I looked along the deck. Everything was neatly coiled down. The deck planking was scrubbed white. Brass-work gleamed in the dull light. She was a lovely boat. She was a gaff-rigged ketch of fifty tons and she'd been built in the days when ships were expected to go anywhere. I'd had her stripped out inside and refitted to my own design. A new main mast had been stepped. The rigging was all new, so were the sails and I'd had her auxiliary replaced by a big ex-naval engine. For the first time since the war ended I felt the world at my feet. I'd stores and fuel and a crew — there was no place in the world Diviner wouldn't take me.
Dick sensed my thoughts. 'With a fair wind we'll be in the sun in a week's time,' he said, squinting up at the grey clouds scudding past our burgee.
I looked up at the envious faces lining Tower Bridge. 'Yes,' I said. 'Algiers, Naples, the Piraeus, Port Said…'
And then I saw Sir Clinton Mann coming across the wharf, Sir Clinton is chairman of B.M. & I. - a tall man with stooping shoulders and an abrupt manner. He'd come into the business by way of the City. He represented money and statistics. He was as remote as a cabinet minister from the sweat and toil of production. He looked strangely incongruous in his City hat as he climbed down on to the deck.
'Good-morning, Sir Clinton,' I said, wondering why he had come. His eyes regarded me coldly as I went forward to meet him. I was conscious of my dirty jersey and corduroys. I'd never met him anywhere outside of a board-room. 'Would you care to look over the ship?' I asked.
'No,' he said. 'I'm here on business, Gansert.' I took him down to the saloon. 'When do you sail?' he asked.
'Tommorow,' I said. 'On the morning tide.'
'For the Mediterranean?'
I nodded.
'I want you to change your plans, Gansert,' he said. 'I want you to go to Norway instead.'