Chapter 3

The junior operator toyed with the heavy transmitting key while Peter
Moore, who knew the behavior of his apparatus as he would know the
caprices of an old friend, adjusted helix-plugs, started the
motor-generator, and satisfied the steel-eyed radio inspector that his
wave decrement was exactly what it ought to be.

Then the inspector grunted suspiciously and wanted to know if the
auxiliary batteries were properly charged. With a faint smile, Moore
hooked up the auxiliary apparatus, tapped the key, and a crinkly blue
spark snapped between the brass points above the fat rubber coil.

"I reckon she'll do," observed the inspector. "Aerial don't leak, does
it?"

"No," said Peter.

The government man took a final look at the glittering instruments, and
departed. Wherewith the junior operator swung half around in the
swivel-chair and exposed to Peter an expression of mild imploration.
Two gray lids over cavernous sockets lifted and lowered upon shining
black eyes, one of which seemed to lack focus. Peter recalled then
that the Chief had said something about a second operator having only
one human eye, the other being glass.

"This is your first trip?"

The sallow face was inclined, and the pallid lips moved dryly.

"I just came from the school. I'm pretty green. You see----"

"I see. We'd better let me take the first trick. I'll sit in till
midnight. After that there's very little doing. You may have to relay
a position report or so. Be sure and don't work on navy time. The
Chief will watch you closely for long-distance. The farther you work,
the better he'll like it. How's the air? Have you listened in?"

"Do you mean--static? I heard a little. Seemed pretty far away,
though."

Peter adjusted the nickeled straps about his head and pressed the
rubber disks tight to his ears. He tilted his head slightly. A
distant but harsh rasping, as of countless needle-points grating on
glass, occurred in the head phones. This was caused by charges of
electricity in the air, known to wireless men as "static." Percolating
through the scratching was a clear, bell-like note. The San Pedro
station was having something to say to a destroyer off the coast.

With delicate fingers Peter raised the tuning-knob a few points. Dale,
the junior operator, hands clutched behind him, stared with the fearful
adoration of an apprentice. He seemed to be making a mental notation
of every move that Peter made, for future reference.

"Ah--do you mind if I ask a few questions? You see, I'm kind of green."

"Go ahead!" Peter said cordially.

"Where do I eat? With the crew? I hear that lots of these ships make
you eat with the crew."

"No. In the main dining-saloon. Mr. Blanchard, the purser, will take
care of you. See him at six thirty."

A deep monstrous shudder, arising to a clamor, half roar, half shriek,
issued from the boilers of the _Vandalia_.

"It's rather interesting to watch us pull out," said Peter when the
noise had ceased. "But be careful. There's no rail around this deck."

He was on his hands and knees at the motor-generator with a pad of
sandpaper between his fingers when the tremulous voice of the junior
operator sounded in the doorway. "Mr. Moore, there's some excitement
on the dock."

Peter followed the narrow shoulders to the starboard side and looked
down. The _Vandalia_ was warping out from the pierhead with a sobbing
tug at her stern. He noted that the head-lines were still fast. A
straggling line of passengers' friends, wives, husbands, and
sweethearts was moving slowly toward the end of the pier, for a final
parting wave.

Something seemed to be wrong at the shore end of the gangplank, for,
despite the fact that the ship was swinging out, the plank was still
up. In the midst of an excited crowd a taxicab purred and smoked.
There was a general parting in the crowd as the door was flung open.
Two figures emerged, were lost from sight, and reappeared at the foot
of the plank. An incoherent something was roared from the bridge.

One of the figures appeared to be struggling, clutching at the rail.
For an instant she seemed to glance in Peter's direction. But her face
could hardly be seen, for it was shrouded by a heavy gray veil. A gray
hood covered her hair, and a long cloak reached to her shoe-tops.

Patiently urging her was a Chinese woman in silk jacket, trousers, and
jeweled slippers. A customs officer tried to break through the mob,
but somehow was held back. The gray-hooded figure suddenly seemed to
become limp, and the Chinese woman half lifted, half pushed her the
remaining distance to the promenade deck.

Peter was then conscious of a staring, lifeless eye fixed upon his.

"What do you make of it, Mr. Moore?" the junior operator wanted to know.

"Of that?" said Peter. "Nothing--nothing at all. By the way, I forgot
to tell you that the captain has issued strict orders forbidding
subofficers to use the starboard decks. Always, when you're going
forward, or aft, walk on the port side."