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drinking type—or I didn’t think he was.”
    Kyle raised his eyes from the new compass mounting. “Hmm. He did at least salute the ship. But it’s his attitude that I mind. I’ve seen that bitter look before, and it’s poison, especially among new recruits. How’s he get on with the rest of the old crew?”
    O’Brien shrugged. “He’s quiet—very quiet. But I’ve had no complaints.”
    “We’ll keep an eye on Mr. Lambrecker just the same. Don’t want any of the new lot bothered by him.”
    “No, sir.”
    “Then again,” added Kyle, “maybe I shouldn’t have chewed him up so much, but dammit, you can’t let that kind of thing pass.”
    “No, sir, I agree.”
    There was a long silence. Then Kyle said hopefully, “’Course, he was probably working off a head of steam. No doubt he’ll be a new man when he sobers up.”
    “I expect so, sir.”
    Kyle looked at his Rolex Oyster. “We cast off at 1500, Number One. Call me at ETD minus five.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.”
    In crew’s quarters Lambrecker, having arrived earlier than most of the men on shore leave, tossed his seabag onto the lower bunk, which he considered his by right of long service. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly, so he didn’t see another seabag whose owner had chosen the same sleeping space. Before the double occupancy registered, a young, fresh-faced seaman, obviously a newcomer, rushed to apologize. “Sorry, sir.”
    Lambrecker scowled. “Don’t call me sir.”
    “No, sir. I mean no. Sorry.”
    Lambrecker swayed a little, steadied himself against the upper bunk, lit another cigarette, then stuck out a callused hand. “Name’s Lambrecker.”
    “Naim,” said the newcomer quickly, only too anxious to make friends.
    Quite apart from Lambrecker’s drunkenness, there was something about the way his pale blue eyes seemed to look right past you as he was talking which immediately put the youngster on his guard.
    “You want the bottom slab?” grunted Lambrecker in the friendliest tone he could manage.
    “Oh, doesn’t matter. I just tossed my kit there,” answered Naim. “Not much room, is there?”
    “It’s yours,” said Lambrecker, throwing his seabag onto the top bunk.
    “I don’t mind really—” began Naim.
    Lambrecker cut him short. “It’s yours,” he said, dragging out his tin of homemade cigarettes and offering it to Naim.
    “No thanks. I don’t smoke, but thanks for the bunk.”
    Lambrecker didn’t answer. He pulled down a few things from his bag and stuffed them into a small drawer in the dull scratched aluminum locker. Naim, not sure what to do, tried to think of something to say. He lifted up the leaves of a small wall calendar hanging on the side of the locker. Each month’s leaf had a British Columbia mountain scene on it, and as he flicked up June to see what July’s mountain was, he said lightly, “Going to be a long one.”
    Lambrecker dragged himself laboriously up to the top bunk, wanting to get some sleep before the sub got under way and he was required on station. Thinking that Lambrecker hadn’t heard him, Nairn spoke again. “They normally this long? The patrols, I mean.”
    “All fucking long,” answered Lambrecker, dragging a blanket up to his shoulders.
    Nairn nodded slightly. “Ah, would you like some coffee? I managed to find the galley.” There was no reply.
    When he returned from the mess, Naim sat down on the bunk and drank the lukewarm liquid. It was the worst coffee he’d had for weeks, but he drank it all, partly from habit, partly for something to do. It wasn’t until he got up to wash out the sandy dregs from his cup that he noticed three leaves missing from the calendar. June, July, and August had been tom off and lay crumpled on the honeycomb decking. He glanced up at Lambrecker, who now lay smoking and staring at the metal deckhead no more than two or three inches from his nose. The steel plate that seemed to be pressing down on Lambrecker reminded Naim of