They shook hands. "Hi, Bill!" said Barrett, as if he were giving an order to fire. "All set to take off?"
The Captain nodded. Only in America was he called "Bill", and he could never quite get used to it; in England his friends called him "Willy", but that again was really quite unsuitable to the captain of the Alcestis. He said, briefly: "Drink, Jack?" and motioned to Brotherhood.
"Just a thin Scotch on the rocks," answered Barrett. He sat down at the table, and opened his briefcase. Over his shoulder he said: "Thought I'd run through the list with you."
Jack Barrett always "ran through the list" before sailing, as though it were a brand-new alphabet he had invented, engraved, and illuminated. Once again, as usual, the Captain found it vaguely annoying; the implication, that he would be utterly lost without this fatherly briefing, was obvious and mortifying. He remembered feeling the same way during the war, when the shore-gang made it clear, before each convoy, that he and his escort-group were only the blunt instruments—the real skill, the true finesse, lay enshrined in their parting words, which he could disregard at his peril. Indeed, this whole present interview reminded him of those wartime pre-convoy sessions. Jack Barrett, implying that the voyage of 20,000 miles which lay ahead was only entrusted to him as a last resort, inevitably recalled Lieutenant-Commander Binghampton, back in the early 'forties, instructing him that if he were really serious about getting his convoy across to Halifax in the face of persistent U-boat attacks, this last-minute contact with brains might just see him through.
He awoke from his brief, bad-tempered daydream to hear Jack Barrett say:
"—got a nice group for you this time, Bill, a real top-notch group. Should be a fine trip, from that angle. Of course, there's bound to be the odd-ball here and there. F'r instance, that van Dooren dame drinks like a fire-horse. The way I heard it, she showers in eight-to-one martinis. You might have a snitch of trouble there."
"The weather," said Lieutenant-Commander Binghampton, portentously, his voice like treacle running over enormous boulders of self-importance. "You should have no difficulty—ah—Harmer. There's a low-pressure area south of Iceland. Of course, it might break up. I wouldn't waste any time if I were you."
"Three hundred-eight passengers," said Jack Barrett. "Couple dropped out from Tacoma, Washington. Illness or something. We kept their dough. There was a bit of a run-in about who should have the Princess Suite. I gave it to the Tillotsons, finally. After all, he is the president of Steel & Tool."
"Eight escorts, sixty-seven ships," said Binghampton. " We put the Commodore in a Danish packet called the Elsevier. She's not the biggest, but the accommodation's better, we think, from the communications point of view. Of course, he kicked up a row about it. Silly old sod."
"I'm told the Bancrofts don't get on well with the Gersons," said Barrett. "So, what the hell! If they start feuding, you know what to do. At least, I would hope so. Anyway, it wouldn't be a cruise without some sort of brawl, would it?"
"You can expect trouble HERE and HERE," said Binghampton, stabbing the chart with his pencil. "There have been eight U-boat sighting-reports since noon yesterday. Frankly, we're not too happy about the position west of forty-two degrees. However, that's your worry. We can't do everything."
"Walham is a big shot from Chicago," said Barrett, running his finger down the passenger-list. "Something to do with farm equipment. The Beddingtons—well, you know about them. They're taking that homely daughter along again. Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid; he ran for Governor in Florida, way back, but it came unstuck. She's a real bitch. Carl Wenstrom—that's a party of five, cousins or something. Nothing on them. Sir Hubert and Lady Beckwith. He's a long, snooty bastard. She's American, and tough as old boots. They say he was broke, and she bought him and the title. Don't know who won out on that package deal. . . . George M. Simms. Broker. He's an old guy, been sick for a long time. Got a nurse with him. Maybe—well, we'll see."
"The biggest ships are the Wensleydale, the Empire Buttress, and the Shroveport," said Binghampton. "The rest are just run-of-the-mill. There's one we're not sure of—the Arkwright Courier. She's been reported in trouble twice before—making too much smoke, and bad station-keeping. If she can't keep up, send her in." "Mrs. Consolini is making the cruise again," said Barrett, grinning knowingly at the Captain. "And Mrs. Stewart-Bates. They both particularly asked after you when they made the bookings. You should be all set there."
" We're sending an escort tanker with you," said Binghampton. "You can top up with fuel any time."
Jack Barrett turned in his chair, and began to tap his nose lightly his pencil. It was a sign, the Captain knew, that Barrett was about to step into some area of delicacy, to broach a subject which even he, with all his brashness, recognized was really none of his business. It wasn't much of a sign, thought Harmer grimly, but at least it was something.
"Then there's your table," said Barrett, with smooth self-confidence, as though this were the next item on the agenda, which it patently was not. "Usual thing, nine places for ninety candidates. . . . But the competition's real tough this time."
"I'll arrange who sits at my table," said Harmer coldly. This was a recurrent tussle, now dormant, now in full swing. "With my purser and my chief steward. You know quite well that I always do that."
"Yes, I appreciate that, Bill, but I just thought I'd mention a few names." As the Captain said nothing, he continued: "You know how it is—the front-office gets first sight of these people. We can give you a useful steer sometimes. . . . First, there's the Tillotsons. Like I said, they've booked the Princess Suite. They rate a seat with you."
The Captain still said nothing. Indeed, he was only half-listening, just enough to memorize Jack Barrett's candidates, who might or might not be his own. This was one area where, within limits, he pleased himself; the decision as to who, out of three hundred and eight passengers, sat at the captain's table, had never belonged ashore, and he was going to keep it that way, for as long as he had a sea-going command.
"Then there's the Beckwiths," Barrett went on. "Handle to their name. You can't very well pass them up. Then the Kincaids. He's still pretty big in politics, even if he didn't make Governor. That's six." He saw the Captain frown. "I mean, it's six if you see it my way."
"I don't see it any way, so far," said Captain Harmer. Somewhere inside, he was enjoying this minor collision; it marked the division between shore-side and ship-side, and very soon every single thing in sight, from people to places, from the bridge to the distant horizon, would be ship-side—his side.
"Then," said Barrett, with exceptional care, "I half-promised the Beddingtons."
The Captain awoke with a jerk at that.
"You had no business to do anything of the sort," he said hardly. "I've told you before, this is my table."
"I know that," said Barrett. "But hell, Bill, I've got to sell this cruise! It's public relations!" He said this as another man might say: It's in the Bible! "The Beddingtons have made two trips with the Alcestis already. I thought this would make a kind of dividend for them."