The submarine surfaced at dawn. Orsino had been assigned a bunk and, to
his surprise, had fallen asleep almost at once. At eight in the morning,
he was shaken awake by one of the men in caps.
"Shift change," the man explained laconically.
Orsino started to say something polite and sleepy. The man grabbed his
shoulder and rolled him onto the deck, snarling: "You going to _argue_?"
Orsino's reactions were geared to hot-rod polo--doing the split-second
right thing after instinctively evaluating the roll of the ball, the
ricochet of bullets, the probable tactics and strategy of the opposing
four. They were not geared to a human being who behaved with the blind
ferocity of an inanimate object. He just gawked at him from the deck,
noting that the man had one hand on a sheath knife.
"All right, buster," the man said contemptuously, apparently deciding
that Orsino would stay put. "Just don't mess with the Guard." He rolled
into the bunk and gave a good imitation of a man asleep until Orsino
worked his way through the crowded compartment and up a ladder to the
deck.
There was a heavy, gray over-cast. The submarine seemed to be planing
the water; salt spray washed the shining deck. A gun crew was forward,
drilling with a five-incher. The rasp of a petty-officer singing out the
numbers mingled with the hiss and gurgle of the spray. Orsino leaned
against the conning tower and tried to comb his thoughts out clean and
straight.
It wasn't easy.
He was Charles Orsino, very junior Syndic member, with all memories
pertaining thereto.
He was also, more dimly, Max Wyman with _his_ memories. Now, able to
stand outside of Wyman, he could recall how those memories had been
implanted--down to the last stab of the last needle. He thought some
very bitter thoughts about Lee Falcaro--and dropped them, snapping to
attention as Commander Grinnel pulled himself through the hatch. "Good
morning, sir," he said.
The cold eyes drilled him. "Rest," the commander said. "We don't play it
that way on a pigboat. I hear you had some trouble about your bunk."
Orsino shrugged uncomfortably.
"Somebody should have told you," the commander said. "The boat's full of
Guardsmen. They have a very high opinion of themselves--which is
correct. They carried off the raid in good style. You don't mess with
Guards."
"What are they?" Orsino asked.
Grinnel shrugged. "The usual elite," he said. "Loman's gang." He noted
Orsino's blank look and smiled coldly. "Loman's President of North
America," he said.
"On shore," Orsino hazarded, "we used to hear about somebody named Ben
Miller."
"Obsolete information. Miller had the Marines behind him. Loman was
Secretary of Defense. He beached the Marines and broke them up into
guard detachments. Took away their heavy weapons. Meanwhile, he built up
the Guard, very quietly--which, with the Secretary of Information behind
him, he could do. About two years ago, he struck. The Marines who didn't
join the Guard were massacred. Miller had the sense to kill himself. The
Veep and the Secretary of State resigned, but it didn't save their
necks. Loman assumed the Presidency automatically, of course, and had
them shot. They were corrupt as hell anyway. They were owned body and
soul by the southern bloc."
Two seamen appeared with a folding cot, followed by the sub commander.
He was red-eyed with lack of sleep. "Set it there," he told them, and
sat heavily on the sagging canvas. "Morning, Grinnel," he said with an
effort. "Believe I'm getting too old for the pigboats. I want sun and
air. Think you can use your influence at court to get me a corvette?" He
bared his teeth to show it was a joke.
Grinnel said, with a minimum smile: "If I had any influence, would I
catch the cloak-and-dagger crap they sling at me?"
The 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."