His face clouded as he saw the squadron of ground cars parked before his quarters. Their significance was obvious. Of course, she didn't expect him home this early in the day, and if she'd known of the orders he'd received there probably would have been no one here but her. Still, he'd have to go inside and face that crowd of cats mewling at each other over some conversational bone. He sighed as he stepped out of the car, told the driver to wait, and walked the few steps to his quarters.
Through the clatter of shrill voices the squealing giggle of Anne Albertson cut like a knife, piercing his ears as he stood in the tiny entrance hall, reluctant to enter farther yet unwilling to leave. He winced. Sure, Anne probably had a right to squeal. Her husband had landed his riddled ship yesterday morning and had walked away from the wreckage. Sure—she had a right to squeal, but did she have to do it in his house?
Fixing his expression into a noncommittal mask, he stepped into the living room, and with his appearance the noise stopped. Twelve pair of eyes looked at him and Anne Albertson said into the silence, "I think we'd better leave, girls. We're not needed here right now." There was a murmur and a rustle, and miraculously the room was empty, except for Ellen. She stood in front of him, a slim straight girl with a face that was oddly white against the wealth of her blue-black hair. She wasn't pretty, Fiske thought. She was beautiful.
"Are you off again?" Ellen asked.
Fiske nodded. Wives, he suspected, were telepathic.
"Admiral Koenig should go drown himself," she said bitterly. "He has no right to send you off like this. You've been home only six days."
"That's twice as long as last time," Fiske pointed out reasonably. He felt proud of her. She was pure steel all the way through. No tears, no fuss, even a faint smile on her lips. If possible he loved her more than ever. "If you don't like it," he continued with a wry grin, "you might take it up with the Admiral."