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this?” demanded Martyr unexpectedly. He, too, had been watching the captain and officers during the meal and he now looked less hostile—perhaps even a little confused. Certainly this was the first time he had ever come into the lounge with the others. Truth to tell, it was also the first time Tsirtos had dared come in here as well. The young radio officer was as willing to oblige as an excited child.
    “There are some tapes in the library, I think,” he offered at once.
    “Try and get a good movie, son,” demanded Martyr. Tsirtos vanished to obey.
    Martyr seemed to have reached a decision. He crossed to Richard’s table and sat, uninvited. Richard swung round until his back was to the screen, facing Martyr. The chief put his great scarred hands on the table and leaned forward above them. “Richard Mariner,” he drawled. “Do I know that name?”
    Richard knew when he was being tested. He had no idea of the stories that had circulated, anticipating his arrival, and would have been surprised to hear half of them. He thought instead of the collision; the explosion…He sat quiet, watching his adversary. The cheerful hum of conversation continued unabated. That was good, he thought; he didn’t want this clash of wills too public, or the authority of one of the combatants must inevitably suffer, no matter what the outcome.
    “Captain Richard Mariner…” The American drew it out, apparently using the sound as a goad on his recalcitrant memory.
    Suddenly, with breathtaking vividness, Richard saw three hundred feet of pipe-forested deck rolling back toward him as he stood, unbelieving, in his bridge. Three hundred feet of steel plate, rolling like a carpet. Like the top of a sardine can with an invisible key turning.
    His whole body jumped and flinched. Martyr’s eyes focused on him sharply at once, but Tsirtos unwittingly saved the situation by bustling back importantly, holding a handful of black video cassettes. Martyr swung toward him, a glimmer of interest lighting his bronze hatchet face. “Anything good? Any westerns?” he asked almost wistfully.
    “I don’t know what they are, sir. No labels.”
    All the officers turned back into their little groups. Martyr turned back toward Mariner, the temporary distraction over. The test began again. “Mariner. Now I’m sure I know that name…”
    Richard ran out of patience. He opened his mouth to tell the chief to play up or get out of the game, but caught his breath in shock. At the very moment he looked up, Martyr’s face changed.
    The eyes blazed. The thin lips drew back from marble-whiteteeth. Nostrils flared. Ugly veins wormed their way across his broad forehead.
    At the same time, all conversation stopped, stunned into silence. Discordant music blared. Richard swung round, knowing a crisis when he found one.
    Tsirtos was kneeling down, checking the video machine as it ran. Above him, on the screen, a young girl was hanging from the branch of a tree. Her legs were lashed to pegs, wide spaced in the ground. She was utterly naked. As they watched, in stunned silence, a hooded man appeared and began to beat her with a stick. She looked sixteen years old, if that.
    “Tsirtos!” snapped Mariner, but his voice was lost in Martyr’s roar. The table rose in the captain’s face as the chief launched himself forward. Richard toppled to one side, rolled over, and came up just as Martyr hauled Tsirtos to his feet. Holding the boy’s shirt left-handed at his throat, Martyr launched a murderous right hook low to his belly. Another.
    Captain and first officer leapt forward as one, each catching an arm. Martyr dropped Tsirtos and pulled free, swinging round. He drew back his fist, eyes completely mad. “Ben!” called Richard, at whom the blow was aimed. Ben caught Martyr’s wrist and turned the blow. Richard stepped back, kicking away the table and chair.
    “Right! That’s all. Look after Tsirtos.”
    His whole stance changed. The English stiffness went out of his