He was always in a hurry. I recognised the signs; after three years of sailing with him, it would have been impossible not to. There was something he wanted to say; there was some steam he wanted to blow off, and no better outlet than that tried and trusty relief valve, Chief Officer Carter. Only whenever he wished to blow off steam it was a matter of personal pride with him never to bring up the matter himself.

It was no great trick to guess what was troubling him, so I obliged. I said, conversationally, “The cables we sent to London, sir.” They had been sent by the captain himself, but the “we” would spread the load if things had gone wrong, as they almost certainly had. “Any reply to them yet?”

“Just ten minutes ago.” he turned round casually as if the matter had really slipped his memory, but the slight purpling tinge in the red face betrayed him, and there was nothing casual about his voice when he went on: “slapped me down, Mister, that’s what they did. Slapped me down. My own company. And the Ministry of Transport. Both of them. Told me to forget about it, said my protests were completely out of order, warned me of the consequences of future lack of cooperation with the appropriate authorities, whatever the hell appropriate authorities might be. Me my own company! Thirty-five years I’ve sailed with the Blue Mail Line and now… And now…” his fists clenched and his voice choked into fuming silence.

“So there was someone bringing very heavy pressure to bear, after all,” I murmured.

“There was, Mister, there was.” the cold blue eyes were very cold indeed and the big hands opened wide, then closed, tight, till the ivory showed. Bullen was a captain, but he was more than that: he was the Commodore of the Blue Mail Fleet, and even the board of directors walk softly when the fleet commodore is around; at least they don’t treat him like an office boy. He went on softly: “if ever I get my hands on Dr.