Читать книгу Cruise Doctor - Kerry Mitchell - Страница 4

The shipping company manager eyed the rugged good looks of the auburn-haired young man sitting opposite him.

“You’ve had no sea experience then, Dr. Grady?” he asked.

“No. Except for a passage to Korea.”

The shipping company manager scanned the forms on his desk, his face bright and hard as a new quarter.

Hiding his impatience, Dr. Ben Grady looked out through the window. Ten floors up, he could look down on the whole of Los Angeles’ Long Beach; on to the seaward arc of Rainbow Pier, almost two miles long, and Pierpoint Landing stalking on long legs into the sea. Beyond Rainbow loomed the fantastically rich reservoir of Signal Hill, the oil wells making of it a giant pincushion.

“Medical school?” The nasal voice rasped into his consciousness.

“Cornell,” Grady answered automatically. “Look,” he said, frowning, “you’ve got all this in my application.”

“Yes,” murmured the manager, making notes with his ball-point, and Grady got the impression he was double-checking, waiting for a discrepancy. “Where did you learn about our vacancy?”

“My brother pointed it out to me.”

“Ah yes, your brother. Dr. Frank Grady—perhaps you are not aware that it was your brother’s recommendation which got you this position?”

If the manager expected any complex reaction he was disappointed. Ben Grady grinned equably and said:

“Sure I am. He usually has a hand in these appointments.” Unconsciously Grady stretched out his right leg a little. “Seems then I get the job?”

The manager had noticed the leg movement. “M’mm,” he hedged, “Your leg . . . I noticed a slight limp when you came in?”

The query hung between them. Grady was used to it, and was becoming a little tired of explaining his limp wherever he applied for a locum post, but he admitted the right of this man to know the facts. The Pacific was not always pacific. Ships, even luxury pleasure liners, roll.

“Nothing to worry about there,” he offered his stock reply, “the semitendinosus was damaged a bit, but a surgeon in Pusan did a good job of suturing.”

“The semi . . . ? What’s that? What happened?”

Grady answered in a flat professional tone, as if he were describing his injury for the first time:

“The semitendinosus is a muscle in the back of the thigh. It bends the lower leg toward the thigh, helping to lift the foot in walking. Mine stopped a bit of MIG cannon shell over Korea. I can’t run a one-minute mile, but apart from that the leg is back to normal. You could,” he said with a jibe of humor in his blue eyes, “check on that with my brother.”

The shrewd, hard face looked at him severely. “There will be no need of that. What is needed, Dr. Grady, is an appreciation of the importance of this interview.”

Grady drew in his horns at once. He wanted this job. “Certainly”—he smiled respectfully—“at your service.”

The manager nodded. That’s better, the gesture said. He lifted one hand and shot his cuff. Grady expected it to snap out on to the desk. It merely reached the knuckles. The ball-point tapped at the filled-in application form.

“You have done a lot of locum tenens work, Doctor. In fact, you seem to specialize in it. Why is that?”

“Several reasons,” Grady answered easily. “The main one is to gain experience. Not only surgical and medical experience,” he said a little quickly, “I think you will find my professional qualifications satisfactory. I mean experience of people and places. They both interest me. Then, of course, I like to travel about. Got the bug in Korea, I guess. I’m not ready to settle down just yet.”

“That surprises me, Doctor. I see you are thirty years of age—surely with your brother so well-established in New York . . . ?”

Grady had gone through this a dozen times also, but he had to remember that the interviewer was always hearing it for the first time.

“Yes,” he said, “Frank would like me to go into practice with him. Maybe one day I will. But not yet.” He shifted in his chair. “Frank mentioned that Pacific Queen’s regular surgeon is ashore with appendicitis. I’d sure like to take his place on this trip to Australia and back.”

“M’mm.” The ball-point was laid down, taken up again. The other cuff jerked down into full view. Nervomuscular malfunction, Grady diagnosed automatically—slight, as yet, caused by responsibility, over-work, parent-bucking daughter or a wife. Duodenal ulcer coming up.

“M’mm,” the manager said again. He looked up at Grady over his spectacles, and there was no malfunction in his eyes—they were narrowed, and keen and shrewd. “This is a pleasure cruise, Doctor. The passengers are wealthy, used to getting what they want. There should be little or no surgery, but you may have to deal with—ah—hypochondriacs.” His tone became crisp. “Will your medical sensibilities be offended by this sort of practice?”

Grady was ahead of him. He had just spent a hard and thankless month in a farming community in Minnesota. For a cruise across the Pacific and back he would deal with hundreds of hypochondriacs. Yet his answer was sincere.

“Not at all. There is a school of medical thought which subscribes to the belief that hypochondriacs may be, in their way, ill. Or at least, not normal. I go along with that. If they think they’re sick I’ll listen to ’em.”

“Good, I see you understand.” For the first time the manager smiled. “We must remember that our customers are always right. They are out for pleasure, they are paying for it, we must see that they get it. Now. You will be in uniform, of course—here is an order for that, second floor—but you will understand that you are a minor cog in the officer hierarchy.”

“Fair enough”—Grady grinned—“just so long as I rate a surgery.”

“Sickbay, Doctor,” the manager corrected mildly. “In that connection it will help your position if you learn as many sea terms as possible. Passengers expect you to talk about the starb’d side, not the right-hand edge of the boat. Clear?”

“Perfectly.” Now that his appointment was confirmed Grady wanted to get away from this dry, shrewd fellow and settle himself among his new shipmates. He could not remember feeling so eager to commence a locum. There would be little surgery, but a ton of novelty. After Minnesota this would be paradise. And he’d earned it. Excitement was moving nervily in him.

“Very well then, Dr. Grady. There is nothing else. You can see Pacific Queen from the window there. Report on board to Captain Faulkner as soon as you are outfitted with uniforms. You’ll be sailing for Hawaii at eleven tomorrow morning. Or . . .” shooting another cuff, offering another wintry smile, “should we say six bells?” The smile died. “That is all, Doctor.”

Grady stood up. But neither of those cuffed hands was extended to take his. Grinning inwardly, remembering his minor-cog position, he went out of the office and closed the door quietly. Two hours later, white uniforms in a separate suitcase, he stood on the pier beside his luggage and paid off the cab. Then he looked up at his new home.

Grady knew a little more about ships than he had intimated during the interview. Ten years ago the identification of size and speed and course of ships had been a necessary prerequisite for him to pilot a rocket-firing Sabre jet, and as he looked at the lines of Pacific Queen Grady knew that she would be fast, and about fifteen thousand tons. White and gleaming in the warm June afternoon, she was not a huge ocean liner, just the right comfortable size for a privileged couple of hundred.

“Nice,” he murmured aloud, “very nice.” Still looking at the ship, he picked up his bags and stepped forward straight into a screech of brakes.

“Tired of it all, Mac?” a saw-edged voice inquired.

It was so close that as Grady swung round one of his suitcases struck the car’s fender. And the voice further inquired:

“Taking it out on the car? Better you should take out more insurance, Mac.”

The cynical jeer of the voice brought Grady out of his shock at his close escape. The knowledge that he was to blame made him feel foolish, and that, since he was a normal young man, made him feel angry. Still clutching his bags he stepped toward the driver’s seat.

It was then he saw several things. The vehicle which might have ended his cruise before it had begun was not a cab, but a Cadillac. The voice belonged to a smartly dark-uniformed driver. He was jumping from the car, but he was ignoring his near-victim, concentrating instead on opening the rear door of the big car.

From the car came a shapely pair of legs, then the owner followed her smooth-clad extremities. And all that Ben Grady could think of at that moment of revelation was that the face fitted perfectly those beautiful legs. As the girl smoothed her skirt and looked at him, he saw that she was young, not yet twenty, with golden hair and one of the most freshly lovely faces he had been privileged to stare at.

She seemed used to that characteristic reaction from male scanners. She said, her smooth line of eyebrows drawn together a little in concern:

“You’re not hurt?”

There should have been a rain of silver music from tinkling bells along that eminently practical pier. Grady was disappointed. The voice was pleasant, but patently it issued from a normally human larynx. He recovered himself.

“Yes. Yes, thanks, I’m quite okay. Just a near-miss.”

“Power brakes,” muttered the chauffeur, as his hand went in to help a second passenger alight.

“Thank heavens for that,” the girl was saying, “I thought we had you on the hood for a mascot.”

Grady smiled automatically. His eyes were on the other passenger. He knew even before she came into full view what she would be—loveliness like this, and so young, would probably be traveling accompanied. The woman stepped on to the pier; comfortably plump, expensively dressed, middle-aged, yet something in the form of her face that suggested an earlier and familiar beauty.

She came up to the girl while the chauffeur busied himself with luggage in the trunk. She examined Ben Grady in an automatic reflex reaction: a shepherd studying a possible wolf. She saw the cut of his linen suit and the assured intelligence in his rugged good looks; the clean athleticness of his big frame.

“You are a passenger, too?” she asked.

“No.” Grady smiled. “I’m the ship’s doc . . . surgeon.”

The corners of the girl’s eyes crinkled and her nose twitched at him.

“How nice. My name is Beth Goodrich. This is my aunt, Mrs. Kenyon. Perhaps we’ll see something of you during the cruise?”

“Not professionally, I hope,” Mrs. Kenyon put in before he could answer, “Doctor . . . ?”

“Grady. Ben Grady.”

This was a good start.

“Glad to meet you, Doctor,” Mrs. Kenyon said dryly. “I certainly didn’t expect to run into the ship’s surgeon like this. Well, come on now, honey. We’d better get on board and I’m sure the doctor has things to do. Charles, the small luggage in the cabin first.”

“Yes, madam,” the chauffeur answered, in a tone different from his greeting of Grady. They moved off toward the gangway. Behind Charles and his shining leather luggage Grady carried his own weathered suitcases.

At the head of the gangway an officer in immaculate white met the ladies and ushered them along the deck. A seaman met Grady.

“Passenger, sir?” he asked, and his eyes on the suitcases belied the need of the question. But his eyes snapped up to a hard, browned, understanding face when Grady said coolly:

“No, ship’s surgeon. My cabin, please.”

There was a whip of ex-officer and operating-room authority in that tone. The seaman recognized it.

“Yes, sir. Will you follow me?”

The seaman took his luggage and led Grady to his cabin. It was small but comfortable. To a man used to berthing in a room behind the surgery of a country practice this berth sailed close to luxury. There was a single bunk, a wash-basin, a separate shower recess and toilet, a desk and a daybed opposite the bunk. And all, from the carpet on the deck to the curtains at the porthole and the covers on the daybed cushions, was spotlessly clean.

Plushness for passengers, self-respecting comfort for officers, Grady judged, a little cynically. What he did now know was that the shipping company manager had been as interested in the tone of his voice and the cut of his clothes as he had been in his medical qualifications. Pacific Queen was a class ship. She must not be let down by her officers.

He got out his uniforms and laid one of them across the bunk. The drill was immaculately white, the buttons gleamed golden. For a moment he felt a little foolish. He was a surgeon, not a ship’s officer. He knew nothing of seamanship or navigation or cargo stowage. His specialty was in a different province, his uniform a sterile gown.

But he was a ship’s officer. A member of the staff, the crew. Everything these shorebound passengers had read or learned about a ship and the sea tended to focus their minds on one dominant equation—discipline. From the captain down through the first officer and the third engineer and the quartermaster—discipline. Uniformed and recognizable. A patient did not expect a surgeon to enter the operating room in flannels and open shirt. He expected the uniform of gown and mask and cap. The passengers would be the same here, looking for white drill and gold buttons. And anyway, Grady thought with a twitch of his mouth, it looked a damned fine uniform.

He showered quickly and put on the uniform. And now there was no vestige left of that feeling of foolishness. It was an honorable dress he was in; he wore now the marks of one who served the austere servitude of the sea, a profession older, and as noble, as his own.

But there was something else. As he put on the peaked cap and studied himself in the mirror above the basin, the years abruptly telescoped backward, back into the times in the mess in Pusan, and Pyong-Yang. It was different, but it was a uniform, one which men had been proud to wear in that war, and the war before it. It was pleasant to be officially dressed again.

“Patriotic, yet,” he muttered in deprecation of his thoughts, and went out in search of the captain’s cabin.

Fifteen thouand tons is a lot of ship, and he might have been still searching when it reached Hawaii if the seaman at the gangway had not seen and recognized his perplexed frown as Grady stared along the vast reach of deck. Remembering that earlier tone, the seaman asked politely:

“Can I help you, sir?”

“You certainly can,” Grady answered thankfully, “where’s the captain’s cabin? He’s here? I mean on board?”

“Yes, sir. This way.”

They moved off. It was a sweet berth, and the seaman could see no sound reason why he should not be on the right side of an officer, no matter how green and insignificant. As they went he offered sea-marks.

“This is the main deck, sir. Just past the lounge—bar’s in there—this ladder here leads up to the boat deck.” They climbed it, the seaman running, Grady moving more slowly, leaning sideways a little as he favored his leg. “Boat deck, sir. They have dancing 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 uniform, is your own business. But on board your attitude—the attitude of all my officers—will be completely circumspect. This is no ordinary vessel,” he repeated, “and it will not be let down by its officers.”

With a gesture of finality Faulkner crossed his legs. For the first time Bedloe spoke.

“But you can dance with the ladies,” he said, and smiled.

Grady glanced down at him. He saw a medium-sized man in a well-cut uniform, with a sharp, good-looking face. Grady noted those things automatically. His attention was on that smile. The feeling was vague, undefined; but he began to think he might not like Bedloe.

Bedloe was still looking at him. “Extracurricular duties, eh?” Grady murmured, his expression neutral. “It shouldn’t be hard to take.” He glanced at Faulkner. “I’d like to take a look at the sickbay, sir.”

“Do that,” Faulkner nodded, “you’ll find it well supplied. I’d like it to be that way when we get back here.” At Grady’s frown of puzzlement the captain went on:

“You might as well know it right off, Grady. I’m a company man. And the company wants to make money. I don’t like waste of any of the ship’s supplies. So where a pink pill will do, don’t use penicillin. You’re with me?”

Once again Grady reserved judgment. Again he was telling himself that his experience of ship commanders was meager, that Faulkner could be wholly within his rights in this anti-waste campaign. His reference to pink pills and penicillin had been facetious. Hadn’t it?

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ll watch it.”

“Fine.” Faulkner nodded, and with the gesture dismissed him. His expression as Grady turned to leave was genial.

It was that expression which was exercising Grady’s mind as he climbed slowly down the ladder to the boat deck. In the main Faulkner’s manner had been pleasant enough. And there was no doubt about the geniality in his face at the end. There was only one slight hitch—Faulkner’s geniality had not quite reached his eyes.

But then what in hell did he expect? Grady deprecated his analysis. Faulkner was in charge of this floating Waldorf and its two hundred guests, responsible for their safety over thousands of miles of ocean. He had to fling his arms round the neck of the newest, greenest recruit to his seasoned team? Had to crinkle his eyes with his smile, make like the jovial uncle? Still, Grady thought as he headed for the seaman at the gangway, those were definitely cold eyes.

He came up to the gangway and the seaman saw him coming and with a movement he tried to make casual turned his back on him, staring intently at nothing on the pier. Grady was not deceived, but his tone was affable.

“Sorry to bother you again, but I’d like you to show me the sickbay.”

“Yes, sir,” the seaman answered, just failing to keep the resignation from his voice. “This way.”

He headed again toward the bridge, but this time turned in through a wide doorway. Following him, Grady stepped into the main lounge. In a quick study he noted a plenitude of tables, chairs, settees, and at the forward end a long bar which reached right across the room. There were a dozen or so people in the place.

At the head of a companionway leading down, Grady asked:

“These people are passengers?”

“Yes, sir.”

They moved down the broad staircase. “Bit early, isn’t it? We don’t sail till tomorrow.”

“Our passengers come from all over the States,” the seaman informed over his shoulder, “arrivin’ tomorrow cuts it a bit fine.”

His voice was resigned; a father answering a dopey son who’d asked if there were animals in the zoo. Yet Grady said pleasantly:

“I see. Should have realized that.”

The answer, the tone, took the wind out of the seaman’s superior sails; as Grady had intended it should. Elementary psychology. At the foot of the companionway, the seaman halted and grinned with friendliness.

“There’s another reason,” he told his pupil, “it gives ’em the chance to throw a farewell party on board. You sleep well, Doc?” he asked suddenly.

“Reasonably well. Why?”

“Could be you’ll need one of your own pills if you don’t. She’ll be a rip-roaring old night tonight, that you believe!”

They moved along a passage, Grady fixing identification points in his memory. “Course a lot of the passengers are a bit old for that sort of thing,” the seaman chatted on, “but they have one hell of a lot of friends ashore.” He halted, his hand on the knob of a white-painted door. “And there are the passengers like the one who came up the gangway just ahead of you. Some peachie, huh?”

“Yes,” Grady answered, a trifle curtly. The owner of a pair of cold eyes might not favor this discussion between officer and seaman. “This is the sickbay?”

“Sure is. And, sir . . . ?”

“What is it?”

“Think you could find your own way about now? They’ll be pourin’ on board any minute and I gotta be up there.”

“Of course,” Grady said, “I’ll get by. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time,” the seaman lied automatically, and hurried off. Grady opened the door.

Once again he was impressed initially by size. His knowledge of sickbays was confined to brief sojourns in warships on active service, where only emergency surgery was performed; a couple of bunks, a narrow operating table which could be bolted to the deck.

Here there were at least a dozen bunks, ranged in tiers of three, supported at each end by strong steel stanchions, swinging in gimbals so that the ship would roll round them, leaving the patient comparatively stable. He closed the door quietly behind him, and stared.

Astonished, then pleased, he took in the accouterments of a compartment which any small-town hospital would envy: sterilizers, anesthetic machine secured to a bulkhead, cupboards fully equipped—one of them boasting a coldly gleaming array of surgical instruments—carpet on the deck, individual lights for each bunk, curtains on the portholes, and—damn it, it was!—in one corner a small X-ray machine.

“Good God!” he said, involuntarily and aloud.

As if in answer to this claim on the Deity a woman appeared in a doorway at the end of the room. She saw him, and frowned. Then understanding cleared her face and she came toward him.

“Dr. Grady?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, smiling, his eyes examining. She was a middle-aged, plump and matronly woman in nurse’s uniform; her hair gray, her face lined and friendly. Carried on board more for handling fractious children than a pair of forceps, Grady judged, quite without irritation—it was unlikely there would be any operative procedures, let alone major surgery.

“I’m your nurse, Dorothy Talbot. Welcome aboard, Doctor.”

Suddenly, after the superiority of Faulkner and Bedloe, he found it pleasant to be called by his title, and in his own inviolate domain—his bridge. Grady owned a warm smile, and now it sparkled at her.

“Nice to see I’ve got help, Miss Talbot.” His hand moved in a small embracing arc. “But this . . .”

She matched his smile. “Don’t worry, Doctor, you won’t be using it.”

“Then why . . . ?”

She shrugged. “No reason, except that it helps them to know it’s here. This is no ordinary vessel, Doctor,” she pronounced in a sepulchral voice, and Grady’s eyes squinted at her. It could not be, of course, a good imitation, but there was another difference—Miss Talbot’s smile was glinting in her eyes. “No ordinary vessel, at all, Doctor, and its appointments must match the wallets of those who sail in it. Ah . . .” she broke off. “You have seen, the captain?”

“Twice.” Grady laughed. This feeling was clearly defined—he was going to like Miss Talbot.

“Swell,” she said, “now come see the rest of it.”

“There’s more?”

“This way, sir.” She moved off, obviously pleased at his surprise. “Up forrard here,” halting in the doorway from which she had emerged, and repeating his hand gesture, “we have the operating room.”

Grady stared; his eyes squinted and his mouth opened. He did not speak. Frank—yes, Frank, he thought in his wonderment—would not turn up his Cornellian nose at this. Even to his first swift stare it was obvious that this was a real operating room, and superbly equipped.

Miss Talbot looked up at him from her short height, sidelong humor mixed a little with irony in the lift of her eyebrow.

“We can inspect it fully later, Doctor,” she said. “Now if you’ll kindly come down aft . . .”

Obediently Grady followed her through the sickbay between the empty bunks. In the cream-painted bulkhead there was another door. With a gesture Miss Talbot threw it open. Grady stepped in.

“Holy mackerel!” he exclaimed.

It was all there, beautifully appointed. Desk with swivel chair, two large leather armchairs, padded examination table, scales, screen, a cupboard of instruments—he could see the blood-pressure apparatus—even a bookcase in which heavy medical tomes gleamed their gold-lettered spines at him.

“Consulting room!”

“Nothing but, Doctor.” She moved in beside him, needlessly straightening on the otherwise virgin desk a crested ash tray. “You’ll do most of your medicine in here. Mostly, all it requires is a patient and sympathetic ear.”

Wonderingly Grady examined the instrument cupboard, while the nurse stood back near the door, smiling, her eyes on the clean and manly size of him, noting the dark auburn hair and the rugged face and the look of competence about him which sat easily and naturally on his bigness. Shrewdly mature, she judged the long straight nose and the jutting jaw which was relieved by the sensitivity of his mouth. Strong, she thought—and probably understanding with women and kids. He’d need to be.

Unaware of this other examination, Grady wandered past the bookcase. Toxicology, surgery, pathology, anatomy, dietetics, physical therapy—there was even Ponsford’s Textbook of Obstetrics. They were all modern volumes, brand-new, and, by the look of them, unopened. He came back to Miss Talbot.

“Satisfied?” She smiled.

“No—envious.” He glanced keenly at the nurse. “Pity it has to be wasted. Without much effort I could think of twenty surgeries where this stuff would be a godsend.”

She nodded, then she said flatly:

“I wouldn’t concern myself too much with other surgeries’ lack of equipment, Doctor.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just this. You’ve got a fully equipped set-up. If we do run into serious trouble, you’ll be expected to fix it, right here. The captain and the company won’t take any excuses.”

Her voice was casual but her eyes were shrewd. She knew that she would learn a good deal about this new man in the next few seconds.

“Fair enough,” Grady answered easily. “Don’t wish anyone any harm, but a neat little adrenalectomy might liven things up a bit on the bounding main.”

“Adrenalectomy,” she snorted, satisfied. “I should hope not! Ah—you like surgery?”

“Specialized in it.”

“I see. How come you take a berth like this then?”

“I can see I’d better satisfy your curiosity right off,” he said and grinned. “But let’s consult in my consulting room. That chair please, madam.”

She sat down in the armchair and he went behind the desk. She shook her head at the proffered cigarette and he lit one himself.

“Let’s say I’m a perennial and peregrinating locum tenens. Thought this would be a new experience.”

“It certainly will be. There’s not much hope of surgery, but every chance of getting spliced.”

He smiled. “I notice you are familiar with sea-terms.”

“Ten years at sea, girl and woman.”

“Well, well. Maybe you’ll give me some language instruction.”

“Pleasure, Doctor.” She paused, looking sideways at the deck. He was mildly surprised to see she was frowning.

“Come now, Miss Talbot, it won’t be such a chore. Already I know port from starb’d, the bow from the stern.”

With a small quick gesture she shook her head. Then she looked directly at him. Behind his equable expression Grady was suddenly alert.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Look, Doctor, you might as well know this right off. You seem a nice young man and it’s only fair you should know.” She paused, wetting her lips, while he waited, wondering what was coming. Then she went on quickly, as though anxious to get it out.

“You say you’re a surgeon. It’s been a long time since I was in an operating room—a hell of a long time. I wouldn’t be much use to you. In fact, no damn use at all. I’m not much better than a baby-sitter aboard.” She looked up at him, entreaty in her wrinkled eyes. “But this is a sweet berth—everything found, a bed, a good salary. I have no one ashore. . . .”

Grady would never make the perfect surgeon—though experienced, he still retained some sensitiveness. He saw the concern in Miss Talbot’s eyes and he swallowed and said gently:

“You don’t have to worry, Miss Talbot—for two good reasons.”

“Oh?”

“First, I admire and respect your honesty. You must have been a damn fine nurse. Second, I’m used to operating without assistance.”

There was surprise in her relief. “Without any assistance?”

Grady ashed his cigarette. “Being a locum in backwoods practices has its advantages,” he explained. “But anyway, you said yourself there’s not much chance of surgery.”

“That’s right,” she agreed. Relief was palpable in her face. “Dr. Fenton—he’s the man you’re relieving for this trip—never ran into anything.” She smiled brightly, back to her motherly self. “Sea air and no worries are fine for business ulcers. The first week you’ll have a crop of stubbed toes—ringbolts in the deck, things like that—but from then on you can sit back and enjoy yourself.”

Maybe, Grady thought, she thinks that’s all I signed on for. And maybe she’s right, he grinned to himself. He glanced at his watch.

“Six o’clock. What time’s dinner?”

“Eight onward. But mostly they sit down around nine—after cocktails. The ship could float on what one cruise load gets through. By the way, you’ve got your table?”

He hadn’t thought of it. “No. Who do I see about that?”

“Normally the purser. But you’re on the strength. You’d better see the chief officer. In fact,” nodding, “you had better see the chief officer. Mr. Bedloe doesn’t like anyone going over—or under—his head.”

So, Grady thought, Mr. Bedloe was not quite the well-uniformed nonentity he had seemed to be in the captain’s cabin. But that figured—you didn’t get to be chief officer through your good looks. He filed the information away for possible reference. As he stubbed his cigarette and stood up Ben Grady had, fortunately, no prior knowledge of just how soon he would be consulting that reference. . . .

“Well,” he said, “guess I’ll take a look around. Sooner or later someone in this labyrinth is going to tell me they’re lost.”

“Like me to come?”

“No, thanks,” he said easily and at once—he didn’t want his ignorance to be so obvious. “I’ll manage. By the way, anything I’m supposed to do?”

“Nothing. When we get to Hawaii the port doctor will require a clean bill of health for all hands, but until then, so long as someone doesn’t fall down a ladder, you’re free.”

“Like you said,” he said, grinning, “a sweet berth,” and went out.