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A passing sailor summons Rainy, who is just finishing dinner in the petty officers’ (NCOs’) mess. It is an amazingly cramped little room of upholstered benches completely dominated by a table, so seating oneself at the table requires a fair bit of twisting and squirming.

Rainy finds Cisco cursing a blue streak and threatening sailors who are entirely unimpressed but willing to kill some of the boredom by listening to him rant.

“Get me the fug out of these ropes!” Cisco demands in a roar.

“If you calm down, we can let you go,” Rainy says.

“I’ll cut your fugging balls off!”

“Shall I quiet him down for you, miss?” an eager blond-bearded seaman asks, brandishing a large wrench.

“Cisco, you need to get control of yourself,” Rainy says. “They really don’t like panic around here.”

“Panic? Who’s panicking?” He makes an effort to quiet down. The effort does not alter the murderous look on his face, but he stops kicking and squirming. At a nod from Rainy, the sailor with the wrench reluctantly unties him.

“Limey sons of bitches,” Cisco snarls as he rolls out and stands up. But he does not threaten anyone further, and the gaggle of onlookers, disappointed not to have a fight, return to their duties.

Lieutenant Commander Alger appears, weaving his way with casual grace through the veritable thicket of forehead-smashing pipes, brackets, gauges, and waterproof doors. Rainy has already smacked her head twice, and she’s a foot shorter than the commander.

Rainy has noted that no one salutes aboard the Topaz, but training compels her and she snaps a salute.

“Now, now, none of that,” Lieutenant Commander Alger says mildly, returning her salute. He’s in young middle age, with a jagged scar that crosses his lips and gives him a piratical air. His beard, neatly trimmed, is brown, like his hair. He has an impressive bent pipe of wonderfully rich polished wood. From time to time he emits a small cloud of sweet bluish smoke that Rainy would normally find nauseating but which at the moment is masking the strong body odor smell of the red-haired rating behind her. Lieutenant Commander Alger’s expression and speech are alert, active, curious, and focused.

An intelligent man.

“We find the confined space really doesn’t allow for a lot of saluting and snapping to attention,” Alger says in a drawl that manages to be both upper class and casual. Then, with a sudden flash of wit, he adds, “You are also free to grow a beard and mustache.”

Rainy smiles. “Thank you, Commander. I have a great-aunt who would take you up on that.”

He’s surprised by her quickness and nods in acknowledgment of her riposte. “How are you making do? Did you dine?”

“I did, sir, and very well. The pineapple for dessert was wonderful.”

“I’m afraid the Azorean wine is not the very best, and the shops were plumb out of Madeira. How then is our civilian passenger?”

Rainy looks at Cisco, who is either intimidated by the captain’s rank or by his posh English accent and remains momentarily passive. He takes the captain’s outstretched hand, but scowls as he does it.

“He’s less than thrilled, sir,” Rainy says.

“Oh? Not yet enamored of the submariner’s life?”

“Are we underwater? Right now are we underwater?” Cisco demands, an edge of panic speeding his syllables and raising his voice to a near squeak.

“May I take it that you suffer from a touch of claustrophobia?”

“I just want to know, are we underwater?” The urgency is unmistakable and almost excuses the rudeness. Cisco is a frightened man, and Alger has dealt with frightened men before this.

“Not a bit,” Alger says airily. “We are making eleven knots on the surface, with light cloud cover, intermittent rain, and moderate swell. If we were submerged, you would not be feeling that rising and falling of the deck.”

“I want to get out. I need some air,” Cisco says, eyes bulging and darting in every direction, a cornered animal looking for an escape.

“You may certainly climb up to the superstructure, the conning tower or con, I believe it’s called in the American service, for a moment or two, once you have been briefed on our procedures.”

“I don’t give a damn about your procedures!”

The commander’s pleasant informality evaporates in a heartbeat. The man with the mild expression, the diffident air, and the relaxed stance disappears, replaced by a taller, sterner, unsmiling officer with distinctly chilly blue eyes.

“Let me explain it this way, Mr. Smith.” He uses the transparently false name Cisco’s traveling under. “Should we spot a German plane or ship I will order the boat to dive. The men under my command know their places and how to reach them by the most expeditious means possible. A straggler, a civilian, blundering about on deck once we have begun our dive is quite likely to find the hatches battened and his shoes getting very wet indeed.”