“It’s a famous story by Victor Hugo,” said Richardson, thinking of something else, almost absently answering the question. “A gun broke loose on a ship named Claymore during a storm. It rolled around on deck smashing things and killing people and nearly sinking the ship, which was carrying some big general back to France during the French Revolution. The gunner risked his life to secure the gun, and after he finally got it lashed so it couldn’t move, the general gave him a medal and then had him shot. Some say the general was supposed to be Napoleon, but I’m not so sure.”
“What did he have the poor guy shot for?”
“The medal was for heroism in tying up the gun again. He was shot because he was responsible for it getting loose in the first place. I get the message all right, mainly that Brighting won’t listen to my side of the story. But his analogy is mixed up. I didn’t let any guns get loose!”
Rhodes looked curiously at Richardson. “You’re awfully calm about it,” he said. “I thought you’d be mad as hell.”
Rich grimaced. “Well, I’m not happy about it,” he said. “That make you feel any better?” He had not been able totally to keep the bitterness out of his voice, even knowing that Dusty Rhodes had been a very unwilling bearer of bad news. He had expected something like this, had spent a good portion of the past day considering the manner of his defense during the telephone conversation with Brighting which he believed to be inevitable. The unfairness of the summary decision cut deep. He had been denied even the opportunity of saying a single word in his defense, as if he counted for nothing. The effort he and the others had made, the good accomplished, the life saved, the agonized decision to proceed in the emergency without permission which was, in the circumstance, unobtainable, all were being treated contemptuously. Fury suddenly boiled within him. Brighting had no right to do this to him!
But the inner rage could not come out. It would be unseemly. More, it would be stupid for him to let Brighting goad him into saying or doing something which could be construed as disrespectful. So far, he was morally certain of the right of his position and the support of the Navy. He must not forfeit this by losing control now, no matter what the provocation.
With Buck and Keith, however, both of whom announced they would also skip the exam, he could be less reserved. It was almost a relief to shout at them. “Certainly not!” he blazed. “You two damn fools get in there and take that exam! And you’d both better come out with damned near perfect marks, both of you!”
But then, as the morning wore on to noon — a can of soup warmed by the vending machine while he waited — and the afternoon turned into evening, it became too painful. The study program had all been directed to the end of taking the qualifying examination for reactor operator, one of several qualifications it was possible to attain. All three men had already done all the physical testing and watch-standing work, had passed all the practical factors required for qualification. Remaining was only the theoretical test, the examination. Mark One was already programmed for a following study group, this time prospective engineers instead of skippers. Even in Mark One there was nothing for him to do except observe some other students follow the same learning path, make the same mistakes, learn the same basics. Reading for relaxation or trying to occupy himself in some other way did not work. He found a magazine which someone had surreptitiously brought in, threw it down after only a few minutes. The operating manuals were hopeless. His eyes glazed over the words.
As he paced restlessly about, conjuring up new errands, torturing himself with his inability to control his bitter emotion, wishing he were anywhere but where he was and yet not able to go away for more than a moment at any given time, Richardson could not help occasionally seeing Keith and Buck, sitting on opposite sides of the examination room, concentrating on the question sheet before them, scribbling madly on pads of ruled paper, drinking cup after cup of coffee. In this, at least, he could participate; getting coffee for his friends was one of the ways his life could be meaningful. Frequently one or the other, sometimes both at once, cast him a quick glance of gratitude for the coffee, of sympathy for the pain he was feeling, of worry for their inability to help assuage the anguish. But the demands of the test were primary. For the most part they kept their eyes on their papers, their pencils in ceaseless motion.
Several doors away, in the officer-in-charge’s private office, the same which Rich had commandeered for a command post only thirty-six hours ago, an associated drama was taking place. Rhodes’ telephone rang more often than usual, and most of the time it must have been Brighting.
At least, Rhodes’ alacrity to answer, the somber sympathy of his secretary or the hurried search organized when Rhodes happened to be absent could spell no one but Admiral Brighting on the other end of the line. Once Rhodes spoke louder than usual, and Rich heard him say, “No, sir, he’s not. He’s not in there.” The negatives were emphatic. “He’s down in the prototype somewhere. Do you want me to get him to the phone?”
Evidently Brighting did not, for no one came for Rich. It was not his intention to eavesdrop, but Rhodes might have realized he was only a few feet away and could not help overhearing. Maybe this was a hint. Perhaps Rhodes was more subtle than he thought. Anyway, he would take it as such, would force himself to find something of interest in the drills down in the prototype.
Keith found him in the reactor compartment, two hours later. “Well, we’re finished,” he said. “Buck’s winding up his last question right now, so that’s done. He’ll be here in a couple minutes. Boy! That was some exam!”
“How did you do?”
“Oh, I’m sure I did pretty doggone well. It was fair enough — it just asked me everything I ever knew. That’s why it took all day. They’ve already started to grade my paper, and we’ll know pretty soon what Dusty’s crew thinks of it. I’ve got a great case of writer’s cramp, and a permanent dent in my finger where I held the pencils, and I’ll bet Buck has, too! But what a lousy deal this is for you! I wish there were some way we could square this!”
“We can’t help that,” said Richardson, speaking as normally as he could. “Don’t forget I learned what I came out here for, nuke ticket or no. I’m just glad he didn’t lay on you and Buck for helping. You’re the guys who will really need the tickets on your records with your nuke boats.”
“Ships, you mean,” said Keith, sensing that Richardson would like to change the subject. “Some of us have been calling them ‘ships’ ever since the Triton went in commission — about time, too. She’s as big as a cruiser. I suppose we’ll be heading home tomorrow. Dusty’s already cut our orders, I think, and I’m anxious to get back to Peggy and the Cushing, both.”
“Spoken like a true sailor,” Rich began, glad for the chance to take up a new topic. “I’ve got interest in New London, too…”
“I don’t know which needs me the most, Manta or Cindy,” said Williams’ voice behind them, “but I know which one I need most, and she’s no damned submarine!”
“You young bucks are all the same,” growled Richardson with mock disdain. “Can’t keep away from women!”