retirement on the old sailor.
Randle was young for the responsibility, just a little over thirty years
of age, but his training and his credentials were impeccable, and he was
an honours graduate of the tanker school in France. Here top men
received realistic training in the specialized handling of these
freakish giants in cunningly constructed lakes and scale-model harbours,
working thirty-foot models of the bulk carriers that had all the
handling characteristics of the real ships.
Since Duncan had given him the command, he had been defending the design
and a staunch ally, and he had stoutly deconstruction of his ship when
the reporters, whipped up by Nicholas Berg, had questioned him. He was
loyal, which heavily, tipping the balance for Duncan against his youth
and inexperience.
He hurried to meet his important visitors as they stepped out of the
elevator into his spacious, gleaming modern bridge, a short stocky
figure with a bull neck and the thrusting heavy jaw of great
determination or great stubbornness. His greeting had just the right
mixture of warmth and servility, and Duncan noted approvingly that he
treated even the boy with careful respect. Randle was bright enough to
realize that one day the child would be head of Christy Marine. Duncan
liked a man who could think so clearly and so far ahead, but Randle was
not quite prepared for Peter Berg.
Can I see your engine room, Captain? You mean right now?
'Yes. For Peter the question was superfluous. if you don't mind, sir!
he added quickly. Today was for doing things and tomorrow was lost in
the mists of the future.
Right now, would be just fine, Well now/ the Captain realized the
request was deadly serious, and that this lad could not be put off very
easily, we go on automatic during the night. There's nobody down there
now - and it wouldn't be fair to wake the engineer, would it?
It's been a hard day.
suppose not. Bitterly disappointed, but amenable to convincing
argument, Peter nodded.
But I am certain the Chief would be delighted to have you as his guest
directly after breakfast. The Chief Engineer was a Scot with three sons
of his own in Glasgow, the youngest of them almost exactly Peter's age.
He was more than delighted. Within twenty-four hours, Peter was the
ship's favourite, with his own blue company-issue overalls altered to
fit him and his name embroidered across the back by the lascar steward
PETER BERG', He wore his bright yellow plastic hard hat at the same
jaunty angle as the Chief did, and carried a wad of cotton waste in his
back pocket to wipe his greasy hands after helping one of the stokers
clean the fuel filters - the messiest job on board, and the greatest
fun.
Although the engine control room with its rough camaraderie, endless
supplies of sandwiches and cocoa and satisfying grease and oil that made
a man look like a professional, was Peter's favourite station, yet he
stood other watches.
Every morning he Joined the First Officer on his inspection.
Starting in the bows, they worked their way back, checking each of the
