End Table Build Thread 5a: More Pix

I got home before the sun set, so here's a few more pix:

In the above photo, there is a pallor where the left-most leg meets the skirting. This isn't on the actual table, but appears in several photographs. My guess is that it's an artifact of the gloss finish reflecting the light between the two neighboring pieces of wood. The next photo shows some of the depth of the grain, brought out by the stain:

Finally, a pic with Shadow, since she was there:

End Table Build Thread 5: Completed Table First Look

Just a quick post: it's done:

I'll have a few more pictures once there's some daylight coming in the window for light, but here it is for now.

Truth and Beauty 11-4

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At the companion he found the wardroom sentry still standing guard, the first normal sign since the alarm. “Perazzo,” he said, “what’s going on?”

“It’s quarters, sir,” whispered the marine, suspiciously, “and silent running. Why aren’t - that is, perhaps you should be in the cockpit?”

“The cockpit? The bridge?”

“No, sir, the cockpit, where the wounded go?”

“We have wounded?”

“Yes,” Perazzo lied. “Yes. Go to the wounded. But remove your shoes, sir, it’s silent running.”

Stephen ran stocking-footed one level down the companion, then moved quickly along the starboard gangway, meeting no one. At the sickbay, he found the door held open by a magnetic catch, and he hurried in.

Katya sat on a stool in the middle of that waiting room, her tablet in her hands, one foot tucked beneath her as she spun in a lazy circle. She looked up as Stephen entered. “Good morning, sir,” she said.

“Perazzo said we have wounded,” Stephen said uncertainly, something in Katya’s relaxed nature sowing doubt.

“No, sir, not yet,” Katya whispered.

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Truth and Beauty 11-3

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The bridge was only half lit for the overnight shift, and the alternating red and cyan mood lighting showed strongly. Aside from Jack, who stood in his nightshirt, everyone wore their class B uniforms. “Just over 40 klicks, sir,” said the radar operator.

“On screen.”



Stephen’s awakening, one deck down from Jack’s cabins, was much more abrupt, much more violent. The first blast of the klaxon jerked him upright in his cot, tumbling him onto the floor, while the truncated second blast left him distinctly frightened. Clearly the alarm meant that something was wrong; its cutoff mid-shriek could only mean that Roth was severely, perhaps mortally wounded. The rushing feet outside his door did little to ease his anxiety. He was suddenly aware that mere inches of steel separated him from the vacuum of space and oblivion, a fact seemingly underscored by the pulsing red and cyan lights that provided the only illumination to his cabin.

The rushing feet subsided, and the whoosh of the ventilation system, along along with the myriad other background noises of the Roth fell away, leaving the silence of a tomb.

Whatever the answers were, they were not to be found in his cabin. Having thrown on clothes, he felt his door for heat. Finding none, he backed the door with his foot and eased the door open half an inch, ready to clap it to and shoot the bolt. The half-lit wardroom was empty.

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Truth and Beauty 11-2

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Two bells in the first dog, and the gunner and armorer returned, meek as mice. Holley and Kinskey returned as well, reasonably jolly. They worked steadily for an hour, when Jack released the midshipmen for the night. Morretti and Mister Veidt he released at the end of the second dog. The men left quietly, and Jack was alone at last. He stood over the arms lockers and stared.



The armorer was perhaps three-quarters of the way through when the French appeared. Jack awoke to the insistent shaking of his cot and his name, absurdly whispered as if the speaker was afraid of waking him. “Yes,” he said. “What is it?”

“Mister Henreid’s compliments sir and there is a vessel off the starboard bow, French, he thinks,” said a voice. “Shall he beat to quarters?”

“Yes,” said Jack, swinging from his cot, “and rig for silent running.”

“Quarters and silent running, yes, sir,” said the voice, a midshipman by its sound. Jack heard the patter of feet and made out the boy’s silhouette when he opened the door to the companion. Hurried footsteps scampered up the stairs and by the time Jack had grabbed his pistols and sword and made it to the companion himself he only saw a pair of feet disappearing into the bridge.

The klaxons blared out for quarters once, then cut out in the middle of their second shriek. “Who the devil set off that alarm,” asked Jack, buckling his sword and pistol belt around his nightshirt as he stepped onto the bridge. “If the French didn’t know we were here before then they certainly do now. How far away are they?”

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Truth and Beauty 11-1

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* * *

Eight bells rang: four double strokes on the Roth’s bell. “Beg pardon, sir,” said the gunner, standing in the doorway with his hat in his hand, “that’s eight bells.”

“I expect you back after supper, Mister Veidt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, you are dismissed.”

The gunner’s departure revealed Bollwerk, holding a large tray. “Will you be taking supper in the coach, sir?” he asked.

“I suppose the gunner has his work spread out over the the dining table?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it will have to be the coach.”

Bollwerk entered, silently laid out the individual dishes, and withdrew. Supper was meatloaf again, the printer’s take on mashed potato with gravy, and a drab green mass that presumably represented a vegetable of some kind.

Jack tasted none of it. He was too angry. He ate mechanically, stopping when heartburn set in. Then he downed a full glass of tepid water and pushed his plate away. His father’s words, delivered long ago, echoed in his mind: “one of these days, that temper’s going to get the best of you.” If anything, this made him angrier. And there was nowhere for the anger to go. Even if he was to give in to the urge to scream at Morretti, the man had not yet returned from his meal.

Jack pushed back his chair and stood, then carried his glass to the drinks machine in the great cabin. He placed his glass under the spout and ordered up some red wine.

Halfway through the pour, he stopped the machine. He stared at the wine for a full minute before dumping it into the overflow trough. Finding a mug, he made peppermint tea instead.

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Truth and Beauty 10-12

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“Yes, sir,” said Bollwerk, entering again.

“Who is the midshipman of the watch?”

“LeBeau, sir.”

“Then pass the word for Kinskey and Holley,” he said, and when the midshipmen appeared, “Kinskey, Holley, you will assist Mister Veight and Morretti here in the reviewing of the small arms and the calibration of the guns on the new shuttle, along with any other duties they may assign you over the the next several days till Tuesday’s noon sight. You are relieved of your duties as midshipman of the watch until that time. Have you any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” said Kinskey. “Shall I coordinate a revised watch schedule with Mister Greenstreet?”

“Yes. Bollwerk!” Lieutenant O’Brian raised his voice again, and when Bollwerk appeared, “pass the word for Mister Greenstreet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bollwerk, exiting softly.

“Holley,” said Lieutenant O’Brain, “you might as well get started. Kinskey, if you’d like to work up a preliminary schedule while you wait for Mister Greenstreet, there is a pen and paper on the desk.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-11

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The armorer touched a knuckle to his brow and made a convulsive half bow. Then he scuttled sideways down the corridor to collect his tools, determined not to turn his back on his commander.

Left alone, Jack lashed out at one of his chairs, kicking it across the room. Bollwerk stuck his head in at the noise, then tried to silently withdraw, but Jack saw him. “Send for the gunner,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” said Bollwerk, “right away, sir.”

In the brief delay before the gunner appeared Jack tried to get a grip on himself. This was slovenly work on the part of the armorer, very dangerous. Roth might only a transport, but she might still be attacked, might still need her guns. The marine sentry announced the gunner and Jack called for him to be sent in.

Mister Veidt appeared, looking politely puzzled, then apprehensive when he saw his Lieutenant’s face. “Mister Veidt,” said Lieutenant O’Brian, “I have just been going over the small arms with the armorer, Moretti, who I believe reports to you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the gunner.

“And Moretti has just informed me that he has not reviewed our small arms in a year. A year, Mister Veidt. Have you anything to say?”

It was not a fair question, and part of Jack felt ashamed for asking it, for there was no possible reply. That part of him was not presently in control, however, and he charged forward. “I have just prohibited him from taking any leisure until the guns have all been reviewed, along with anything else he may have neglected, such as the calibration of the guns on the new shuttle. I would like to see all of his books, and all of yours, sir, as I do not understand how this, this slovenly state of affairs could have come about in the absence, in the presence of proper supervision. I have half a mind to break him and appoint someone else in his stead, but we have no one else with the necessary skills. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will go on to say that in the interest of the Roth’s safety you will join Moretti at his tasks, not taking any leisure yourself until the work is done. I will assign - what?” he called, for the sentry had knocked at the door. “Moretti, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Moretti entered, his box of tools in his hand. He avoided the lieutenant’s gaze, avoided the gunner’s gaze, walking straight to the arms locker, pulling one of the M79s out, and beginning to methodically disassemble it.

Lieutenant O’Brian turned back to the gunner. “I will assign you one of the midshipmen to assist you, or two, and you will strip down every gun to its components, clean them, check them, and lubricate them before reassembly. Have you any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get to work. Bollwerk!” he called for his servant.

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Truth and Beauty 10-10

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Jack was retreating down the companion from the bridge when he saw Dr Russ one level down, holding a bandage to the back of his head. “Doctor Russ,” he said, “are you okay? What happened?”

But Doctor Russ was oblivious, walking into the wardroom and out of sight, and after a few moments of considering, Jack continued into his suite.

* * *

Several days passed uneventfully. Jack had the armorer clean each of the Douglas M-79s and the Colt energy revolvers, including their caps. Many of the Douglas magazines had weak follower springs, but there was no solution for this until replacements could be obtained. Asked about printing new springs, the armorer shook his head. “They would still need to be tempered, sir, and we don’t have an oven. It’s a common part, though. We should be able to pick it up when we make port.”

Jack sighed. He was not sure that he wanted to ask the next question, nor was he sure that he wanted to know the answer. "When were these guns last reviewed, Moretti?”

The armorer shifted uncomfortably. He was an unassuming man of middle height, middle weight, middle age, medium brown skin, medium brown hair and medium brown eyes, remarkably only in his hands, which were scarred, calloused, and strangely small. “I’d have to check my records to be sure, sir.”

“Approximately?” asked Jack, determined to see it through to the bitter end.

Moretti cleared his throat. “Probably a year sir, or more. Probably more.”

“A year,” cried Jack. “You are playing with your duty, sir. This is very bad. Is there anything else that you’ve been neglecting? Look at me when I talk to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said the armorer, who was now looking pale. “No, sir. Nothing else.”

“You’re certain?”

Moretti said nothing, then, “the guns on the new shuttle need to be calibrated, sir.”

“Well then until these guns are as clean as the queen’s arse, those guns are calibrated, and you’ve attended to anything else you might have overlooked, you are not to engage in what is commonly known as leisure. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get to work. And God help you, and God help us, if we run into the French before you’re through.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-9

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“What mood lights?” he asked, raising the pack to his head. “And what is that roll of gauze for?”

“To hold your cold pack in place.”

Stephen twisted away from her. “I am not going to look like I just escaped from the wars,” he said. More to distract his assistant than anything else he asked again, “what mood lights?”

“The mood lights, sir - the colored lights that outline the doors and such? You didn’t see them flash purple?”

“And what might that mean?”

“Rig for jump to hyperspace, sir. Or for the jump back to cartesian space.”

“Indeed. And are there any other colors that I should be aware of?”

“Flashing purple is rig for jump, and they turn steady just before the jump is made. Red is quarters, sir - battle stations. And green indicates that the engines are firing, but only in cartesian space. There are others, but those are the key ones. Cyan, for instance, means rig for silent running. Yellow is quarantine.” She looked at the instruments scattered over the floor and sighed. “All those will have to be resterilized, I suppose.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, “oh, I am so sorry. Let me,” and before Katya could stop him he had started to one-handedly load the fallen hemostats, retractors, and forceps into the bottom of the autoclave, his other hand still holding his cold pack to his head.

“Please, sir,” said Katya, inwardly cringing as the delicate instruments were tossed into a disorderly heap. “Please let me.” She grew increasingly agitated as the pile grew, finally elbowing him aside as he tried to swing the door shut. “Please, sir,” she stammered, “why don’t you go lie down. I’ll call you in your quarters if something comes up. You can come back in an hour.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-8

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The engines grumbled. In the sick bay examination room Doctor Russ looked up as the instruments he was sorting begin to rattle in their steel trays. “Surely this can’t be right,” he said. Then he was flung sideways, into the wall. No sooner had he picked himself up than he was flung into the wall again.

“Doctor?” called Katya from her quarters across the hall, “are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, climbing to his hands and knees. “I think so,” he started to say, but the room jerked again and he found himself lying on his side. “Why does the room keep moving?”

Stephen raised a hand to the back of his head. Yes, a tender lump was rising over the left leg of the lambdoid suture. Through the haze he felt the floor rocking gently, but before he could explore this phenomenon he heard a voice. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked.

“Are you okay?” asked Katya again. She helped him to his feet and sat him on a stool. “What happened?” she asked.

“The room moved unexpectedly - the ship moved, I suppose. We must have injured. Were we attacked?” He could tell that he was speaking somewhat at random and tried to pull himself together. There was blood on his finger, he noticed. Was that from his head? He raised his other hand to the lump on the back of his head and when he pulled his it away he found a stippling of blood on his index finger. “I appear to be bleeding,” he said, “though not severely. Are there injured?”

“No,” said Katya, “only you.” She donned a pair of exam gloves and delicately parted his hair at the back. “Contusion,” she said, “and a small abrasion. Didn’t you see the mood lights?” she asked, opening a syringe and loading it with gelled antiseptic. She held a gauze pad to his head to catch any drips, “this will sting,” and spread the antiseptic over his wound. The she activated a cold pack, taped the gauze to one side, and handed it to Stephen.

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Truth and Beauty 10-7

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Leaving the lockers open, Jack crossed to the drinks machine and ordered some tea, then returned to contemplate the weapons with his mug. It was not a bad arsenal; indeed it was far more than he had any right to expect, and though the weapons were old, they were not particularly worn, and he wondered if they had been the weapons provided to Roth during her initial fitting out.

No, he decided. That couldn’t be accurate. There were simply too many arms for a transport on routine duty. It was only as he lay down to sleep that night that it occurred to him that not only was Roth equipped with too many weapons, but her built-in arms lockers were abnormally large.

During the night, the thought evaporated, however, and with the arrival of the remainder of the Roth’s crew and her departure from dry dock, her small arms fell far from the front of her skipper’s mind. Shortly before noon, with a dispatch that made her officers stretch their eyes, the ordinance team had unlocked her mounted guns, leaving Roth ready to depart for the Achilles system. She approached the interlocking station, battening her hatches, securing all loose equipment, and generally preparing for the jump to hyperspace. Her mood lighting pulsed violet, casting and hiding ethereal shadows. Midshipman Kinskey stood at the christmas tree on the bridge, watching the indicators turn green one by one. “Sir,” he said at last, “christmas tree is green across the board.”

“Very good,” said the skipper. “Sparks, get the token.”

“Token received, sir,”

“Radar, are we steady on the gate?”

“Steady, aye, steady, sir.”

“Withdraw the array.”

“Standby . . .. Array is secured, sir.”

“Helm, ahead one quarter. Take us in.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-6

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The revolvers were Navy Colt double-action plasma pistols, with stainless-steel frames and black anodized cylinders and grips. They were stored unloaded, their capacitors lined up neatly in their charging racks. Most of the charging indicators were lit green, but several showed the pulsing red of a faulty cap.

Selecting a gun at random, he pulled it free. It was a heavy gun, just as solid and deadly as the Douglas. When he pulled the hammer back the cylinder turned smoothly.

He swung the cylinder out. The contacts were copper, slightly tarnished but not particularly worn. Choosing six capacitors, he loaded them: they slid easily into place, seating fully and snugly into place. He pressed the ejector pin, spilling the caps into his hand and replacing five of them in the charging rack.

In a small container, he found several sighting adapters. He snapped one onto the remaining cap and replaced it in the cylinder, swinging the cylinder closed so the cap was in the 2 o’clock position. Then he released the safety and raised the gun to firing position. Aiming for a knot in the paneling, he pulled the trigger.

The red sighting laser shot from the barrel, making a bright, crisp dot on the bulkhead perhaps one centimeter form the knot - more than reasonably close for a generically assigned gun. Satisfied, he removed the cap from the gun, returned it, the sighting adapter, and the gun itself to their positions, and looked at the miscellaneous weapons and parts. There were two M216 grenade launcher attachments for the Douglas SMGs, with most of two cases of tear gas grenades; half a dozen bayonets for the same guns; a Remington model C kinetic sniper rifle with close to 100 rounds; and a tripod that probably belonged to an M36 energy machine gun, though the gun itself was absent.

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Cat TV!

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End Table Build Thread 4: Sanding the Skirting

In my last post, I mentioned the age-related darkening of some of the fir (I assume it's fir) I used in the construction of the table. Here's a close-up; you can see a vertical pale patch running along the bolt hole a bit left of center. This was left by a neighboring piece of wood.

Before: Note how the skirting has an amber color

After some consideration, I took some 220 grit sandpaper to the outside surface of the skirting. I didn't try to fit the sandpaper deep into the corners, so if the patinaed areas stain darker, this darkness will seep into those corners, which should look good. Here's the 'after' picture:

After: Note the paler, less-amber look

The wood has lost some of its amber color, bringing it closer to the color of the table's edge as seen along the top of the picture. The vertical stripe hasn't entirely vanished, but it is paler; I think this creates a good compromise between making the fir uniform versus showing its recycled nature. Some of the sawdust has come to rest in the the nicks and scratches of the wood, refusing to be vacuumed out. I'll be wiping the table down with tack cloth before I stain it, so hopefully this will pull out that dust.

Also hopefully, the next post will show this table stained and sealed; i.e. finished.

End Table Build Thread 3: Final Assembly

In my last post, I completed the assembly of the table base (legs and skirting).  Last night I attached the table top to the base.  Here, you can see the completed table, standing on the same piece of birch ply that starred in some of the earlier photos (the birch ply creates a nice flat work surface on top of an old lab cart).

One of the things I noticed, on putting everything together, is the color difference between the skirting and the fir that forms the top.  Originally, I think these pieces were all the same color, but the wood seems to have darkened with age (I had the futon for about 20 years).  The pieces that went into the top subsequently traveled through a thickness planer, where they lost their outer layers, but all I did to the skirting was trim it to length and cut biscuit grooves, so it retained its patina.  There are holes in the skirting where the futon bolts ran, and if you look closely you can see places where the skirting was covered by other parts of the frame, and these areas are paler.

The next step is to stain the table, followed by sealing it with polyurethane.  I picked up a half-mask respirator (North 7700) and some Organic Vapor cartridges from Grainger; Minwax oil-based conditioner and stain, tack cloth, and clean rags from the local hardware store by school (Berger True Value), and gloves I have plenty already, so I expect to apply the stain on Monday after work, let it dry overnight, then polyurethane on Tuesday.  So, I should have a finished table on Wednesday.  Where I'm undecided is whether to try and sand down the patina on the skirting, in order to gain a more uniform look for the fir after the stain is applied - I just don't know if the stain will read differently on the patina.

Joining the table top to the frame is not simply a matter of gluing and screwing.  Wood expands at different rates along its grain versus across its grain, so gluing the top down to the table can result in cracks as the temperature and humidity change.  Admittedly, the joints between the skirting and the legs employ similar cross grain construction, but my understanding is that you can get away with it for small joints.

The solution is to join the table top to the base in such a way as to allow them to contract and expand independently.  Above-left is a picture of a bracket employed for the purpose (there are other solutions, but this is the one I went with).  Using a biscuit joiner, I cut a groove in the skirting.  Then, lining up the bracket with its tongue loosely fitted into this groove, I marked the screw position on the table top with a self-centering center punch.  I drilled pilot holes, then screwed the brackets in.  The brackets and screws I purchased from Mcfeely's, since I couldn't find them locally.

My sanding block.  The block is black; the red is the sandpaper

Finally, I'll show off my sanding block, since it's here. The difference in sanding between using or not using a block is tremendous: the block give you something to grip, and keeps the sandpaper stretch flat against the work piece. This block, by 3M (obviously), has a comfortable shape to it as well. Also nice are the spikes that hold the sandpaper in place - you slide the sandpaper into place and press down on the block to force the paper against the spikes, puncturing the paper and securing it in place.  To remove the paper, I use an old table knife to raise the paper off of the spikes.

EDIT: I did decide to address those pale vertical stripes.

Truth and Beauty 10-5

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That evening, Jack sat down to finally review the small arms lockers that formed the row of benches below his stern gallery. These housed the only official small arms on the Roth, aside from the officers’ personal weapons.

His first thought on unlocking the lockers and swinging their lids open was that there were too many guns there for a typical transport. Roth must have been assigned to a particularly dangerous route on some prior occasion, then somehow retained the guns when she was reassigned. There was an even mix of kinetic and energy weapons, mostly M79 Douglas submachine guns and Navy Colt space service revolvers.

He started with the M79s, noting with satisfaction that most of the magazines were of the more reliable 20- and 30-round stick variety rather than the 50-round drum. The bluing was mostly intact, showing the usual wear, and the polycarbonite crips showed the usual scuffs. He pulled one of the guns free.

It was a familiar weapon; Jack had trained with an M79 in the academy and the gun had enjoyed a long production run with few changes. Pulling back slightly on the top-mounted bolt, he peered into the chamber; it was empty. He ejected the magazine, checked the chamber again, and cycled the action. The gun felt solid, definite, deadly. The safety slid firmly into and out of place, and the fire selector clicked firmly into each position.

Field stripping the gun took less than a minute. Setting aside the stock and barrel, he considered the receiver: there was light wear and a little dust, but the parts moved freely and he saw no oxidation. Satisfied, he reassembled the gun and turned to the magazine, ejecting the rounds one by one and standing them up on the the table so they wouldn’t roll away. The first rounds rose easily, but the follower spring was old or had been too long compressed, and it failed to raise the last few into position. When he tipped the top of the magazine into the light, he saw that the casing of the next round had begun to tarnish. The brass of the rounds on the table was bright.

“Well,” he said. After a moment's indecision, he reloaded the magazine and reassembled the gun, and replaced the gun in the rack.

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End Table Build Thread 2

In my previous post, I wrote about cutting and finishing the various components of this table, and the first stages of assembly. Here, I've married the two long sides of the frame that I previously assembled with the short side skirting, creating the complete frame. As before, I masked the skirting before applying glue, and as before I did not mask the legs themselves, for want of a clear sense of exactly where to lay the edge of the mask. These joints are also made with #20 biscuits, held in by wood glue:

The table frame is inverted, with scrap wood between the clamps and the work piece to protect the piece. I overdid it with the wood glue again, and though I tried to clean it all up from the outside corners, I'm a bit concerned that I'll end up with vacations in the staining. I'm also a little peeved that the diagonals aren't equal: outside corner to outside corner is 30" in one direction, but 30-1/4" in the other, so I'm a bit out of square, but I've decided that I'm willing to live with it. As an experiment, I placed the table top on the legs and it rested solidly, without rocking, and I'm hoping that will translate into a sturdy table.

I also took the opportunity of having the camera out to shoot a photo of the jig I mentioned last time. This was a rush job, built in a 1/2 hour when I didn't have the time to build the jig I wanted, and as sloppy as it looks I'm pretty proud of it. The long body of the jig is another piece from the futon, the short shoe is a scrap piece of 2x2 stud I had lying around, held into place by two counter-sunk 1-5/8" drywall screws. I drilled pilot holes for the screws to they wouldn't crack the wood. I ended up misjudging the angle of the shoe to the body, giving myself an angle of a little over 90 degrees (π/2 radians, if you prefer), which would have encouraged the work piece to slip out of the jig, so when I got to the shop I did some work with the band saw to fix this, notching the 2x2 where it meets the body of the jig.

The final piece of the jig is the taper screw, a third drywall screw, driven only part way into the side of the body, near the shoe. You can see this screw to the right of the shoe in the image at right. When the jig was in use, it was placed against the table saw's fence, aligned as you see it here, with this screw and the far end of the body slid along the table saw's fence. The work piece (my table legs) fit between the jig and the saw blade, and was pushed by the jig's shoe. Driving the taper screw further into the jig decreased the angle of the taper, while backing it out increased the taper.

Friday, I hope to stain the table top and lid, then assemble it over the weekend.

Next post: final assembly

Truth and Beauty 10-4

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Stephen spent the afternoon with Katya, showing her the sick berth and stowing the supplies that were delivered aboard in the middle of the watch. Eight bells crept up before he was aware. “Sir,” said Katya, “that was eight bells, sir.”

“Oh,” said Stephen. “Oh, I shall be reproached for being late.” He locked the door to the berth and they hurried off to their respective meals. Stephen dashed down the gangway and up the companion, paused at the wardroom door and walked in. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Mister Greenstreet, but the sublieutenant wasn’t there. The room was empty.

A rustle in the prep room caught his attention and he found the wardroom steward fiddling with the insides of one of the printers. The man started on seeing Stephen, and removed his headphones. “Everyone’s upstairs, your honor, being entertained by the skipper.”

“Indeed,” said Stephen, looking down at his clothes. “I suppose full uniform would be appropriate?”

“Yes, sir,” said the steward, and between the two of them they changed Stephen’ s clothes and brushed his hair in a little under three minutes and hustled him up the companion. At the sentry before Jack’s quarters the steward left him, and Stephen passed through the door alone.

He entered the great cabin just as Jack was delivering the punchline to his Japanese golfer joke, bringing everything to a halt. In a way this was just as well, given the joke’s scabrous nature (Mister Greenstreet had been growing more and more reserved), but Jack had intended the joke as an icebreaker and was not pleased. “Doctor, how do you do?” he asked. “I beg your pardon, sir, ladies, gentlemen. I lost track of time. I was appointed an assistant and was showing her the sick berth and lost track of time.”

“As you can see, we didn’t wait,” said Jack, and indeed Stephen saw that they were all half way through their soup. He meekly took his seat.

After this, the dinner was a stiff, uncomfortable affair. Stephen was taciturn by nature, Mister Greenstreet maintained his reserve, and though Jack tried to start several hares, none were successful. When the toast to the King was drunk it was done with a certain sense of relief, and the party broke up at last.

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