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to his square, gray chin. Only his ears added a touch of levity, sticking out like jug handles to draw attention to the width of his cheekbones; their size emphasized by thesand-gray stubble of his crew-cut hair. He was six feet four inches tall and as thin as a rake.
    He stuck out a massive hand. Richard looked down as he took it. It was as gaunt as the rest of the man—fingers thin between scarred knucklebones, tipped with great square nails.
    “How do you do?” In the face of the baseless hostility, Richard spoke stiffly, and then felt very stage-English, as though he were putting on airs to belittle the American. Martyr scanned him from head to toe, able to look down on him—just; the blue-black waves perhaps half an inch below the sand-gray crew cut. He nodded once, coldly, silently.
    It was like a declaration of war.
    Dinner was held back to 20.00 that evening, waiting until the captain’s inspection was complete. Richard had told Ben to proceed with Pour Out while he showered and changed. Although exhausted, he hurried, knowing that the first social meeting with his officers was of the greatest importance.
    At precisely the same moment as Richard stepped out of his cabin door, Martyr stepped out of his a few feet away.
    “Evening, Chief,” said Richard guardedly. “You’ve missed Pour Out.”
    “Yeah.”
    They crossed to the lift, shoulder to shoulder, in silence, while Richard sorted out in his mind the sequence of questions he wanted to ask. Martyr pushed the button.
    “What exactly happened in the Pump Room?” asked Richard at once.
    Martyr, his face closed, turned. There was somethingRichard could not read, moving in his glass-green eyes. “Murder,” he said.
    “Murder?”
    “As good as.”
    The lift came. The doors hissed open. They stepped in together.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Goddamned amateurs,” yelled Martyr, suddenly overcome by the enormity of what had happened. “You’ve never seen anything like it in your life. Rotten wiring. Empty emergency equipment…”
    “Did you look at the pipework that Nicoli was checking?”
    “Yeah. Nothing wrong with it. The biggest disasters have the smallest causes. That’s always the way.”
    They arrived. The doors hissed open. Martyr’s face snapped closed again.
    The silence between them still cool, they walked down to the Officer’s Bar and entered together at 20.00 precisely.
    Everyone was there, except the third mate and the third engineer, who had just begun their respective watches above and below. They were rowdy and cheerful. Even young Tsirtos looked blearily happy, holding a pint of beer—clearly not his first—very much more at home with this crew than he had been with the other.
    John Higgins bustled across to them, beaming, an empty briar wedged jauntily in his mouth. “Evening, Captain. Chief. Would you like a drink, sirs?”
    Richard at least was tempted—Martyr rarely drank—and he hesitated for a second. It seemed too long, all of a sudden, since anyone had called him “sir” like that. He grinned enormously, feeling all the weariness drop away and an old excitement stir inside him. Then he clappedthe second mate on the shoulder. “No, thanks, John. I’ve kept you all from your meal long enough. Ben, Chief. Let’s go through.”
    The meal started quietly because both senior officers were silent; but as course succeeded course, each more excellent than the last, conversation became a hum and then a contented buzz.
    An hour or so later they trooped back to the bar, picked up a few more drinks, then proceeded to the lounge. The food had sharpened Richard’s mind—the food and a simple joy in existence he had almost forgotten how to feel. He had spent the meal studying his men. He felt able to invest another half hour in this crucial exercise before retiring at last. He took his beer and followed.
    In the lounge there was a TV, but it could only pick up Arabic stations. There was also a video. “Where are the tapes for