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Jack left the interview in a mixture of shame and anger. He knew he should be relieved - grateful, even - beams-slipped-from-the-clamps was serious damage, and commanders had been docked pay or even lost their appointments for less. But shame, and not too deeply beneath it, anger, dominated. Standing in the busy passage outside the admiral’s office there was no outlet for any of these emotions, however, so he bottled them up, stepped into the admiral’s secretary’s office to submit Doctor Russ’s name, and caught the people mover back to the quay. From there he caught a wherry back to the Roth to see about unloading and docking her.
The emotions continued to work on him, however, and by the time he returned to the Roth he was thoroughly sour, looking for something to lash out on just to alleviate the tension. On the bridge he gave clipped orders to receive lighters to offload their cargo, and to have the guns locked down and inspected by the ordinance people in preparation for entering the graving dock. Then he retreated to his cabin, where he asked Stephen to report to the admiral. Finally alone, he swore loudly, kicking one of his chairs so hard that it broke free of the pins holding it to the deck.
“Damn it,” he swore again, nursing his now painful foot. He picked up the chair and set it on its feet again, where it sat lopsidedly, one of the legs being bent. Mastering the urge to hurl the chair across the cabin he sat down instead, wallowing in the discomfort of the damaged chair as punishment for his outburst.
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