Keely went ahead to get a table, but the restaurant was packed. The headwaiter waved his arms desperately. "Impossible!"
"We're visitors from Britain."
The Swede shrugged. "Everybody at Skansen is a visitor."
Keely reported his failure to the others.
Surgeon Lieutenant O'Shea, his Irish courage fired by schnapps, said, "Stand back. I speak Russian."
Cavan yawned. "Very dramatic, Doc. This is Sweden."
O'Shea went through the glass doors. In gruff, broken Russian he made his explanations. The political deputation was visiting Stockholm from Moscow; they were waiting in the foyer; they must have a table. He did not smile.
The headwaiter knew some Russian; he looked hard at the doctor, speculating, his hands spread despairingly.
"A table? Where?" Russian pig, he thought; but there would be complaints to the ministry, then to the manager. Always trouble. He found them a table.
Half an hour later Shadde and Rhys Evans turned up and joined them. The Welshman was engineer officer of Retaliate. Aged thirty-nine, Evans was the oldest man on board. He and Shadde had commissioned her and put her through her trials.
The two men liked and respected each other, though they were so different. Shadde, very much the product of Dartmouth and the Naval Staff College; Rhys Evans, still the quiet, stocky man from the Rhondda Valley, who had traveled the hard road from warrant and commissioned engineer to lieutenant commander (E).
Shadde was in high spirits. He talked endlessly, racing from one subject to the other. Sometimes he laughed. Then they would laugh with him. Cavan eyed him warily. How long would this mood last? Shadde told the waiter to bring champagne.
How can he afford champagne, thought the first lieutenant. Not on his service pay. And why champagne, anyway? Showing off?
Keely walked by with a Swedish girl on his arm, laughing gaily. Shadde jerked his head toward them. "How does he meet them?"
"Pretty basic approach, I think," said the first lieutenant.
Shadde shook his head. "Beats me. He's such an oaf. How'd you get the table?" he went on. "We couldn't."
"The doctor speaks Russian," Cavan said.
"Why give it to the Russians and not to us?" Rhys Evans asked.
Shadde looked at him sadly. "Swedes are scared stiff of the Russians."
"I'm sorry for them," said Symington. "Nice chaps with nasty neighbors. How'd you ..."
"I don't blame them for fearing the Russians," interrupted Shadde. "Plenty to fear."
Evans winked at the doctor. "Look here now, sir. Things are not so bad for them. They can count on the West."
Shadde's gaiety fell from him. "I don't think so. The West's had it too good too long. We're suffering from fatty degeneration."
The chief was contrite, sorry to have changed the captain's mood. "Maybe, sir. But our side has brains and punch too."
Shadde shook his head. "Not enough. We need guts. Risks have got to be taken if we want to survive."
"Meaning, sir?"
Shadde put his glass down and leaned forward, his eyes dark and gleaming. "We're afraid. Our politicians, I mean. Always trying to play it safe. You don't get anywhere that way."
"The West can't just declare war on Russia like that," said O'Shea. "That sort of thing isn't done anymore."
Shadde looked at him suspiciously. "Exactly. The West can't. It's hamstrung by your 'it's not done' stuff. That's why we may go to the wall. Any bloody fool can see our choice."
"What choice?"
"Preventive war against Russia now, or submission later." His voice had risen. People at nearby tables were watching.
Symington yawned. He had heard Shadde on this subject before. The captain had a bee in his bonnet about Russia.
People left their tables to dance. Symington stood up. "Going to see a man about a dog," he explained.
When he came back there were -two familiar figures at a table on the far side. He walked across. "Hullo, Gracie, Springer!"
Gracie, the submarine's chief PO telegraphist, leaned forward. "Care for a beer, sir?"
"Love one," said Symington and sat down. "What sort of a day'd you have?"
"Fine," said Springer, the chief electrical artificer. "Ted's been shooting the place to pieces with his Leica."
Gracie nodded. "Got some good shots, especially around Katarinahissen.''
"I was there yesterday," said Symington. "We'll compare results. I expect yours are better; usually are."
Shadde saw Symington go over to the chief petty officers' table and the incident built up in his mind. First Symington's yawn during the conversation about Russia; then his excuse to leave the table. Now this gesture to make it clear that he preferred the company of Retaliates chief petty officers to that of her captain and wardroom officers. Shadde turned to the others. "Does Symington normally hobnob with our chiefs and POs ashore?"
"I expect he's only being friendly, sir," the doctor said cheerfully. "After all, they are shipmates."
"Your naval experience is somewhat limited, O'Shea." Shadde's voice was ice. "It's not a custom of the service for wardroom officers to mix with chiefs and POs ashore. Not good for discipline. Both sides dislike it. The chiefs and POs suspect patronage." Shadde looked at the first lieutenant. "I take it you would agree with me, Number One." Clearly it was meant to be the last word on the subject.
Cavan failed to sense this. Shadde irked him. "I don't know, sir. I don't think Symington patronizes anyone. He's too well bred. He and Gracie like each other. That's all there is to it."
Shadde's dark eyes smoldered as he faced Cavan. His hands on the table clenched and unclenched. He stood up. "Come on, Chief. Let's get back on board before I'm told I don't know how to run my bloody boat." His voice was thick with anger.
Before Cavan could think of anything to say Shadde had gone, followed by Evans. The first lieutenant took the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, filled the doctor's glass, then his own. "Tell me, did I say anything offensive?"
"You took my side, Number One, when he was laying down the law about the customs of the Royal Navy. Not very bright."
"Think that was it?" Cavan made a gesture of impatience. "That bull about Symington and the CPOs!"
"I couldn't agree more," said the doctor, "but Shadde's allergic to Symington. That makes a difference."
Cavan emptied his glass and took a long look around the room. Keely was still dancing with the Swedish girl. For the first time Cavan realized that she was very pretty.
"Here comes Peter Keely with the body beautiful," sighed the doctor. "Must have seen the champagne."
"Hullo!" said the sublieutenant. "I saw the captain go and thought you'd like to meet Greta Garbo." He poured her some champagne. "Greta," he said, "meet my chums."
"I'm Anita," giggled the girl. "Are all the English so silly?"
"Yes," said the doctor amiably. "They are."
The girl lifted her glass with both hands and looked up at Cavan. "You are very handsome," she said.
He pulled her to her feet. "Stop talking nonsense and come and dance," he said. But the remark did his ego good.
When Symington came back, they told him of the captain's outburst. He looked surprised. "Unbelievable," he said, but after that he changed the subject and gaiety returned to the party.
At midnight a taxi took Cavan, the doctor and Symington back across the bridge to the naval base at Skeppsholmen. Peter Keely refused their offer to help him see Anita home.
Elizabeth felt dizzy when she got up to go to the sideboard. Must be the whisky, she thought. She put her glass down so hard it broke. Lucky he wasn't home! This was the sort of thing that would have sparked off a terrible row. Well, there weren't going to be any more rows, because she wasn't going to be there anymore. She took another glass and handled it with exaggerated care.