into the cabin the chief officer looked up from the sheaf of papers he was studying. It was a flick of a glance, cynical, slightly amused. Then he returned to his stowage lists. The pleasantness went out of Captain Faulkner’s face.
“I wouldn’t use that word, Grady,” he said levelly. “You’re not dealing with fools. In their own game they’ve forgotten more than you know of yours. Remember that.”
He had indulged his pride. If he wanted to remain on this ship it was time to pull his ethical horns in. And after all the manner of treating his patients was wholly his own affair. Faulkner was steering his own course, according to his own lights. Maybe he was right. The shipping company was not a philanthropic organization. Easy, boy, easy . . .
“I’ll remember that, sir.” Grady’s tone was suitably respectful. He was remembering something else—he was a locum, he had the appointment, he had signed on only for this one cruise. “Is that all, sir?”
“No,” Faulkner said flatly. Bedloe flipped the pages of his lists back. Still holding the sheaf he leaned back, crossed his legs, and looked quizzically up at Grady. “There’s something else you might also remember, Grady,” Faulkner went on, a dry rasp to his voice. “You’re signed on for this cruise only. But there’s the little matter of references. I imagine in your game, jumping from berth to berth, references could be mighty important. Absolutely essential, in fact.” He leaned forward a little. “This is a pleasure cruise, Grady. I hope it will be pleasant for all concerned.”
Bedloe had rather full lips, sensuous almost. Since Faulkner had mentioned references those lips had been pulled down at the corners, in cynical appreciation. But Grady did not notice the chief officer’s expression. He was staring at Faulkner, genuinely astonished—until he understood that a captain was no mind-reader, but that he was of necessity a shrewd analyst of men and their motives.
Appreciation of Faulkner’s shrewdness forced a wry grin. “Yes,” Grady admitted, “references are most important. Essential, as you say.”
“Pleased to hear it.” Faulkner sat back. He was not relieved—his eminence relative to this newest recruit was too remote for that—but satisfied. “One more thing. What you do ashore, out of uniform, is your own business. But on board your attitude—the attitude of all my officers—will be completely circumspect. This is no ordinary vessel,” he repeated, “and it will not be let down by its officers.”
With a gesture of finality Faulkner crossed his legs. For the first time Bedloe spoke.
“But you can dance with the ladies,” he said, and smiled.
Grady glanced down at him. He saw a medium-sized man in a well-cut uniform, with a sharp, good-looking face. Grady noted those things automatically. His attention was on that smile. The feeling was vague, undefined; but he began to think he might not like Bedloe.
Bedloe was still looking at him. “Extracurricular duties, eh?” Grady murmured, his expression neutral. “It shouldn’t be hard to take.” He glanced at Faulkner. “I’d like to take a look at the sickbay, sir.”
“Do that,” Faulkner nodded, “you’ll find it well supplied. I’d like it to be that way when we get back here.” At Grady’s frown of puzzlement the captain went on:
“You might as well know it right off, Grady. I’m a company man. And the company wants to make money. I don’t like waste of any of the ship’s supplies. So where a pink pill will do, don’t use penicillin. You’re with me?”
Once again Grady reserved judgment. Again he was telling himself that his experience of ship commanders was meager, that Faulkner could be wholly within his rights in this anti-waste campaign. His reference to pink pills and penicillin had been facetious. Hadn’t it?
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ll watch it.”
“Fine.” Faulkner nodded, and with the gesture dismissed him. His expression as Grady turned to leave was genial.
It was that expression which was exercising Grady’s mind as he climbed slowly down the ladder to the boat deck. In the main Faulkner’s manner had been pleasant enough. And there was no doubt about the geniality in his face at the end. There was only one slight hitch—Faulkner’s geniality had not quite reached his eyes.
But then what in hell did he expect? Grady deprecated his analysis. Faulkner was in charge of this floating Waldorf and its two hundred guests, responsible for their safety over thousands of miles of ocean. He had to fling his arms round the neck of the newest, greenest recruit to his seasoned team? Had to crinkle his eyes with his smile, make like the jovial uncle? Still, Grady thought as he headed for the seaman at the gangway, those were definitely cold eyes.
He came up to the gangway and the seaman saw him coming and with a movement he tried to make casual turned his back on him, staring intently at nothing on the pier. Grady was not deceived, but his tone was affable.
“Sorry to bother you again, but I’d like you to show me the sickbay.”
“Yes, sir,” the seaman answered, just failing to keep the resignation from his voice. “This way.”
He headed again toward the bridge, but this time turned in through a wide doorway. Following him, Grady stepped into the main lounge. In a quick study he noted a plenitude of tables, chairs, settees, and at the forward end a long bar which reached right across the room. There were a dozen or so people in the place.
At the head of a companionway leading down, Grady asked:
“These people are passengers?”
“Yes, sir.”
They moved down the broad staircase. “Bit early, isn’t it? We don’t sail till tomorrow.”
“Our passengers come from all over the States,” the seaman informed over his shoulder, “arrivin’ tomorrow cuts it a bit fine.”
His voice was resigned; a father answering a dopey son who’d asked if there were animals in the zoo. Yet Grady said pleasantly:
“I see. Should have realized that.”
The answer, the tone, took the wind out of the seaman’s superior sails; as Grady had intended it should. Elementary psychology. At the foot of the companionway, the seaman halted and grinned with friendliness.
“There’s another reason,” he told his pupil, “it gives ’em the chance to throw a farewell party on board. You sleep well, Doc?” he asked suddenly.
“Reasonably well. Why?”
“Could be you’ll need one of your own pills if you don’t. She’ll be a rip-roaring old night tonight, that you believe!”
They moved along a passage, Grady fixing identification points in his memory. “Course a lot of the passengers are a bit old for that sort of thing,” the seaman chatted on, “but they have one hell of a lot of friends ashore.” He halted, his hand on the knob of a white-painted door. “And there are the passengers like the one who came up the gangway just ahead of you. Some peachie, huh?”
“Yes,” Grady answered, a trifle curtly. The owner of a pair of cold eyes might not favor this discussion between officer and seaman. “This is the sickbay?”
“Sure is. And, sir . . . ?”
