gear."
"That'll work. Now, how do we get hold of it?"
"There is salvageable scrap stacked behind the Base," said Snow.
From the galley came the distant voice of Lamp asking watchstander Brace if there were later news on Clara .
Brace's voice, filled with hatred of paint, with frustration of green hair and stiff clothes, with anguish over the unfair death of dreams, and certainly with the violence that attends confusion, answered in a voice of low and malicious satisfaction.
"That's one we won't have to haul. That one isn't going to cause anybody much more trouble."
In the wardroom there was momentary silence.
"Excuse me, Captain. Chief." Snow picked up his coffee mug, stepped through the office and onto the messdeck, a man walking casually on an errand only a little less innocuous than the Creation. Like an inquiring, small brown towhee, he stopped before Brace and peered. Then, with distaste for either the man or the job, he backhanded Brace across the mouth. The blow seemed casual, light, and yet Brace's head was thrust as sharply as if he had been hit by a hatch cover. Brace recovered, started to rise, sat back down and looked upward at Snow through shock, as if questioning Snow's fortitude and his own.
"A man had to do that for me once, lad. I think to pass on the favor."
Brace sat dumb. Snow absentmindedly walked to the coffee urn, refilled his mug, and stepped back into the wardroom. Engineman striker McClean, normally quiet to the point of near idiocy, his long mulatto head and his jug ears as incongruous in society as his narrow fingers and thin wrists were around machinery, understood. "You've never seen a fire at sea," he told Brace.
"Please excuse it, Chief," Snow said to Dane. "The man is in your section."
"It's just against regs, is all," Dane mumbled.
"This is not the English navy," Levere said. "It isn't even the American navy. Did you have to do that, Chief?"
"I suppose I thought I must," Snow said. "Otherwise I would not."
Brace stood, nearly stumbled, looked amazed to find himself upright. He rubbed the red flush on his mouth and seemed to be counting his teeth. His eyes adjusted to his upright condition. His mouth pulled into a quavering line, and then his eyes reflected awe, or, it may be, understanding, but they certainly reflected one of the countless varieties of love. He walked in a tentative way through the office and to the open wardroom door. Knocked.
"You've been up to your white hat in troubles, sailor." Levere, normally remote and with full trust in his section leaders, and with a temper that was rare and thus awesome, did not like what he thought was about to happen.
"To speak to Chief Snow, sir." Brace stood erect, with outthrust and trembling lower jaw, as resolute-seeming (were it not for his green paint) as an advertisement for breakfast cereal. "I apologize," Brace said. "I deserved it."
"Indeed you did," Snow told him, "and the apology is accepted."
"Why do you apologize?" At close range Levere's face was always mildly shocking. Beneath the swarthy Frenchness, and under the flesh of the left cheek, a small and ulcerous growth caused one side of his face to seem swollen.
"Because I was wrong—sir."
"We know that, sailor. Do you understand why?"
Brace mumbled. It was only clear that he understood a compulsion of feeling, and was not, in his scarcely burnished cynicism, able to articulate his feeling.
"You are a crew member of this ship," Levere told him, "with rights as well as duties. Chief Snow is technically outside of regs. Do you want this logged?"
"No, Captain." Brace turned to Dane, and Brace's face for an instant was covered with despair. Then he squared his shoulders again, took a shallow breath. "I know what you think, Chief, but I've been trying. I really have been trying."
"Cows try," Dane told him. "When they plop in a field. Get turned-to on that paint."
Brace, shocked at being repulsed, his grand gesture lost in cow plop, began to slump
"That'll work. Now, how do we get hold of it?"
"There is salvageable scrap stacked behind the Base," said Snow.
From the galley came the distant voice of Lamp asking watchstander Brace if there were later news on Clara .
Brace's voice, filled with hatred of paint, with frustration of green hair and stiff clothes, with anguish over the unfair death of dreams, and certainly with the violence that attends confusion, answered in a voice of low and malicious satisfaction.
"That's one we won't have to haul. That one isn't going to cause anybody much more trouble."
In the wardroom there was momentary silence.
"Excuse me, Captain. Chief." Snow picked up his coffee mug, stepped through the office and onto the messdeck, a man walking casually on an errand only a little less innocuous than the Creation. Like an inquiring, small brown towhee, he stopped before Brace and peered. Then, with distaste for either the man or the job, he backhanded Brace across the mouth. The blow seemed casual, light, and yet Brace's head was thrust as sharply as if he had been hit by a hatch cover. Brace recovered, started to rise, sat back down and looked upward at Snow through shock, as if questioning Snow's fortitude and his own.
"A man had to do that for me once, lad. I think to pass on the favor."
Brace sat dumb. Snow absentmindedly walked to the coffee urn, refilled his mug, and stepped back into the wardroom. Engineman striker McClean, normally quiet to the point of near idiocy, his long mulatto head and his jug ears as incongruous in society as his narrow fingers and thin wrists were around machinery, understood. "You've never seen a fire at sea," he told Brace.
"Please excuse it, Chief," Snow said to Dane. "The man is in your section."
"It's just against regs, is all," Dane mumbled.
"This is not the English navy," Levere said. "It isn't even the American navy. Did you have to do that, Chief?"
"I suppose I thought I must," Snow said. "Otherwise I would not."
Brace stood, nearly stumbled, looked amazed to find himself upright. He rubbed the red flush on his mouth and seemed to be counting his teeth. His eyes adjusted to his upright condition. His mouth pulled into a quavering line, and then his eyes reflected awe, or, it may be, understanding, but they certainly reflected one of the countless varieties of love. He walked in a tentative way through the office and to the open wardroom door. Knocked.
"You've been up to your white hat in troubles, sailor." Levere, normally remote and with full trust in his section leaders, and with a temper that was rare and thus awesome, did not like what he thought was about to happen.
"To speak to Chief Snow, sir." Brace stood erect, with outthrust and trembling lower jaw, as resolute-seeming (were it not for his green paint) as an advertisement for breakfast cereal. "I apologize," Brace said. "I deserved it."
"Indeed you did," Snow told him, "and the apology is accepted."
"Why do you apologize?" At close range Levere's face was always mildly shocking. Beneath the swarthy Frenchness, and under the flesh of the left cheek, a small and ulcerous growth caused one side of his face to seem swollen.
"Because I was wrong—sir."
"We know that, sailor. Do you understand why?"
Brace mumbled. It was only clear that he understood a compulsion of feeling, and was not, in his scarcely burnished cynicism, able to articulate his feeling.
"You are a crew member of this ship," Levere told him, "with rights as well as duties. Chief Snow is technically outside of regs. Do you want this logged?"
"No, Captain." Brace turned to Dane, and Brace's face for an instant was covered with despair. Then he squared his shoulders again, took a shallow breath. "I know what you think, Chief, but I've been trying. I really have been trying."
"Cows try," Dane told him. "When they plop in a field. Get turned-to on that paint."
Brace, shocked at being repulsed, his grand gesture lost in cow plop, began to slump
Similar Books
