The Essential Works of Cyril M. Kornbluth. Cyril M. Kornbluth

sub commander rolled back onto the cot and was instantly asleep, a muscle twitching the left side of his face every few seconds.

      Grinnel drew Orsino to the lee of the conning tower. "We'll let him sleep," he said. "Go tell that gun crew Commander Grinnel says they should lay below."

      Orsino did. The petty officer said something exasperated about the gunnery training bill and Orsino repeated his piece. They secured the gun and went below.

      Grinnel said, with apparent irrelevance: "You're a rare bird, Wyman. You're capable—and you're uncommitted. Let's go below. Stick with me."

      * * * * *

      He followed the fat little commander into the conning tower. Grinnel told an officer of some sort: "I'll take the con, mister. Wyman here will take the radar watch." He gave Orsino a look that choked off his protests. Presumably, Grinnel knew that he was ignorant of radar.

      The officer, looking baffled, said: "Yes, Commander." A seaman pulled his head out of a face-fitting box and told Wyman: "It's all yours, stranger." Wyman cautiously put his face into the box and was confronted by meaningless blobs of green, numerals in the dark, and a couple of arrows to make confusion complete.

      He heard Grinnel say to the helmsman: "Get me a mug of joe, sailor. I'll take the wheel."

      "I'll pass the word, sir."

      "Nuts you'll pass the word, sailor. Go get the coffee—and I want it now and not when some steward's mate decides he's ready to bring it."

      "Aye, aye, sir." Orsino heard him clatter down the ladder. Then his arm was gripped and Grinnel's voice muttered in his ear: "When you hear me bitch about the coffee, sing out: 'Aircraft 265, DX 3,000'. Good and loud. No, don't stop looking. Repeat it."

      Orsino said, his eyes crossing on double images of the meaningless, luminous blobs: "Aircraft 265, DX 3,000. Good and loud. When you bitch about the coffee."

      "Right. Don't forget it."

      He heard the feet on the ladder again. "Coffee, sir."

      "Thanks, sailor." A long sip and then another. "I always said the pigboats drink the lousiest joe in the Navy."

      "Aircraft 265, DX 3,000!" Orsino yelled.

      A thunderous alarm began to sound. "Take her down!" yelled Commander Grinnel.

      "Take her down, sir!" the helmsman echoed. "But sir, the skipper—"

      Orsino remembered him too then, dead asleep in his cot on the deck, the muscle twitching the left side of his face every few seconds.

      "God-damn it, those were aircraft! Take her down!"

      The luminous blobs and numbers and arrows swirled before Orsino's eyes as the trim of the ship changed, hatches clanged to and water thundered into the ballast tanks. He staggered and caught himself as the deck angled sharply underfoot.

      He knew what Grinnel had meant by saying he was uncommitted, and he knew now that it was no longer true.

      He thought for a moment that he might be sick into the face-fitting box, but it passed.

      Minutes later, Grinnel was on the mike, his voice sounding metallically through the ship: "To all hands. To all hands. This is Commander Grinnel. We lost the skipper in that emergency dive—but you and I know that that's the way he would have wanted it. As senior line officer aboard, I'm assuming command for the rest of the voyage. We will remain submerged until dark. Division officers report to the wardroom. That's all."

      He tapped Orsino on the shoulder. "Take off," he said. Orsino realized that the green blobs—clouds, were they?—no longer showed, and recalled that radar didn't work through water.

      He wasn't in on the wardroom meeting, and wandered rather forlornly through the ship, incredibly jammed as it was with sleeping men, coffee-drinking men and booty. Half a dozen times he had to turn away close questioning about his radar experience and the appearance of the aircraft on the radar scope. Each time he managed it, with the feeling that one more question would have cooked his goose.

      The men weren't sentimental about the skipper they had lost. Mostly they wondered how much of a cut Grinnel would allot them from the booty of Cape Cod.

      At last the word passed for "Wyman" to report to the captain's cabin. He did, sweating after a fifteen-minute chat with a radar technician.

      Grinnel closed the door of the minute cabin and smirked at him. "You have trouble, Wyman?" he asked.

      "Yes."

      "You'd have worse trouble if they found out for sure that you don't know radar. I'd be in the clear. I could tell them you claimed to be a qualified radar man. That would make me out to be pretty gullible, but it would make you out to be a murderer. Who's backing you, Wyman? Who told you to get rid of the skipper?"

      "Quite right, sir," Orsino said. "You've really got me there."

      "Glad you realize it, Wyman. I've got you and I can use you. It was a great bit of luck, the skipper corking off on deck. But I've always had a talent for improvisation. If you're determined to be a leader, Wyman, nothing is more valuable. Do you know, I can relax with you? It's a rare feeling. For once I can be certain that the man I'm talking to isn't one of Loman's stooges, or one of Clinch's N.A.B.I. ferrets or anything else but what he says he is—

      "But that's beside the point. I have something else to tell you. There are two sides to working for me, Wyman. One of them's punishment if you get off the track. That's been made clear to you. The other is reward if you stay on. I have plans, Wyman, that are large-scale. They simply eclipse the wildest hopes of Loman, Clinch, Baggot and the rest. And yet, they're not wild. How'd you like to be on the inside when the North American Government returns to the mainland?"

      Orsino uttered an authentic gasp and Commander Grinnel looked satisfied.