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In the wardroom, the traditional soup gave way to a second course of unctuous red and white ribbons and steaming yellow loaves of what Stephen recognized as eggs.
“Facon, Doctor,” offered Sergeant Strasser, grasping several of the strips in a pair of tongs.
“Thank you,” said Stephen, offering his plate. “May I scoop you some egg?”
“If you please,” said the marine.
Stephen took the ice cream scoop from the nearest tray and served the sergeant and then himself. “I’m sorry to be obtuse, sir, but did you call these strips facon?”
Sergeant Strasser laughed. “They hardly deserve the name bacon,” he said, “though I suppose they taste well enough, in their way.”
Stephen picked up one of the pieces and tasted it. “Well,” he said after a considering pause, “at least it’s not rubbery.”
“Rubbery bacon is not worthy of-”, began the sergeant, but he was cut off by Mister Greenstreet.
“The wardroom does not eat with its fingers, Doctor,” said the sublieutenant. “We are gentlemen here and decorum must be preserved.”
Silence greeted this remark. Someone, perhaps Mister Lorre, cleared their throat. “I beg your pardon, Mister Greenstreet,” said Stephen, “you are quite right, and I do apologize.”
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