“No problem.” With that she turned, blonde hair swinging, and left, her back straight.
“You can go on in now, sir,” Peters told the officer. “They’ll want you to take all your clothes off and stand on the platform. There’s a rack by the door, sir, but if you’ll hand your blouse to the other fella he can study it to get the sleeve rings right.”
Steward’s color began to recede. He nodded his head sharply and went through the door, pushing it to behind him with more force than needed.
Peters let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and scanned the room. One fresh-faced Second Class was grinning, and the other two sailors were studiously ignoring him. “I reckon Mr. Steward ain’t gonna be ‘Doc’ to his face much,” he commented, almost to himself, and the others chuckled.
When Steward came back out he wanted to ask questions, and Peters had neither the answers nor the skill in Grallt to ask the technicians. The doctor inspected a suit closely, forcing the sailor wearing it to stand on a chair, paying especially close attention to the insides of knees and elbows, the armpits, and the groin. Finally he grabbed the man’s arm and took a close look at his crow. “Can they produce arbitrary designs and colors?” he asked.
“I dunno about arbitrary, sir, but I ain’t seen nothin’ they can’t match yet,” Peters answered cautiously.
Steward nodded. “I want a distinctive marking for medical personnel,” he announced. “A red cross in a white circle, just here.” He pointed at the top of the right sleeve. “Any problem?”
“Not that I know of, sir.” Peters held out his hand, with forefinger and thumb forming an approximate circle ten centimeters in diameter. “‘Bout this big, sir?”
“That’ll be fine. See to it. How long do I have to wait for my suit to be ready?”
“‘Bout an hour, sir. There’s chairs over there, sir.”
Steward nodded again, jerkily, and went to sit, folding his arms and keeping his face immobile, not inviting conversation but watching the process with steady intensity. The group who had been waiting got fitted and left, more came to don their suits for the first time, and all the medics except Chief Gill came to be measured, all with little or no conversation once the officer’s attitude was noticed. Peters consulted with Keer, who already had the sleeve-rings right and needed little guidance to produce the medical roundel, and with Se’en’s assistance managed to make him understand that any enlisted suit with a caduceus in the crow needed the extra element. Todd, who had missed the byplay while helping a First Class ET get dressed, noted the watcher and ducked back into the dressing room to stay.
Finally Keer handed the right strip over, and Peters looked around. “Mr. Steward, your suit is ready, sir.”
The officer stood. “Finally. Where?”
Peters nodded toward the dressing room. “In there, sir. Petty Officer Todd will help you put the suit on the first time, sir.”
“I’ve been dressing myself for a long time, sailor.”
“Yes, sir, but this here’s a bit different, sir.”
Steward stared, coloring again. “Very well,” he snapped, and went into the dressing room, again closing the door with a bang. When he emerged, suited, Se’en had showed up with Chief Gill in tow. “Hello, Gill, I see you made Chief,” was his greeting. “Why didn’t you go first to get your monkey suit? Medical personnel have priority.”
Gill shrugged. “Men who were loading and unloading gear needed ‘em worst, sir.”
The doctor made an irritated gesture. “And what if one of the men handling heavy gear got hurt?” He wiped off imaginary lint. “I don’t like this thing, it doesn’t give enough protection, and this sailor—” indicating Peters “—doesn’t know if it can be sterilized or not. I hope this doesn’t come out a disaster.”
“I hope not too, sir,” Gill agreed, “but the suit gives more protection than it seems to, sir. I’ve already seen a man get whipped by a loose line and come away with nothing but a bruise.”
Steward shifted his bundle of uniform items to a more comfortable position. “Where away is the infirmary, Chief? I need to get started.”
“Se’en will show you, sir.” The Grallt gave him a look; he was familiar enough with her to grin back. “Your personal gear’s already in your stateroom, sir, and the equipment and supplies are being unloaded. If you’d care to advise us, sir, we’ll see to getting all that stowed. For now we’ve been leaving it in the cartons.”
Steward looked from Gill to Peters and back, then glanced at Se’en, unable to look directly at her. “Very well, I’ll go provide adult supervision,” he said. “Lead on.” He again closed the door behind him with excessive force.
Peters sighed. “Let’s get this evolution back underway,” he suggested. “Chief, you want to go ahead? You probably need to get back over there.”
“Yes, I probably do. Dr. Steward, eh? What fun.”
Even with the delay, by the end of fourth ande they’d gotten three and seven eights of people through the measuring process and issued one and three eights of suits. Peters knew he was tired, and proved it by needing the handheld to convert that to fifty-nine and twenty-five, respectively. “Attention please,” he said, then shook his head and said in English: “All right, listen up. Quittin’ time. This evolution is knockin’ off for the day.” That generated grumbles, which he overrode: “We start again at first ande, which is about ten hours from now. Get some sleep, get your meal early and get up here.” More grumbles accompanied the general dispersal.
They’d anticipated a bit of leisure at fifth meal, but that proved optimistic. None of the Grallt who spoke English were present, and none of the new sailors knew the first word of Grallt; after the tenth or so request for aid in ordering dinner Peters pulled a waiter aside and asked to talk to the cook. “Make standard— make a standard meal…” He paused, breathed, thought, and got out a correct sentence: “Make a standard meal for all persons,” he told the head cook, whose girth, scowl, and commanding presence were positively homey. “Later they learn, they will learn to speak, and you can return to normal, the normal system.” The cook just nodded and began bawling at minions. Some sailors were disappointed, but Peters and Todd were rewarded with enough peace to eat, give or take the overall chat level.
They met Dreelig in the corridor. “I understand that you need to speak with me,” the Grallt said. “Is it urgent?” He looked as bushed as they were.
“Yeah,” Peters growled. He slumped his shoulders and sighed. “But I ain’t in no shape to figger it out, and you don’t look much better. Hard day?”
Dreelig also slumped, leaning against the corridor wall as if grateful for the support. “A difficult day, yes. Your officers will be arriving to take up residence five llor from now, and I had to go Down to arrange the schedule. When I returned the doctor had arrived with all his equipment, and I had to—I believe your phrase is sort that out.” He shook his head. “What have you been doing?”
“Runnin’ sailors through suit fitting,” Peters told him.
“Ah. How is it going?”
“Now that we know how it’s done, we’ll get a square through per llor,” Todd told him. “So we’ll be done with issuing the suits in less than three more llor, then we can start practice and instruction. If you can break Dee or Se’en loose for that we could finish faster.”
“The idiom is fat chance,” said Dreelig tiredly. “They and I will probably have to take quarters in the officers’ section. The Commander has decreed that the officers will work a five-ande llor, because it is closer to your standard. The contract specifies very little contact between the officers and the normal work of the ship, but this seems like a foolish exaggeration.”