Doctor.” She paused, looking sideways at the deck. He was mildly surprised to see she was frowning.
“Come now, Miss Talbot, it won’t be such a chore. Already I know port from starb’d, the bow from the stern.”
With a small quick gesture she shook her head. Then she looked directly at him. Behind his equable expression Grady was suddenly alert.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Look, Doctor, you might as well know this right off. You seem a nice young man and it’s only fair you should know.” She paused, wetting her lips, while he waited, wondering what was coming. Then she went on quickly, as though anxious to get it out.
“You say you’re a surgeon. It’s been a long time since I was in an operating room—a hell of a long time. I wouldn’t be much use to you. In fact, no damn use at all. I’m not much better than a baby-sitter aboard.” She looked up at him, entreaty in her wrinkled eyes. “But this is a sweet berth—everything found, a bed, a good salary. I have no one ashore. . . .”
Grady would never make the perfect surgeon—though experienced, he still retained some sensitiveness. He saw the concern in Miss Talbot’s eyes and he swallowed and said gently:
“You don’t have to worry, Miss Talbot—for two good reasons.”
“Oh?”
“First, I admire and respect your honesty. You must have been a damn fine nurse. Second, I’m used to operating without assistance.”
There was surprise in her relief. “Without any assistance?”
Grady ashed his cigarette. “Being a locum in backwoods practices has its advantages,” he explained. “But anyway, you said yourself there’s not much chance of surgery.”
“That’s right,” she agreed. Relief was palpable in her face. “Dr. Fenton—he’s the man you’re relieving for this trip—never ran into anything.” She smiled brightly, back to her motherly self. “Sea air and no worries are fine for business ulcers. The first week you’ll have a crop of stubbed toes—ringbolts in the deck, things like that—but from then on you can sit back and enjoy yourself.”
Maybe, Grady thought, she thinks that’s all I signed on for. And maybe she’s right, he grinned to himself. He glanced at his watch.
“Six o’clock. What time’s dinner?”
“Eight onward. But mostly they sit down around nine—after cocktails. The ship could float on what one cruise load gets through. By the way, you’ve got your table?”
He hadn’t thought of it. “No. Who do I see about that?”
“Normally the purser. But you’re on the strength. You’d better see the chief officer. In fact,” nodding, “you had better see the chief officer. Mr. Bedloe doesn’t like anyone going over—or under—his head.”
So, Grady thought, Mr. Bedloe was not quite the well-uniformed nonentity he had seemed to be in the captain’s cabin. But that figured—you didn’t get to be chief officer through your good looks. He filed the information away for possible reference. As he stubbed his cigarette and stood up Ben Grady had, fortunately, no prior knowledge of just how soon he would be consulting that reference. . . .
“Well,” he said, “guess I’ll take a look around. Sooner or later someone in this labyrinth is going to tell me they’re lost.”
“Like me to come?”
“No, thanks,” he said easily and at once—he didn’t want his ignorance to be so obvious. “I’ll manage. By the way, anything I’m supposed to do?”
“Nothing. When we get to Hawaii the port doctor will require a clean bill of health for all hands, but until then, so long as someone doesn’t fall down a ladder, you’re free.”
“Like you said,” he said, grinning, “a sweet berth,” and went out.
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