“Ah,” said Jack as the sub-lieutenant entered. “Mister Barus will be fetching a guest from London, who I hope will consent to be our surgeon. Please see that he has a sober, responsible man to go with him.”
It was with a sober, responsible hand that Mister Midshipman Barus approached Jack’s inn some hours later. His companion, a plain-faced, reasonably-proportioned sailor, had her long brown hair pulled back into the traditional pony tail, and Stephen saw them walk into the inn with a feeling of relief. He had had an unpleasant night of it, wandering the streets with his belongings, and though his training enabled him to spot most thieves and pickpockets before they had even noticed him, he rather thought that he was to be congratulated on having lost nothing more than a threadbare pocket handkerchief, snatched away by the wind as he crossed Saint Croix street. He had in fact visited the inn at four a.m., just to be sure, rattling the doors and peering through the darkened glass to see the night clerk asleep at the desk. Stephen had not slept, though he had briefly sat on a few stoops, always moving on before a passing police officer could chivvy him along.
Thus it was with a feeling of relief not far from rebirth that he saw a young naval officer, his uniform marked with the same white facings Stephen had so recently seen Jack remove from his own uniform; accompanied by a capable-looking sailor equipped with a folding luggage truck; both of them discussing a doctor by the name of Russ. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping forward, “I am Doctor Russ. Would you be acquaintances of Captain O’Brian, of the Roth?”
They were acquaintances of Captain O’Brian, of the Roth: Mister Barus, midshipman; and Panzer, captain of the top. In no time at all they had strapped Stephen’s possessions to the truck, along with Captain O’Brian’s chest, and they all three of them set off for the spaceport.
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