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“There you are Russ," said Jack. "Stephen, that is. I still can’t believe you let me call you Russ for so long."
“There seemed no need for correction,” said Stephen. “It is my name.”
“You are a deep one, Doctor Russ. But you are just in time for the jump to hyperspace, I was going to send a midshipman for you in a minute or so. Deck, there, Miller, how are we coming?”
“Just the aft starboard gangway hatch on the gun deck, sir. Sometimes it sticks, sir, we may have to send a hand to eyeball it.”
Jack paused. Proper response if a hatch failed to read green before a jump was to pressure test it. If the hatch passed, the vessel’s commander could then over-ride the hatch sensor to turn the christmas tree green. But pressure testing was old-womanish, a six or seven hour procedure: not at all the image he wished to convey to the crew of his new command, or to Whitehall. He glanced covertly at Mister Greenstreet, but the sublieutenant’s face was blank. Mister Lorre and the acting master, whose name eluded Jack for the moment, were unconcernedly introducing themselves to Stephen. Sending someone to check wouldn’t hurt - perhaps with a shove on the hatch, the sensor would read properly. “Send a responsible hand to check the hatch, Miller. Have him give it a good shove.”
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