It was then, his paroxysms of mirth stifled by sober recollection, that the Old Man turned and said, "Well, it was fun while it lasted. But it's all over now, Dugan. Call the men together. This is the last act, and we might as well all face it together."
But before I could leave the room, Slops clutched my arm with fingers tense and hot as live wires.
"No, Joey! Don't go! I need your help. And yours, Skipper! Hurry! We haven't a minute to lose!"
I stared at the Old Man and he at me. "H-huh?" said the two of us. "Help? Help for what?"
"Oh, don't talk so much!" bleated Andy. "Work! Get this garbage out of here—like this!"
And recklessly he plunged both arms into the channel of the incinerator, recklessly hurled it about the previously immaculate floor of the galley. As he worked, he panted: "An incinerator, yes ... but ... it was a good cannon ... in its ... day. It will still work. I cleaned ... and oiled it ... and connected it to the charger. It still shoots!"
Shoots! That was all we had to hear. We fell all over ourselves trying to get an armload of that goo. I never thought I'd live to see the day I'd go fond and blissful over a gallon of boiled noodles, but that's just what happened. I dug in, and so did the skipper. In less time than I've taken to tell it, we had that incinerator-cannon empty, swabbed out and ready for use as a cannon-incinerator.
Then the captain clapped a hand to his forehead.
"Omigawd—I clean forgot! The firing-plate! There ain't no vision-field for this gun!"