The first lieutenant patted him on the shoulder. "You can count on me. Just one thing though. No one—and that includes Gracie—is to know that you've spoken to me. I'm not going to put myself in a position where I can be charged with conniving against the skipper if anything goes wrong. Got that?"
"Yes, I see what you're driving at," Symington said tightly. But his tone didn't seem to worry the first lieutenant.
"So you accept my condition?" he asked.
Symington shrugged his shoulders. "I've no option."
"Good," said Cavan. "Now I'll put my thinking c£.p on."
The doctor was lying on his bunk, dressed, looking as though he had just waked up. "Sorry, Doc," said Cavan. "Didn't expect to find you asleep. Mind if I sit down?"
The doctor rubbed his eyes. "Please do. What's the trouble?"
"I want your advice, Doc—your medical advice. But first I want your solemn word that you'll not repeat this discussion, unless I ask you to."
"It's quite unnecessary to ask that in any medical matter."
"This is a little different, Doc. It's not my health. It's the skipper's. There's a strange state of affairs. What I want to know is: can Shadde be going round the bend?"
"Going mad, you mean? Are you serious? Why?"
The first lieutenant told him about the signals Shadde wanted from Gracie. "I know it sounds damned silly, Doc, but, to put it at its worst, when he's received those bogus signals, what's to stop him firing a Polaris? What's the answer to that one?"
"You," said the doctor promptly. "The thing can't be launched until you've set your control dial. You'll know the signal's bogus, so you refuse to approve the firing. Where's the problem?"
Cavan shook his head. "Not that easy. The firing drill requires us to put on our settings before the captain uses the firing plunger. In an ordinary exercise, nothing happens when he depresses the plunger, because the control dials would never have been set. But he's told Gracie he wants to simulate the real thing. So if a bogus firing signal arrives the control dials will be used. We must presume that in that case Shadde won't use the plunger. But, if he were round the bend, who could guarantee that he wouldn't? You say I can stop him. How can I tell Shadde, before the control dials are set, that I know the signals are bogus?"
"Why not?" challenged the doctor.
"Because he'd know at once that Gracie had talked. There'd be hell to pay. But that's chicken feed compared to what else. What about me? I'd have refused to obey an order. Challenged the commanding officer's authority, integrity, sanity—the lot. It would be the end of my naval career. I'd be court-martialed."
"Would you?" said the doctor doubtfully.
"Of course. If my commanding officer decides to start an exercise with a bogus signal, who am I to say he can't? / reckon he shouldn't. But their Lordships might take another view. There's a nasty word for officers who disobey their captain's orders—it's called mutiny. How could I convince a court-martial that he was planning to launch a missile? We couldn't be sure ourselves."
"Couldn't you put the wrong setting on your dial?"
"No. Weddy and Gallagher, who follow me, wouldn't be able to move their dials at all if I did that—they'd remain locked."
"So what d'you propose to do?"
"It's a hell of a problem, one of those cases where whatever's done may be wrong. Very difficult to know how to keep one's yardarm clear." He looked at the doctor unhappily. "You see, I'm pretty sure it is just an exercise. It's the sort of odd, unpredictable thing Shadde does. Only there's the nagging thought that it mightn't be. That he might really press the button."
"Isn't that really rather farfetched?"
Cavan nodded. "It is. But isn't it rather farfetched for the captain to get together with his chief telegraphist and connive bogus signals about missile states of readiness?"
"Shadde's motives are plausible enough. He wants a realistic exercise, because he thinks the ship's company needs it."
Cavan shook his head. "Surely you don't compromise top-security precautions on missile firings just to shake up the crew."
"Shadde is an odd type," said the doctor. "Anyway, what would he fire a missile at?"
"I know it sounds crazy, Doc, but if he were off his rocker, he might fire it at a Russian target. You've heard him nattering about the West being taken for a ride by the Russians and all that bilge. If he talks about it so much when he's normal, mightn't he try and do something about it if he were crackers?"
The doctor pursed his lips. "I don't think he's crackers."
"You think he's perfectly normal, then?"
"Not normal. But you're suggesting he may be insane."
"Well, if he's not normal, what is he?" insisted Cavan.
"He's a neurotic. There are plenty of sane, lucid people, carrying great responsibility, who are neurotics. But that's very different from being a psychotic."
The first lieutenant raised his arms in despair. "Those are just words to me. What d'you mean?"
"A neurotic suffers from minor nervous disorders. There's nothing seriously wrong with his perceptions. Outside the area of his symptoms, he's in normal touch with reality."
"And the—the other one?"
"He's out of touch with his environment, can't distinguish between fantasy and reality, because his judgment's grossly impaired. What you call round the bend—insane."
Cavail sighed. "What makes you think Shadde's a neurotic?'"
"Sharp mood swings. Fits of extreme depression, and irritability. Sleeplessness. Loss of appetite. Those are symptoms."
Cavan was thoughtful. "Yes. He's got most of those, only I didn't know he couldn't sleep or eat. What's gnawing at him?"
"Basically fear, I suppose. What psychologists call excessive anxiety."
The first lieutenant looked at O'Shea with fresh interest. "What's Shadde afraid of?"
"What most of us are," said the doctor. "Insecurity."
"Why should he feel insecure? He's done damn well. Certain to be a flag officer, I'd say."
The doctor shook his head. "For professional reasons I'd prefer not to go into that, Number One. Shadde's got his problems, some real, some imaginary. I'll tell you one, but you must keep it to yourself." He paused. "His marriage is on the rocks."
Cavan's face remained blank. "Poor chap," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I'd no idea." He got up. "So you think my fears are exaggerated?"
"I think so, but I'm no psychiatrist. Maybe I'm wrong."
Cavan was halfway to the door; he turned around quickly. "So you don't exclude the possibility that he's a ... psychotic?"
"No. Not absolutely. All I can say is that his symptoms appear to me to be those of a neurotic."
Cavan's eyes flickered. "Thank you, Doc," he said. "Remember what you've just said. May be important later. In the meantime this conversation has not taken place. O.K.?"
Mr. Buddington was pleased and puzzled when Shadde told him the result of the investigation in the wardroom that morning. He was pleased to have his judgment about Kyle confirmed; but he was puzzled that Shepherd had so readily confirmed Kyle's story about the gray silk, because it made the case against Shepherd all the blacker. He proceeded to do some very solid thinking about the two pieces of gray silk which had originally been one. One piece had been found in the steering compartment with the locknut in it, the other in Kyle's watch coat. Shepherd was the owner of the gray silk and he had admitted giving Kyle the one piece. What had he done with the other? Mr. Buddington discussed this problem with Rhys Evans, who agreed to tackle Shepherd about it.
The first lieutenant knew he would have to work quickly. It was already well into the forenoon and at any moment the captain might hand Grade the signals. He would have to play it very safe. He must take the steps necessary to forestall the unpleasant possibility, and yet do it in such a way that if things went wrong he wasn't implicated. After all, it was really Symington's problem. Cavan began to feel that he was really being rather decent in helping Symington with this thing at all.