something.'
Mary looked at her gratefully. 'Well, that's what I think. I mean, I couldn't bear to-to just stop doing things and do nothing. You might as well die now and get it over.'
Moira nodded. 'If what they say is right, we're none of us going to have time to do all that we planned to do. But we can keep on doing it as long as we can.'
They sat on the hearthrug, Mary playing with the poker and the wood fire. Presently she said, 'I forgot to ask you if you'd like a brandy or something. There's a bottle in the cupboard, and I think there's some soda.'
The girl shook her head. 'Not for me. I'm quite happy.'
'Really?'
'Really.'
'Have you reformed, or something?'
'Or something,' said the girl. 'I never tip it up at home. Only when I'm out at parties, or with men. With men particularly. Matter of fact, I'm even getting tired of that, now.'
'It’s not men, is it, dear? Not now. It's Dwight Towers.”
'Yes,' the girl said. 'It's Dwight Towers.'
'Don't you ever want to get married? I mean, even if we are all dying next September.'
The girl stared into the fire. 'I wanted to get married,' she said quietly. 'I wanted to have everything you've got. But I shan't have it now.'
'Couldn't you marry Dwight?'
The girl shook her head. 'I don't think so.'
'I'm sure he likes you.'
'Yes,' she said. 'He likes me all right.'
'Has he ever kissed you?'
'Yes,' she said again. 'He kissed me once.'
'I'm sure he'd marry you.'
The girl shook her head again. 'He wouldn't ever do that. You see, he's married already. He's got a wife and two children in America.'
Mary stared at her. 'Darling, he can't have. They must be dead.'
'He doesn't think so,' she said wearily. 'He thinks he's going home to meet them, next September. In his own home town, at Mystic.' She paused. 'We're all going a bit mad in our own way,' she said. 'That's his way.'
'You mean, he really thinks his wife is still alive?'
'I don't know if he thinks that or not. No, I don't think he does. He thinks he's going to be dead next September, but he thinks he's going home to them, to Sharon and Dwight Junior and Helen. He's been buying presents for them.'
Mary sat trying to understand. 'But if he thinks like that, why did he kiss you?'
'Because I said I'd help him with the presents.'
Mary got to her feet. 'I'm going to have a drink,' she said firmly. 'I think you'd better have one, too.' And when that was adjusted and they were sitting with glasses in their hands, she asked curiously, 'It must be funny, being jealous of someone that's dead?'
The girl took a drink from her glass and sat staring at the fire. 'I'm not jealous of her,' she said at last. 'I don't think so. Her name is Sharon, like in the Bible. I want to meet her. She must be a very wonderful person, I think. You see, he's such a practical man.'
'Don't you want to marry him?'
The girl sat for a long time in silence. 'I don't know,' she said at last. 'I don't know if I do or not. If it wasn't for all this… I'd play every dirty trick in the book to get him away from her. I don't think I'll ever be happy with anyone else. But then, there's not much time left now to be happy with anyone.'
'There's three or four months, anyway,' said Mary. 'I saw a motto once, one of those things you hang on the wall to inspire you. It said, 'Don't worry-it may never happen.''
'I think this is going to happen all right,' Moira remarked. She picked up the poker and began playing with it. 'If it was for a lifetime it'd be different,' she said. 'It'd be worth doing her dirt if it meant having Dwight for good, and children, and a home, and a full life. I'd go through anything if I could see a chance of that. But to do her dirt just for three months' pleasure and nothing at the end of it-well, that's another thing. I may be a loose woman, but I don't know that I'm all that loose.' She looked up, smiling. 'Anyway, I don't believe that I could do it in the time. I think he'd take a lot of prising away from her.'
'Oh dear,' said Mary. 'Things are difficult, aren't they?'
'Couldn't be worse,' Moira agreed. 'I think I'll probably die an old maid.'
'It doesn't make sense. But nothing seems to make sense, these days. Peter…' She stopped.
'What about Peter?' the girl asked curiously.
'I don't know. It was just horrible, and crazy.' She shifted restlessly.
'What was? Tell me.'
'Did you ever murder anybody?'
'Me? Not yet. I've often wanted to. Country telephone girls, mostly.'
'This was serious. It's a frightful sin to murder anybody, isn't it? I mean, you'd go to Hell.'
'I don't know. I suppose you would. Who do you want to murder?'
The mother said dully, 'Peter told me I might have to murder Jennifer.' A tear formed and trickled down her cheek.
The girl leaned forward impulsively and touched her hand. 'Darling, that can't be right! You must have got it wrong.'
She shook her head. 'It's not wrong,' she sobbed. 'It's right enough. He told me I might have to do it, and he showed me how.' She burst into a torrent of tears.
Moira took her in her arms and soothed her, and gradually the story came out. At first the girl could not believe the words she heard, but later she was not so sure. Finally they went together to the bathroom and looked at the red boxes in the cabinet. 'I've heard something about all this,' she said seriously. 'I never knew that it had got so far…' One craziness was piled on to another.
'I couldn't do it alone,' the mother whispered. 'However bad she was, I couldn't do it. If Peter isn't here… if anything happens to Scorpion… will you come and help me, Moira? Please?'
'Of course I will,' the girl said gently. 'Of course I’ll come and help. But Peter will be here. They're coming back all right. Dwight's that kind of a man.' She produced a little screwed up ball of handkerchief, and gave it to Mary. 'Dry up, and let's make a cup of tea. I'll go and put the kettle on.'
They had a cup of tea before the dying fire.
Eighteen days later U.S.S. Scorpion surfaced in clean air in latitude thirty-one degrees south, near Norfolk Island. At the entrance to the Tasman Sea in winter the weather was bleak and the sea rough, the low deck swept by every wave. It was only possible to allow the crew up to the bridge deck eight at a time; they crept up, white faced and trembling, to huddle in oilskins in the driving rain and spray. Dwight kept the submarine hove-to head into the wind for most of the day till everyone had had his allotted half-hour in the fresh air, but few of the men stayed on the bridge so long.
Their resistance to the cold and wet conditions on the bridge was low, but at least he had brought them all back alive, with the exception of Yeoman Swain. All were white faced and anaemic after thirty-one days' confinement within the hull, and he had three cases of intense depression rendering those men unreliable for duty. He had had one bad fright when Lieutenant Brody had developed all the symptoms of acute appendicitis; with John Osborne helping him he had read up all the procedure for the operation and prepared to do it on the wardroom table. However the symptoms had subsided and the patient was now resting comfortably in his berth; Peter Holmes had taken over all his duties and the captain now hoped that he might last out until they docked at Williamstown in five days' time. Peter Holmes was as normal as anyone on board. John Osborne was nervous and irritable though still efficient; he talked incessantly of his Ferrari.
They had disproved the Jorgensen effect. They had ventured slowly into the Gulf of Alaska using their underwater mine detector as a defense against floating icebergs till they had reached latitude fifty-eight north in the vicinity of Kodiak. The ice was thicker near the land and they had not approached it; up there the radiation level
