Bervick laughed. It was the first time that he had really felt like laughing in several months. The surface of his mind was serene: only in the back of his mind, the thoughts he was not thinking about, only there was he uneasy.
“Martin taking over at eight bells?”
Evans nodded. “You better get him up.”
Bervick went into the small dark cabin. Martin was asleep and breathing heavily. Bervick shook him.
“Get up,” he said.
“Sure, sure,” said Martin wearily. He rolled out of his bunk; he was already dressed.
“Afraid we might sink?”
“Sure, sure,” said Martin and he moved unsteadily to the wheelhouse.
Bervick sat down on his bunk and looked at the darkness. Duval was dead. He imagined how it must have felt: the cold water, the numbing sensation, desperation, and then the whole elaborate business of living ended.
Evans opened the door of his cabin. “You asleep?” he asked.