From time to time, he could hear a murmur of voices. Starr’s high-pitched voice carried most clearly. “Mutiny ship, sir … never the same again … better this way.” There was a murmured reply, too low to catch, then he heard Starr saying, “… finished as a fighting unit.” The grey-haired man said something rapidly, his tone sharp with disagreement, but the words were blurred. Then the deep, heavy voice of the Fleet Admiral said something about “expiation,” and the grey-haired man nodded slowly. Then Starr looked at him over his shoulder, and Nicholls knew they were talking about him. He thought he heard the words “not well” and “frightful strain,” but perhaps he was imagining it.
Anyway, he no longer cared. He was anxious for one thing only, and that was to be gone. He felt an alien in an alien land, and whether they believed him or not no longer mattered. He did not belong here, where everything was so sane and commonplace and real-and withal a world of shadows.
He wondered what the Kapok Kid would have said had he been here, and smiled in fond reminiscence: the language would have been terrible, the comments rich and barbed and pungent. Then he wondered what Vallery would have said, and he smiled again at the simplicity of it all, for Vallery would have said: “Do not judge them, for they do not understand.”
Gradually, he became aware that the murmuring had ceased, that the three men were standing above him. His smile faded, and he looked up slowly to see them looking down strangely at him, their eyes full of concern.
“I’m damnably sorry, boy,” the grey-haired man said sincerely. “You’re a sick man and we’ve asked far too much of you. A drink, Nicholls? It was most remiss——”
“No, thank you, sir.” Nicholls straightened himself in his chair. “I’ll be perfectly all right.” He hesitated. “Is, is there anything else?”
“No, nothing at all.” The smile was genuine, friendly. “You’ve been a great help to us, Lieutenant, a great help. And a fine report. Thank you very much indeed.”
A liar and a gentleman, Nicholls thought gratefully. He struggled to his feet, reached out for his crutches. He shook hands with Starr and the Admiral of the Fleet, and said good-bye. The grey-haired man accompanied him to the door, his hand beneath Nicholls’s arm.
At the door Nicholls paused.
“Sorry to bother you but-when do I begin my leave, sir?”
“As from now,” the other said emphatically. “And have a good time. God knows you’ve earned it, my boy… Where are you going?”
“Henley, sir.”
“Henley! I could have sworn you were Scots.”
“I am, sir-I have no family.”
“Oh. … A girl, Lieutenant?”
Nicholls nodded silently.
The grey-haired man clapped him on the shoulder, and smiled gently.
“Pretty, I’ll be bound?”
Nicholls looked at him, looked away to where the sentry was already holding open the street doors, and gathered up his crutches.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said quietly. “I don’t know at all. I’ve never seen her.”
He tip-tapped his way across the marble flags, passed through the heavy doors and limped out into the sunshine.
THE END