They knew it was all right, now.
"Because," Randall said, "you stink."
Bentley pretended to stumble, and stumbled against him-black arms, fouled shirt, odorous feet, the lot.
"Oh, Jesus."
"Sorry, Number One. Still a bit unsteady on the old pins."
"I gather you found the oil, sir?" said Pilot.
"No, I had Chief pour a bucketful..." But suddenly he could joke no more. "Yes, but that can wait. I'm going below to change. Let me know any alteration in the squadron's movements."
"Aye aye, sir!"
He went carefully down the ladder, along the passage, opened his cabin door and said:
"Jarrett! Brandy!"
Jarrett appeared at once from the pantry, glass in hand. It held two nips of brandy. Bentley looked at him in wonderment, an expression which found its mate in the steward's face; added to a touch of horror.
"Jarrett, you're a bloody marvel."
"Yes, sir," said Jarrett modestly. He watched the stimulant go south, took the empty glass, knowing there would be no demand for more, and said: "Would you mind undressing in the bathroom, sir?"
"You're a bloody old woman."
"Yes, sir. Take long steps, will you?"
"Maybe you'd like to carry me?"
"We're in a frivolous mood tonight, sir."
"Yes, Jarrett. Now."
They looked at each other, master and minion; captain and confidant. Just for a short, good moment, then Bentley stepped on long strides to the bathroom; feeling the quiver of Wind Rode's rush from danger like the beating of her heart, like a benediction.
The End
J. E. MacDonnell - 114 Page 13
