listened for a few moments, said thank you, hung up and turned round to find Nicolson standing beside him.
"Another distress signal," he said quickly. Nicolson's cold blue eyes always made him feel flustered. "Up north somewhere."
"Up north somewhere." Nicolson repeated the words, his tone almost conversationaal, but carrying an undertone that made Vannier squirm. "What position? What ship?" There was a sharp edge to Nicolson's voice now.
"I -- I don't know, I didn't ask,"
Nicolson looked at him for a long second, turned away, reached down the phone and began to crank the generator handle. Captain Findhorn beckoned to Vannier and waited until the boy had walked hesitantly across to his corner of the bridge.
"You should have asked, you know," the captain said pleasantly. "Why didn't you?"
"I didn't think it necessary, sir." Vannier was uncomfortable, on the defensive. "It's our fourth call today. You -- you ignored the others, so I------"
"True enough," Findhorn agreed. "It's a question of priorities, boy. I'm not going to risk a valuable ship, a priceless cargo and the lives of fifty men on the off-chance of picking up a couple of survivors from an inter-island steamer. But this might have been a troopship, or a cruiser. I know it's not, but it might have been. And it might have been in a position where we could have given some help without sticking our necks out too far. All improbable 'ifs' and 'mights', but we must know where she is and what she is before we make a decision." Findhorn smiled and touched the gold-braided epaulettes on his shoulders. "You know what these are for? "
"You make the decisions," Vannier said stiffly. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Forget it, boy. But one thing you might remember -- to call Mr. Nicolson 'sir' once in a while. It's -- ah -- expected."
Vannier flushed and turned away. "Sorry again, sir. I don't usually forget. I'm -- well, I think I'm just a little bit tired and edgy, sir."
"We all are," Findhorn said quietly. "And not a little bit, either. But Mr. Nicolson isn't -- he never is." He raised his voice. "Well, Mr. Nicolson?"
Nicolson hung up the receiver and turned round.
"If we go north, the chances of our getting as far as Rhio and back again are less than remote: they do not exist. Let us not deceive ourselves about that. It may be a trap -- it probably is: the Kerry Dancer left before us and she should have been through Rhio six hours ago. If it's not a trap, the probability is that the Kerry Dancer is at this moment sinking, or has sunk. Even if she is still afloat, fire will have forced passengers and crew to abandon ship. If they're just swimming around -- most of them wounded men -- there'll be mighty few of them left in the six or seven hours it would take us to get there."
Findhorn paused for some moments, lit a cigarette in defiance of the company's and his own regulations, and went on in the same flat monotone.
"They may have taken to their boats, if they had any boats left after bombs, machine-guns and fire had all had a go at them. Within a few hours all the survivors can land on any one of a score of islands. What chance have we got of finding the right island in total darkness in the middle of a storm, assuming that we were crazy enough; -- suicidal enough -- to move into the Rhio Straits and throw away all the sea-room we must have in the middle of a typhoon?" He grunted in irritation as spiralling smoke laced his tired eyes -- Captain Findhorn hadn't left the bridge all night -- gazed down with mild surprise, as if seeing it for the first time, at the cigarette clipped between his fingers, dropped it and ground it out with the heel of his white canvas shoe. He stared down at the crushed stub for long seconds after it had gone out, then looked up, his gaze travelling slowly round the four men in the wheelhouse. The gaze meant nothing -- Findhorn would never have included the quartermaster, bo'sun or the fourth officer in his counsels. "I can see no justification
"Another distress signal," he said quickly. Nicolson's cold blue eyes always made him feel flustered. "Up north somewhere."
"Up north somewhere." Nicolson repeated the words, his tone almost conversationaal, but carrying an undertone that made Vannier squirm. "What position? What ship?" There was a sharp edge to Nicolson's voice now.
"I -- I don't know, I didn't ask,"
Nicolson looked at him for a long second, turned away, reached down the phone and began to crank the generator handle. Captain Findhorn beckoned to Vannier and waited until the boy had walked hesitantly across to his corner of the bridge.
"You should have asked, you know," the captain said pleasantly. "Why didn't you?"
"I didn't think it necessary, sir." Vannier was uncomfortable, on the defensive. "It's our fourth call today. You -- you ignored the others, so I------"
"True enough," Findhorn agreed. "It's a question of priorities, boy. I'm not going to risk a valuable ship, a priceless cargo and the lives of fifty men on the off-chance of picking up a couple of survivors from an inter-island steamer. But this might have been a troopship, or a cruiser. I know it's not, but it might have been. And it might have been in a position where we could have given some help without sticking our necks out too far. All improbable 'ifs' and 'mights', but we must know where she is and what she is before we make a decision." Findhorn smiled and touched the gold-braided epaulettes on his shoulders. "You know what these are for? "
"You make the decisions," Vannier said stiffly. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Forget it, boy. But one thing you might remember -- to call Mr. Nicolson 'sir' once in a while. It's -- ah -- expected."
Vannier flushed and turned away. "Sorry again, sir. I don't usually forget. I'm -- well, I think I'm just a little bit tired and edgy, sir."
"We all are," Findhorn said quietly. "And not a little bit, either. But Mr. Nicolson isn't -- he never is." He raised his voice. "Well, Mr. Nicolson?"
Nicolson hung up the receiver and turned round.
"If we go north, the chances of our getting as far as Rhio and back again are less than remote: they do not exist. Let us not deceive ourselves about that. It may be a trap -- it probably is: the Kerry Dancer left before us and she should have been through Rhio six hours ago. If it's not a trap, the probability is that the Kerry Dancer is at this moment sinking, or has sunk. Even if she is still afloat, fire will have forced passengers and crew to abandon ship. If they're just swimming around -- most of them wounded men -- there'll be mighty few of them left in the six or seven hours it would take us to get there."
Findhorn paused for some moments, lit a cigarette in defiance of the company's and his own regulations, and went on in the same flat monotone.
"They may have taken to their boats, if they had any boats left after bombs, machine-guns and fire had all had a go at them. Within a few hours all the survivors can land on any one of a score of islands. What chance have we got of finding the right island in total darkness in the middle of a storm, assuming that we were crazy enough; -- suicidal enough -- to move into the Rhio Straits and throw away all the sea-room we must have in the middle of a typhoon?" He grunted in irritation as spiralling smoke laced his tired eyes -- Captain Findhorn hadn't left the bridge all night -- gazed down with mild surprise, as if seeing it for the first time, at the cigarette clipped between his fingers, dropped it and ground it out with the heel of his white canvas shoe. He stared down at the crushed stub for long seconds after it had gone out, then looked up, his gaze travelling slowly round the four men in the wheelhouse. The gaze meant nothing -- Findhorn would never have included the quartermaster, bo'sun or the fourth officer in his counsels. "I can see no justification
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