“This is a warship, not a luxury liner,” Cassidy snapped. He frowned at the equipment-sheet. “V148. Timing device, electronic oven, attachment thereto, one of.”

“Is zis,” spat Blanchard, ready to sling it through the nearest port if Cassidy would first donate the two pins.

Working his way down the sheet, Cassidy got nearer and nearer while nervous tension built up. Then he reached the critical point and said, “V1098. Offog, one.”

“Morbleu!” said Blanchard, shooting sparks from his eyes, “I have say before an’ I say again, zere never was-”

“The offog is in the radio room, sir,” McNaught chipped in hurriedly.

“Indeed?” Cassidy took another look at the sheet. “Then why is it recorded along with galley equipment?”

“It was placed in the galley at time of fitting-out, sir. It’s one of those portable instruments left to us to fix up where most suitable.”

“Hm-m-m! Then it should have been transferred to the radio room list. Why didn’t you transfer it?”

“I thought it better to wait for your authority to do so, sir.”

The fish-eyes registered gratification. “Yes, that is quite proper of you, Captain. I will transfer it now.” He crossed the item from sheet nine, initialed it, entered it on sheet sixteen, initialed that. “V1099. Inscribed collar, leather … oh, yes, I’ve seen that. The dog was wearing it.”

He ticked it. An hour later he strutted into the radio room. Burman stood up, squared his shoulders but could not keep his feet or hands from fidgeting. His eyes protruded slightly and kept straying toward McNaught in silent appeal. He was like a man wearing a porcupine in his britches.

* * *

“V1098. Offog, one,” said Cassidy in his usual tone of brooking no nonsense. Moving with the jerkiness of a slightly uncoordinated robot, Burman pawed a small box fronted with dials, switches, and colored lights. It looked like a radio ham’s idea of a fruit machine. He knocked down a couple of switches. The lights came on, played around in intriguing combinations.