Mike the Angel grinned up at the eye in the wall.
“Nothing to it, sir,” he said. “A child could have done it.”
13
Leda Crannon sat down on the edge of the bunk in Mike the Angel’s stateroom, accepted the cigarette and light that Mike had proffered, and waited while Mike poured a couple of cups of coffee from the insul-jug on his desk.
“I wish I could offer you something stronger, but I’m not much of a drinker myself, so I don’t usually take advantage of the officer’s prerogative to smuggle liquor aboard,” he said as he handed her the cup.
She smiled up at him. “That’s all right; I rarely drink, and when I do, it’s either wine or a very diluted highball. Right now, this coffee will do me more good.”
Mike heard footsteps coming down the companionway. He glanced out through the door, which he had deliberately left open. Ensign Vaneski walked by, glanced in, grinned, and went on his way. The kid had good sense, Mike thought. He hoped any other passers-by would stay out while he talked to Leda.
“Does a thing like that happen often?” the girl asked. “Not the fast solution; I mean the beat note.”