Cruise Doctor. Kerry Mitchell

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СКАЧАТЬ quickly and put on the uniform. And now there was no vestige left of that feeling of foolishness. It was an honorable dress he was in; he wore now the marks of one who served the austere servitude of the sea, a profession older, and as noble, as his own.

      But there was something else. As he put on the peaked cap and studied himself in the mirror above the basin, the years abruptly telescoped backward, back into the times in the mess in Pusan, and Pyong-Yang. It was different, but it was a uniform, one which men had been proud to wear in that war, and the war before it. It was pleasant to be officially dressed again.

      “Patriotic, yet,” he muttered in deprecation of his thoughts, and went out in search of the captain’s cabin.

      Fifteen thouand tons is a lot of ship, and he might have been still searching when it reached Hawaii if the seaman at the gangway had not seen and recognized his perplexed frown as Grady stared along the vast reach of deck. Remembering that earlier tone, the seaman asked politely:

      “Can I help you, sir?”

      “You certainly can,” Grady answered thankfully, “where’s the captain’s cabin? He’s here? I mean on board?”

      “Yes, sir. This way.”

      They moved off. It was a sweet berth, and the seaman could see no sound reason why he should not be on the right side of an officer, no matter how green and insignificant. As they went he offered sea-marks.

      “This is the main deck, sir. Just past the lounge—bar’s in there—this ladder here leads up to the boat deck.” They climbed it, the seaman running, Grady moving more slowly, leaning sideways a little as he favored his leg. “Boat deck, sir. They have dancing here sometimes when the weather’s right, otherwise down in the ballroom.” They walked past the line of lifeboats, covered with canvas, lashed securely to ringbolts in the deck. “Not that ladder, leads to the radio room. This one—bridge, executive officers’ cabins. That’s the captain, chief, second and third officers, navigator. Handy to the bridge.”

      They climbed the last ladder and Grady thought wryly of his own cabin, below decks and unimportantly clear of the nerve center. Then the seaman halted before a door of polished wood and gestured upward with a flick of a finger and Grady saw above the door the bright brass legend: CAPTAIN.

      “Okay, sir? Gotta get back to the gangway.”

      “Thank you,” Grady said. He tugged at the peak of his cap, pulled down his uniform coat, and knocked at the door.

      At once a resonant voice answered:

      “Come in.”

      Grady opened the door and stepped in over the coaming. He recognized the significance of a first meeting with the man or men who were to employ him, and he was used to making his assessments quickly. But in this case his first impression as he entered the cabin was its size. His own would have fitted into the entrance foyer. Obviously a captain of a ship like this had host as well as sea duties.

      “Yes?” a curt voice reined his thoughts back.

      There were two officers in the cabin, both gold-braided. The one behind a large desk was as big as Grady, and now he was looking at the newcomer, waiting. The other officer was sitting with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He had not even glanced up.

      “Good afternoon, sir,” Grady addressed the big man, “ship’s surgeon, just joined.”

      “I see. Grady, isn’t it.”

      Statement, not query. A small thing, but to Grady, alert to judge this man, it was significant. The captain had not glanced at any list of names before pronouncing his own. He knew and remembered the name of his newest recruit.

      “Yes, sir,” Grady acknowledged, keeping his face sober and respectful. This man corresponded in experience and authority to the head of a large hospital. Or of a fighter base.

      The captain stood up. His face was weathered, and cast in an authoritative mold. But Grady expected that. He was idly interested to note that the bigness of frame was marred by a bulge round the waistline. Good living, drinking with the more important passengers, insufficient exercise, he diagnosed. The captain extended his hand, shook Grady’s briefly.

      “My name is Faulkner. This is the chief officer, Mr. Bedloe. Glad to have you with us, Grady.”

      The chief officer nodded. He did not rise. The captain resumed his seat. Grady was thinking: Grady, not Doctor. One of the team, a junior member. And shown it. His specialty irrelevant. Fair enough—until his specialty was urgently required.

      Faulkner leaned back comfortably in his chair. Grady was left standing. In front of the ship’s two senior officers it was an inferior, not superior, position. Faulkner said, his tone and expression equable:

      “You haven’t been a ship’s surgeon before?”

      “No, sir. My locums have been shorebound.”

      “Then you won’t mind a bit of advice?”

      There was no answer to that rhetorical query, beyond a small smile. Faulkner expected none. He went on at once:

      “This is a somewhat peculiar vessel, Grady. In his own field every passenger is wealthy and influential. You might liken it to the plushiest practice in Los Angeles or New York, where I understand you come from. You’re with me?”

      “Perfectly, sir.”

      A pair of gray eyes, narrowed, scanned him keenly.

      “I want to make sure, Grady. Your prospective patients are used to getting what they want. In everything, you understand? When a man is handling millions a sore throat or a pain in the gut means somewhat more than it might to a cab driver. It could cost him money, even an hour or two away from his office. So he’s used to getting his medical attention fast—the best for the most minor complaint. Our job is to see that in this ship he gets what he’s used to. Clear?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Grady was looking at Faulkner but there had swum into his mental vision another face—a lean dedicated face beneath a sterile cap, listening to these instructions, the corner of the mouth twisted cynically; not sneering, just disgusted. Forcibly Grady pushed the image of Frank aside. When in Rome . . . Very comforting and helpful, that geographical platitude.

      But Faulkner was not finished. He drove the point further, his voice pleasant and his eyes unsmiling:

      “I don’t know the meticulousness of your medical ethics, Grady, nor do I care. What’s important is this—if one of my passengers thinks he’s ill, then he’s ill. You’ll treat him accordingly. It may conflict with your medical training . . .” Had those cold eyes read his mind? . . . “and if it does I suggest you step ashore right now. People like we’re carrying talk when they get back. If they’ve been well treated, if the service is what they expect, then we get a full passenger list for the next cruise. Simple economics, Grady, which apply in your department just as strongly as in mine. Clear?”

      The shipping company manager had been much more discreet with his mention of hypochondriacs. These instructions from Faulkner were forthright, almost brutally frank. Not anger—maybe a ship’s captain always spoke so unequivocally—but a mixture of disgust and disquiet were working in Grady. He wanted this cruise badly, yet he could not hold back his own СКАЧАТЬ