“I know. I think I’d like it though.”
Barkison could see that O’Mahoney was trying to decide whether to tell of his revelation or not. He decided not to. They sat without speaking, and the Major listened to the sounds of the ship. Distant voices from the salon and the wheelhouse and, nearer them, the soft curses of Smitty, the Indian cook, as he prepared lunch. The ship, Barkison noticed, was rocking more than usual. Evans was probably changing course.
The Major excused himself and walked into the almost dark salon and stood by the after door, looking out. In shallow ridges the wake of the ship foamed on the sky-gray water: gray when you looked at its surface but obsidian-dark beneath. A slight wind blew, troubling only the gulls, who floated uneasily on it.
Martin came and stood beside him in the doorway.
“Ah, Mr Martin. Smooth sailing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very.”
“I’m certainly glad it is. Certainly glad it’s calm. I had thought we might have rough weather according to the report, but it doesn’t seem so.”
“Might be bad yet, Major. This is pretty unusual. In fact this isn’t at all what we expected.”
“Weather’s incalculable here, I suppose. That’s true of all the Aleutians, I suppose.”
“You’re right there. You can’t tell much till it’s almost too late.”