'I couldn't eat anything.'

'Nuts. Know how you feel ... felt that way sometimes myself. Food is just the ticket.' The Master-at-Arms settled the issue by coming up and prodding Wingate in the ribs with his truncheon.

'What d'yuh think this is-sickbay, or first class? Get those bunks hooked up.'

'Easy, mate, easy,' Wingate's new acquaintance conciliated, 'our pal's not himself this morning.' As he spoke he dragged Wingate to his feet with one massive hand, then with the other shoved the tier of bunks up and against the wall. Hooks clicked into their sockets, and the tier stayed up, flat to the wall.

'He'll be a damn sight less himself if he interferes with my routine,' the petty officer predicted. But he moved on. Wingate stood barefooted on the floorplates, immobile and overcome by a feeling of helpless indecision which was re-inforced by the fact that he was dressed only in his underwear. His champion studied him.

'You forgot your pillow. Here-' He reached down into the pocket formed by the lowest bunk and the wall and hauled out a flat package covered with transparent plastic. He broke the seal and shook out the contents, a single coverall garment of heavy denim. Wingate put it on gratefully. 'You can get the squeezer to issue you a pair of slippers after breakfast,' his friend added. 'Right now we gotta eat.'

The last of the queue had left the galley window by the time they reached it and the window was closed. Wingate's companion pounded on it. 'Open up in there!'

It slammed open. 'No seconds,' a face announced.

The stranger prevented the descent of the window with his hand. 'We don't want seconds, shipmate, we want firsts.'

'Why the devil can't you show up on time?' the galley functionary groused. But he slapped two ration cartons down on the broad sill of the issuing window. The big fellow handed one to Wingate, and sat down on the floor-plates, his back supported by the galley bulkhead.