“Is zis,” said Blanchard, kicking it into a corner.

“V1101. Cushion, foam rubber, to fit sleeping basket, one of.”

“Half of,” Blanchard contradicted. “In four years he has chewed away other half.”

“Maybe Cassidy will let us indent for a new one. It doesn’t matter. We’re okay so long as we can produce the half we’ve got.” McNaught stood up, closed the folder. “That’s the lot for here. I’ll go see Burman about this missing item.”

The inventory party moved on.

* * *

Burman switched off a UHF receiver, removed his earplugs, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “In the galley we’re short an offog,” explained McNaught. “Where is it?”

“Why ask me? The galley is Blanchard’s bailiwick.”

“Not entirely. A lot of your cables run through it. You’ve two terminal boxes in there, also an automatic switch and an intercom booster. Where’s the offog?”

“Never heard of it,” said Burman, baffled.

McNaught shouted, “Don’t tell me that! I’m already fed up hearing Blanchard saying it. Four years back we had an offog. It says so here. This is our copy of what we checked and signed for. It says we signed for an offog. Therefore we must have one. It’s got to be found before Cassidy gets here.”

“Sorry, sir,” sympathized Burman. “I can’t help you.”

“You can think again,” advised McNaught. “Up in the bow there’s a direction and distance indicator. What do you call it?”

“A didin,” said Burman, mystified.

“And,” McNaught went on, pointing at the pulse transmitter, “what do you call that?”