unsure of his surroundings. He led her into the Ladies’ Lounge. “I think this must be it.”
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you ever been in here before?”
He shook his head. “Brandy?”
“Double,” she said. “With ice, and just a little water. Don’t you come in here?”
“I’ve never been in here,” he told her.
“Don’t you ever want to go out on a bender?” she enquired. “In the evenings, when you’ve got nothing to do?”
“I used to just at first,” he admitted. “But then I went up to the city for it. Don’t mess on your own doorstep. I gave it up after a week or two. It wasn’t very satisfactory.”
“What do you do in the evenings, when the ship’s not at sea?” she asked.
“Read a magazine, or else maybe a book. Sometimes we go out and take in a movie.” The barman came, and he ordered her brandy, with a small whisky for himself.
“It all sounds very unhealthy,” she observed. “I’m going to the Ladies. Look after my bag.”
He managed to detach her from the hotel after her second double brandy and took her into the dockyard and to
Sydney
, hoping that she would behave herself in front of his officers. But he need have had no fears; she was demure and courteous to all the Americans. Only to Osborne did she reveal her real self.
“Hullo, John,” she said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m part of the ship’s company,” he told her. “Scientific observation. Making a nuisance of myself generally.”
“That’s what Commander Towers told me,” she observed. “You’re really going to live with them in the submarine? For days on end?”
“So it seems.”
“Do they know your habits?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“All right, I won’t tell them. It’s nothing to do with me.” She turned away to talk to Commander Lundgren.
When he offered her a drink she chose an orangeade; she made an attractive picture in the wardroom of
Sydney
that morning, drinking with the Americans, standing beneath the portrait of the Queen. While she was occupied the captain drew his liaison officer to one side. “Say,” he observed in a low tone, “she can’t go down in
Scorpion
in those clothes. Can you rustle up an overall for her?”
Peter nodded. “I’ll draw a boiler suit. About size one, I should think. Where’s she going to change?”
The captain rubbed his chin. “Do you know any place?”
“Nothing better than your sleeping cabin, sir. She wouldn’t be disturbed there.”
“I’ll never hear the last of it—from her.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” said Peter.
She lunched with the Americans at the end of one of the long tables, and took coffee with them in the ante-room. Then the junior officers dispersed to go about their business, and she was left with Dwight and Peter. Peter laid a clean, laundered boiler suit upon the table. “There’s the overall,” he said.
Dwight cleared his throat. “It’s hable to be greasy in a submarine, Miss Davidson,” he said.
“Moira,” she interrupted.
“Okay, Moira. I was thinking maybe you should go down in an overall. I’m afraid you might get that dress pretty dirty down in
Scorpion.”
She took the boiler suit and unfolded it. “It’s a comprehensive change,” she observed. “Where can I put it on?”
“I was thinking you might use my sleeping cabin,” he suggested. “You wouldn’t be disturbed there.”
“I hope not, but I wouldn’t be too sure,” she said. “Not after what happened in the boat.” He laughed. “All right, Dwight, lead me to it. I’ll try everything once.”
He took her to the cabin and went back to the anteroom himself to wait for her. In the little sleeping cabin she looked about her curiously. There were photographs there, four of them. All showed a dark haired young woman with two children, a boy eight or nine years oldand a girl a couple of years younger. One was a studio portrait of a mother with two children. The others were enlargements of
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you ever been in here before?”
He shook his head. “Brandy?”
“Double,” she said. “With ice, and just a little water. Don’t you come in here?”
“I’ve never been in here,” he told her.
“Don’t you ever want to go out on a bender?” she enquired. “In the evenings, when you’ve got nothing to do?”
“I used to just at first,” he admitted. “But then I went up to the city for it. Don’t mess on your own doorstep. I gave it up after a week or two. It wasn’t very satisfactory.”
“What do you do in the evenings, when the ship’s not at sea?” she asked.
“Read a magazine, or else maybe a book. Sometimes we go out and take in a movie.” The barman came, and he ordered her brandy, with a small whisky for himself.
“It all sounds very unhealthy,” she observed. “I’m going to the Ladies. Look after my bag.”
He managed to detach her from the hotel after her second double brandy and took her into the dockyard and to
Sydney
, hoping that she would behave herself in front of his officers. But he need have had no fears; she was demure and courteous to all the Americans. Only to Osborne did she reveal her real self.
“Hullo, John,” she said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m part of the ship’s company,” he told her. “Scientific observation. Making a nuisance of myself generally.”
“That’s what Commander Towers told me,” she observed. “You’re really going to live with them in the submarine? For days on end?”
“So it seems.”
“Do they know your habits?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“All right, I won’t tell them. It’s nothing to do with me.” She turned away to talk to Commander Lundgren.
When he offered her a drink she chose an orangeade; she made an attractive picture in the wardroom of
Sydney
that morning, drinking with the Americans, standing beneath the portrait of the Queen. While she was occupied the captain drew his liaison officer to one side. “Say,” he observed in a low tone, “she can’t go down in
Scorpion
in those clothes. Can you rustle up an overall for her?”
Peter nodded. “I’ll draw a boiler suit. About size one, I should think. Where’s she going to change?”
The captain rubbed his chin. “Do you know any place?”
“Nothing better than your sleeping cabin, sir. She wouldn’t be disturbed there.”
“I’ll never hear the last of it—from her.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” said Peter.
She lunched with the Americans at the end of one of the long tables, and took coffee with them in the ante-room. Then the junior officers dispersed to go about their business, and she was left with Dwight and Peter. Peter laid a clean, laundered boiler suit upon the table. “There’s the overall,” he said.
Dwight cleared his throat. “It’s hable to be greasy in a submarine, Miss Davidson,” he said.
“Moira,” she interrupted.
“Okay, Moira. I was thinking maybe you should go down in an overall. I’m afraid you might get that dress pretty dirty down in
Scorpion.”
She took the boiler suit and unfolded it. “It’s a comprehensive change,” she observed. “Where can I put it on?”
“I was thinking you might use my sleeping cabin,” he suggested. “You wouldn’t be disturbed there.”
“I hope not, but I wouldn’t be too sure,” she said. “Not after what happened in the boat.” He laughed. “All right, Dwight, lead me to it. I’ll try everything once.”
He took her to the cabin and went back to the anteroom himself to wait for her. In the little sleeping cabin she looked about her curiously. There were photographs there, four of them. All showed a dark haired young woman with two children, a boy eight or nine years oldand a girl a couple of years younger. One was a studio portrait of a mother with two children. The others were enlargements of
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