Cruise Doctor. Kerry Mitchell

here sometimes when the weather’s right, otherwise down in the ballroom.” They walked past the line of lifeboats, covered with canvas, lashed securely to ringbolts in the deck. “Not that ladder, leads to the radio room. This one—bridge, executive officers’ cabins. That’s the captain, chief, second and third officers, navigator. Handy to the bridge.”

      They climbed the last ladder and Grady thought wryly of his own cabin, below decks and unimportantly clear of the nerve center. Then the seaman halted before a door of polished wood and gestured upward with a flick of a finger and Grady saw above the door the bright brass legend: CAPTAIN.

      “Okay, sir? Gotta get back to the gangway.”

      “Thank you,” Grady said. He tugged at the peak of his cap, pulled down his uniform coat, and knocked at the door.

      At once a resonant voice answered:

      “Come in.”

      Grady opened the door and stepped in over the coaming. He recognized the significance of a first meeting with the man or men who were to employ him, and he was used to making his assessments quickly. But in this case his first impression as he entered the cabin was its size. His own would have fitted into the entrance foyer. Obviously a captain of a ship like this had host as well as sea duties.

      “Yes?” a curt voice reined his thoughts back.

      There were two officers in the cabin, both gold-braided. The one behind a large desk was as big as Grady, and now he was looking at the newcomer, waiting. The other officer was sitting with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He had not even glanced up.

      “Good afternoon, sir,” Grady addressed the big man, “ship’s surgeon, just joined.”

      “I see. Grady, isn’t it.”

      Statement, not query. A small thing, but to Grady, alert to judge this man, it was significant. The captain had not glanced at any list of names before pronouncing his own. He knew and remembered the name of his newest recruit.

      “Yes, sir,” Grady acknowledged, keeping his face sober and respectful. This man corresponded in experience and authority to the head of a large hospital. Or of a fighter base.

      The captain stood up. His face was weathered, and cast in an authoritative mold. But Grady expected that. He was idly interested to note that the bigness of frame was marred by a bulge round the waistline. Good living, drinking with the more important passengers, insufficient exercise, he diagnosed. The captain extended his hand, shook Grady’s briefly.

      “My name is Faulkner. This is the chief officer, Mr. Bedloe. Glad to have you with us, Grady.”

      The chief officer nodded. He did not rise. The captain resumed his seat. Grady was thinking: Grady, not Doctor. One of the team, a junior member. And shown it. His specialty irrelevant. Fair enough—until his specialty was urgently required.

      Faulkner leaned back comfortably in his chair. Grady was left standing. In front of the ship’s two senior officers it was an inferior, not superior, position. Faulkner said, his tone and expression equable:

      “You haven’t been a ship’s surgeon before?”

      “No, sir. My locums have been shorebound.”

      “Then you won’t mind a bit of advice?”

      There was no answer to that rhetorical query, beyond a small smile. Faulkner expected none. He went on at once:

      “This is a somewhat peculiar vessel, Grady. In his own field every passenger is wealthy and influential. You might liken it to the plushiest practice in Los Angeles or New York, where I understand you come from. You’re with me?”

      “Perfectly, sir.”

      A pair of gray eyes, narrowed, scanned him keenly.

      “I want to make sure, Grady. Your prospective patients are used to getting what they want. In everything, you understand? When a man is handling millions a sore throat or a pain in the gut means somewhat more than it might to a cab driver. It could cost him money, even an hour or two away from his office. So he’s used to getting his medical attention fast—the best for the most minor complaint. Our job is to see that in this ship he gets what he’s used to. Clear?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Grady was looking at Faulkner but there had swum into his mental vision another face—a lean dedicated face beneath a sterile cap, listening to these instructions, the corner of the mouth twisted cynically; not sneering, just disgusted. Forcibly Grady pushed the image of Frank aside. When in Rome . . . Very comforting and helpful, that geographical platitude.

      But Faulkner was not finished. He drove the point further, his voice pleasant and his eyes unsmiling:

      “I don’t know the meticulousness of your medical ethics, Grady, nor do I care. What’s important is this—if one of my passengers thinks he’s ill, then he’s ill. You’ll treat him accordingly. It may conflict with your medical training . . .” Had those cold eyes read his mind? . . . “and if it does I suggest you step ashore right now. People like we’re carrying talk when they get back. If they’ve been well treated, if the service is what they expect, then we get a full passenger list for the next cruise. Simple economics, Grady, which apply in your department just as strongly as in mine. Clear?”

      The shipping company manager had been much more discreet with his mention of hypochondriacs. These instructions from Faulkner were forthright, almost brutally frank. Not anger—maybe a ship’s captain always spoke so unequivocally—but a mixture of disgust and disquiet were working in Grady. He wanted this cruise badly, yet he could not hold back his own forthright answer:

      “Quite clear, sir. I’ll pander to them all they want.”

      For the first time since Grady had stepped 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