“It’ll be safe here?” Dr. Caroline enquired. He seemed almost back to what I should have imagined his normal self to be, except for the hurried breathing, the cold sweat on his brow and face.

“They’ll never see it. They’ll never even think to look here. Why should they?”

“What do you propose to do now?”

“Leave with all possible speed. I’ve played my luck far enough. But first the coffin — must weight it to compensate for the absence of the twister, then batten down the lid again.”

“And then where do we go?” “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here.” I explained to him just why he had to stay there, and he didn’t like it one little bit. I explained to him some more, pointed out carefully, so that he couldn’t fail to understand, that his only chance of life depended on his staying there, and he still didn’t like it any more. But he saw that it had to be done, and the fear of certain death eventually outweighed the very understandable and almost hysterical panic my suggestion had caused him. And after that fifteen-second lifetime when we had waited for the twister to detonate, nothing could ever seem so terrifying again.

Five minutes later I battened down the coffin lid for the last time, thrust the screw driver in my pocket, and left the hold.

The wind, I thought, had eased a little; the rain, beyond question, was heavier by far; even in the pitchy darkness of that night I could see the blur of whiteness round my stockinged feet as the heavy, wind-driven drops spattered on the iron decks and rebounded ankle-high.

I took my time making my way forward. There was no hurry any more, and now that the worst was behind I had no mind to destroy it all or destroy us all by undue haste. I was a black shadow, at one with the blackness of the night, and no ghost was ever half so quiet. Once two patrolling guards passed me by, going aft; once I passed a couple huddled miserably in the lee of “A” accommodation deck, seeking what little shelter they could from that cold rain. Neither pair saw me, neither even suspected my presence, which was just as it should have been. The dog never catches the hare, for lunch is less important than life. I had no means of telling the time, but at least twenty minutes must have passed before I once more found myself outside the wireless office. Every major event in the past three days, right from the very first, had in some way or other stemmed from that wireless office: it seemed only fitting that it should also be the scene of the playing of the last card left in my hand.

The padlock was through the hasp and it was locked. That meant there was no one inside. I retreated to the shelter of the nearest boat and settled down to wait. The fact that there was no one in there didn’t mean that there wasn’t going to be someone there very soon. Tony Carreras had mentioned that their stooges on the Ticonderoga reported course and position every hour. Carlos, the man I’d killed, must have been waiting for just such a message, and if there was another report due through then it was a certainty that Carreras would have his other operator up to intercept it. At this penultimate state of the game he would be leaving nothing at all to chance. And, in the same state of the game, neither was I: the radio operator bursting in and finding me sitting in front of his transmitter was the last thing I could afford to have happen.

The rain drummed pitilessly on my bent back. I couldn’t get any wetter than I was, but I could get colder. I got colder, very cold indeed, and within fifteen minutes I was shivering constantly. Twice guards padded softly by Carreras was certainly taking no chances that night and twice I made sure — was certain that they must find me, so violent was my shivering that I had to clamp my sleeve between my teeth to prevent the chattering from betraying me. But on both occasions the guards passed by, oblivious. The shivering became even worse. Would that damned radio operator never come? or had I outsmarted myself, had I double-guessed and double-guessed wrongly? perhaps the radio operator wasn’t going to come at all? I had been silting on a coiled lifeboat fall and now I rose to my feet, irresolute. How long would I have to wait there before I would be convinced that he wasn’t going to come?

Or maybe he wasn’t due for another hour yet, or more? Wherein lay the greater danger risking going into the wireless office now with the ever-present possibility of being discovered and trapped in there, or waiting an hour, maybe two hours, before making my move, by which time it would almost certainly be too late anyway? better a chance of failure, I thought, than the near certainty of it, and now that I’d left number four hold the only life which would be lost through my mistakes would be my own. Now, I thought, I’ll do it now. I took three silent steps, then no more. The radio operator had arrived. I took three silent steps back.

The click of a key turning in the padlock, the faint creak of the door, the metallic sound of it shutting, a faint gleam of light behind the curtained window. Our friend preparing to receive, I thought. He wouldn’t stay long, that was a safe enough guess, just long enough to take down the latest details of course and speed of the Ticonderoga. Unless the weather was radically different to the northeast it was most unlikely that the Ticonderoga could have fixed its position that night and take it up to Carreras on the bridge. I presumed that Carreras would still be there; it would be entirely out of keeping with the man if, in those last few crucial hours, he didn’t remain on the bridge and take personal charge of the entire operation as he had done throughout. I could just see him accepting the sheet of figures with the latest details of the Ticonderoga’s progress, smiling his smile of cold satisfaction, making his calculations on the chart…

My thoughts stopped dead right there. I felt as if someone had turned a master switch inside me and everything had seized up, heart, breathing, mind, and every organ of sensation; I felt as I had felt during those dreadful fifteen seconds while Dr. Caroline and I had waited for the twister to blow up. I felt that way because there had abruptly, paralysingly flashed on me the realisation that would have come to me half an hour ago if I hadn’t been so busy commiserating with myself on the misery I was suffering. Whatever else Carreras had not established himself as a consistent, prudent, and methodical man, and he’d never yet worked out any chart problems on figures supplied him without coming to have a check made by his trusty navigator, chief officer John Carter.

My mind churned into low gear again, but it didn’t make any difference. True, he’d sometimes waited some hours before having his check made, but he wouldn’t be waiting some hours tonight because by then it would be far too late. We couldn’t be more than three hours now from our rendezvous with the Ticonderoga, and he’d want a check made immediately. Waking up a sick man in the middle of the night would hardly be a consideration to worry Carreras. Nothing was surer than that within ten or fifteen minutes of that message coming through he’d be calling at the sick bay. To find his navigator gone. To find the door locked from the inside. To find Macdonald waiting with a gun in his hand. Macdonald had only one automatic; Carreras could call on forty men with submachine guns. There could only be one ending to any battle in the sick bay, and the end would be swift and certain and final. In my mind’s eye I could just see stammering machine guns spraying the sick bay, could see Macdonald and Susan, Bullen and Marston — I crushed down the thought, forced it from my mind. That way lay defeat. When the radio operator left the office, if I got inside unseen, if I was left undisturbed to send off the message, how long would that leave me to get back to the sick bay? Ten minutes, not any more than ten minutes, say seven or eight minutes to make my way undetected right aft to the port side where I had left the three ropes tied to the guardrail stanchion, secure one to myself, grab the life line, give the signal to the bo’sun, lower myself into the water, and then make the long half-drowning trip back to the sick bay. Ten minutes? eight? I knew I could never do it in double that time; if my trip from the sick bay to the afterdeck through that water had been any criterion, the trip back, against instead of with the current, would be at least twice as bad, and the first trip had been near enough the end of me. Eight minutes? the chances were high I’d never get back there at all.