caine. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in ServPac alerted the Bureau to send us a red-hot book man, to clean things up.”
“Well, I don’t know if you can change the nature of a ship overnight. I’ve been aboard a lot longer than you, Tom. Everything gets done that has to get done—not the Navy way, maybe, but it gets done somehow. She gets under way, she goes where she has to go, the gun crews shoot pretty good, the engine plant holds together—Christ knows how, mostly with baling wire and chewing gum—but the Caine has spent less time getting repaired than any other four-piper I know of, since the war started. What’s Queeg going to do, except try to get things done by the book, instead of the Caine way? Is that an improvement? All De Vriess cared about was results.”
“The book way is the right way, Steve. Let’s face it. I don’t like it any more than you, but it’s true. The wastage, and lost motion, and plain dumb luck by which things get done on the Caine are simply staggering.”
“I know.” Maryk’s face became more perplexed. They smoked in silence for a while. “Sure, the book way is the right way,” spoke up the first lieutenant, “for the right ship. By the book, though, the Caine should be in the boneyard. Maybe this ship has to be run screwy because it’s screwy for her to be afloat at all—”
“Look, Steve. Your trouble is the same as mine, except that I see through it. We’re civilians, free citizens, and it burns us to be treated as dumb slaves by these Queegs, who are the most colossal ignoramuses in the world except for their book. Don’t forget one thing. Right now, the book is all that matters, because of the war. Look. Suppose all of a sudden the whole survival of America hung on shining shoes. Never mind how. Suppose it did. What would happen? All of us would become shoeshiners, and the professional bootblacks would take over the country. Well, how do you think the bootblacks would feel toward us? Humble? Hell, no. They’d figure that at last they’d come into their own—that for the first time in their lives the world was showing a proper respect for shoeshining. And by God, they’d lord it over us, and find fault, and nag, and crab, and bully us to shine shoes their way. And they’d be right. That’s the story, Steve. We’re in the hands of shoeshine boys. It’s irritating when they act as though we’re fools and they know all wisdom—it hurts to take orders and guff from them—but it’s their day. Pretty soon all the shoes will be shined, the war will be over, they’ll be nickel-and-dime bootblacks again, and we’ll look back and laugh at the whole absurd interlude. The point is, if you understand it now, you can be philosophic, and take anything that comes—”
The gangway petty officer came trampling up the forecastle. “Mr. Keefer, the captain has returned aboard, and Mr. Gorton wants to see you in his room. On the double.”
“Gorton? I thought he was asleep.”
“He just phoned up from the wardroom, sir.”
Keefer rose, hitching his gun belt and yawning. “Flash red, no doubt.”
“Skipper missed you at the gangway,” said Maryk. “Good luck, Tom. Remember your philosophy.”
“Sometimes I get so bored,” said Keefer. Maryk jumped down into the paint locker.
In the wardroom Keefer found the executive officer in his underwear in an armchair, drinking coffee and looking sleepy, mussed, and cross. “Jesus, Tom,” Gorton said. “How much trouble can one guy cause in one day? Why the hell weren’t you at the gangway when the skipper came aboard?”
“Why, you young fat fraud,” said Keefer. “You, who broke me in to watch standing, and slept through every in-port night watch you had until you became exec—”
Gorton slammed down the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair. Coffee splashed to the deck. “Mister Keefer, we are not discussing anything but tonight’s watch,” he said, “and be careful of your tone in addressing me.”
“Hold on, Burt. Take an even strain. No offense meant. Did the old man eat you out?”
“You’re damned right he did. Do you secure your brains when you’re not writing your goddamn novel? The first night a new skipper is aboard, can’t you be a little careful?”
“Sorry. I did think of it, but I got to talking to Steve and forgot to watch the clock—”
“Well, that’s only half of it. What the hell is Keith doing over on the Moulton?”
Keefer’s face crinkled in disgust. “Oh, Burt. That’s too much. Since when is the duty section not allowed to cross the gangplank to the ship alongside?”
“Since always. Read the standing orders again. Why didn’t he check out with me?”
“He looked in on you. You were asleep.”
“Well, he should have waked me up.”
“Burt, anybody waking you up with such a fool request before tonight would have gotten a copy of Snappy Stories in his puss.”
“Well, tonight’s another night. We’re back on standing orders, and no kidding—”
“Okay, okay, that’s simple enough. Just so we know about it—”
“Meantime,” said Gorton, looking down into his empty cup, “you’re restricted to the ship for twenty-four hours.”
“What!” flared Keefer. “Says who?”
“Says me, God damn it,” snapped the executive officer. “Good enough?”
“Not by a long shot. If you think you can suddenly pull regs on me that have been dead-filed for two years, and start slapping me with penalties—”
“Shut up!” said Gorton.
“I have a date tomorrow night. It’s the one I broke tonight, and I’m not breaking it again. If you don’t like it tell the skipper I defied you, and recommend a general court-martial—”
“You stupid bastard, do you think I’m the one who’s restricting you? Get this through your thick Reserve head, the heat is on. I’ll be the guy everybody will hate. That’s okay. I’m the exec of this ship, and I’ll carry out my orders, do you hear?”
A radioman poked his pale face into the wardroom. “Pardon me, Mr. Keefer, do you know where I can find Mr. Keith? He doesn’t seem to be anywhere—”
“What’s up?”
“Priority, action Caine.”
Keefer took the despatch sheet. “Okay, Snuffy.” The radioman withdrew. Gorton said, “Who’s the originator?”
“ServPac.”
The exec’s sullen face lit up. “ServPac? Priority? Could be a stateside convoy run. Break it, for crying out loud.”
Keefer started decoding; he had deciphered about fifteen words when he stopped, muttered a curse, and resumed the work with all eagerness gone.
“Well, what’s the dope?” said the exec.
“Convoy run, all right,” said Keefer listlessly. “But you’re a little matter of 180 degrees off in direction.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Gorton. “No.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Keefer. “The Caine is going to Pago Pago.”