“You’re Swedish,” said the clerk.

This sounds like nonsense, thought the captain, all of this, including Whitfield’s unconnected remark, because of the heat. Otherwise, everything would make sense. He made his throat rumble again, out through the beard, and thought a Swedish curse.

“Is your crew Swedish, too?” asked the clerk.

“Those two from the hold, they are Congolese.”

“And they described a strange smell. And perhaps a strange glow? You know, something wavering with a glow in the dark, eh?”

“Goddamn this heat,” said the captain. “Don’t talk nonsense, Whitfield.”

“I?”

“Whitfield…”

“Captain. You know how ghost-ridden they are, those Congolese. Very superstitious, actually.”

“Whitfield,” said the captain. “I understand you want to get back to sleep. I understand…”

“I take a bath during siesta.”

“I also understand about that, Whitfield, and that this is an annoyance to you, to come out here and sweat on the pier.”

“I’m not sweating,” said the clerk. His blond hair was dry, his light skin was dry, and the gin smile on his face made him look like an elderly boy. “However,” he said, “I wish you would take your box to destination. It would save us so much paperwork.” Then he thought of something else. “And I’m sure the smell doesn’t reach topside and nobody lives in the hold anyway.”

The captain looked way up at the sky, though the brightness up there hurt his eyes. Then he jerked his face at the clerk and started yelling with both eyes closed.

“I must look at the box and repair the box! I can’t repair on deck because of the freight lashed down there! All I request…”

“Heavens,” said the clerk, “how big is this box?”

“Like a telephone booth. No. Bigger. Like two.”

“Jet engine,” said the clerk. “I’ve seen those crates when the company had me in Egypt.”