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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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