A tousled head of red hair first appeared in the small opening, and after it a youngish face that seemed to emerge from the hair.
"What is it, Munro?" asked Captain Henderson.
"The anchor's gone out, sir—torn out of its holdings by the storm. We can't seem to be able to draw it back. Attached to something, most likely."
The captain pondered this a moment, then he made an abrupt gesture with his hand. "Well, leave it until this infernal storm has passed—we weren't making time, anyway. Give the order to shut down the engines. Then try to find out just about where we are, and report back to me."
"Very well, sir."
The captain sat down again. "Happens once in a lifetime," he explained. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile genially; his mood was not for it. "There's nothing to be done."
His listeners nodded sympathetically. Then the four of them sat in silence until another rap on the cabin door brought them again to alertness.
Again Munro appeared in response to the captain's call. "I've inquired of the first mate, sir," he said, "as to our bearings. He has no idea where we are. He's asked the radio operator to broadcast to see what he can get. We are somewhere about the Moluccas, he thinks, or more probably Java. Seems to be something wrong with our compasses, sir."
The captain nodded ponderously. "Most likely the storm, or some other magnetic influence. You may go, Munro, but if anything crops up, report to me immediately."
Munro vanished, drawing the cabin door shut behind him. The captain shook his head dolefully and waited to see whether one of the other men might say something. No one ventured; so he began once more. "I didn't think we had got as far as Java," he said. "But you can't ever tell—"