"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.
"Target."
He jerked a thumb at the racks.
"Rockets."
I knew what they were. I'd seen enough of them sail over my head.