When he sat down on the edge of the chair he was fussy about the crease in his pants. "Mr. Miller, whenever you are above decks, day or night, you will please keep your face concealed with that helmet, or its equivalent, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. Please."
"Since when have I been above decks? Since when have I been out of this two-by-four shack?"
"The shack," he said, "could be smaller, and the weather could be hotter. We'll see that while you're aboard you'll have the freedom of the deck after sunset. And you won't if things go right, be aboard much longer."
My ears went up at that. "No?"
"On the deck, upstairs"-he Was no Navy man, or maybe that was the impression he wanted to give-"are racks of rockets of various sizes. You might have noticed them when you came aboard. No? Well, they have been armed; some with electrical proximity fuses, some with mechanical timing devices, and some have both. They will be sent singly, or in pairs, or in salvos, at a target some little distance away. Your job will be the obvious one. Do you think you can do it?"
"Suppose I don't?"
He stood up. "Then that's what we want to know. Ready?"
I stretched. "As ready as I'll ever be. Let's go and take the air."
"Forget something?" He pointed at the helmet, hanging back of the door.
I didn't like it, but I put it on, and he took me up, up to the rocket racks on the prow. Even through the dark lenses the sun was oddly bright. Smith pointed off to port, where a battered old hull without even a deckhouse or a mast hobbled painfully in the trough of the sea.