When Mr. Buddington remembered the fragments of conversation he'd overheard the day before, he looked at the stacked shelves in dismay: "... put the tins on top ..." What tins and on top of what? There were thousands of tins. A shelf-by-shelf search it would have to be. The shelf which was at eye level seemed the logical place to start, and after half an hour he was rewarded. He could scarcely contain his pleasure. There it was, the brown manila envelope, under a pile of biscuit tins. The envelope was unsealed. He put his fingers in and brought out a dozen photographic negatives. He held them up to the light. "Dear me," Mr. Buddington said. "How very stupid of me. I might have guessed."
Disappointed but intrigued, he looked at the buxom women and mustachioed men frozen by the camera in postures to which their nakedness lent a ludicrous air of unreality. With a mild sigh Mr. Buddington put the envelope back on the shelf and stacked the tins on top of it.
By nine o'clock in the morning, Retaliate was steaming east along the coast of Denmark. Overhead the sun was shining from a blue sky scattered with wisps of cotton cloud. They were due in Copenhagen at two. The expectation of this, coupled with the fine weather, was probably responsible for the good humor of the crew. The incident off Korsor had become a treasured recollection for them, and such simple sallies as " 'Ow's yer tick-tocks this morning, Pincher?" caused gales of laughter on the mess decks.
In the wardroom after breakfast, Symington, Allistair and the doctor were reading, and Keely was deciphering a sheaf of signals Gracie had brought him. As he finished the third he whistled, jumped out of his chair and began capering about.
"George my boy. Look!" He thrust the signal in front of Symington. It was from the Admiralty, addressed to Commanding Officer, Retaliate. Symington read it out aloud. "The following appointments are notified: Commander G. L. Straker to Retaliate in command, Commander J. A. Shadde to Dolphin for duty as Staff Officer Operations to Flag Officer Submarines with effect from eighteenth May."
"Good old Second Sea Lord," said Symington. "Never leaves his chums in the lurch."
"What's Straker like? Anyone know?" Allistair asked.
"Met him in Malta," said Symington. "He looked reasonable."
"How long has the skipper had Retaliate?" O'Shea asked.
Symington thought for a moment. "He commissioned her in the States. Must be about ten months."
"Isn't a two-year commission normal?"
"Yes," said Symington. "But with all this new construction things are different. Shadde's the senior CO of this class. Expect the Admiralty think he'd be more useful ashore."
"So do I," said Keely.
"Shut up," said Allistair. "Even if his door is closed."
Keely lowered his voice. "Sorry. I can't pretend this doesn't give me a hell of a kick." He deciphered the last few signals and knocked on the captain's door. He heard Shadde's voice, and went in.
Shadde was lying on the bunk, back to the door. "What is it?" he asked gruffly. He didn't turn around.
"Signals, sir. Just deciphered."
"Leave them on the desk," he said.
For a few minutes after Keely had gone, Shadde lay on his bunk, thinking. He hadn't slept all night, worrying about what had happened off Korsor. But he would have to read the signals—no escaping that—so he got up and switched on the desk light. When he came to the one appointing Straker to Retaliate, he dropped the others and sat down heavily at the desk with his head on his arms.
His mind traveled back over his long years in the service—from the very beginning when he had gone from school to Dartmouth, to the thrilling moment when he had been given his first command at the age of twenty-seven. He had commanded submarines for a number of years when finally, two years ago, his big moment had come. He had been sent to the States to study the operation of the Polaris missile. Ten months later Britain had taken over six new Polaris boats and he had been given command of one of them. It was this more than anything that had given him the dedicated feeling of mission which had since become a part of him. He felt that he had been put in command of Retaliate for some great but as yet hidden purpose.
Since he had taken Retaliate over in Groton, Connecticut, she had steamed twenty thousand miles under his command. The submarine had become a part of him and he a part of her. And now the Admiralty were going to stick him away to rot behind some bloody desk. The thought choked him. He was thirty-eight, the oldest commanding officer in the submarine service. He supposed they thought he was too old. Perhaps they'd tell him he was more valuable ashore. But whatever they said, he knew that it meant his sea service was ended. This was his last command. They would be in Portsmouth in five days, so he had exactly five more days afloat.
A month ago, he at least could have consoled himself with the thought of Elizabeth. But now? Would there be a letter at Copenhagen? And what would it say?
Suddenly he realized with a shock that if Retaliate were ever used in earnest now, he wouldn't be in command. Why were they pulling him out? Was it the collision? Was Symington somehow responsible? His father was an old friend of Flag Officer Submarines. Could it be that? Or had FOS/M heard that Shadde's wife might leave him? No, that was damn all to do with the Navy.
Perhaps it was those signals he'd sent when they'd first heard the tick. It had turned out not to be sabotage, but it might have been. Supposing Retaliate had gone up in smoke? At least they would have had some idea at the Admiralty of the cause. Shadde questioned again and again even 7 decision he'd made. To have handled it any other way still seemed to him unthinkable.
Well, all that mattered now was that he was to lose the two most important things in his life, Elizabeth and Retaliate. Things had gone wrong in recent months, badly wrong—ever since Symington had joined. Shadde's head ached fiercely, and an overwhelming feeling of depression and impotence settled on him.
In the chief petty officers' mess early that morning, discussion had ranged over a wide variety of subjects: the two days to be spent in Copenhagen, the refit in Portsmouth, and, of course, the fun and games off Korsbr the day before.
The coxswain clasped his hands behind his head. "Funny how certain the skipper was that it was sabotage."
McPherson looked up from the carpet he was making. "Maybe if you'd heard that wee tick like we did, you'd have thought so yourself. There was that dead regular time interval and all."
"How d'you account for that?" asked Springer.
"Lieutenant Allistair says it's easy to explain. The sinker was on the end of about fifteen feet of wire. As we went along, the pressure of seawater pushed it up till it hit the side. Then the force of the blow made it swing back like a pendulum." McPherson paused for a moment. "When we reduced speed there was less pressure against the sinker; it didn't hit the side so hard and that cut down the distance of the pendulum swing. So it sounded as though it had speeded up."
With needle and thread Shepherd was putting the finishing touches to a gray silk lampshade. The coxswain looked at it critically. "How many this time out, Sheppy?"
"This is the fifth."
"What'll that lot fetch you?"
"Fifteen quid. Materials cost four."
"Not bad. Nice hobby. Keeps the old lady in pin money and you out of mischief, I s'pose."
Shepherd frowned. "Money goes to the church," he said abruptly. Then he looked at Springer. "What d'you make of that little fellow Buddington?" he said.
"Creepy crawly sort of bloke." Springer sniffed. "And what he knows about the practical side of air conditioning is dangerous."
Shepherd looked up curiously. "Why d'you say that?"