Free The Circle by David Poyer Page A

tightrope. So he watches everything real close.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œNow, we were talking about Sartre’s central premise, that we are alone; that there are no absolute moral standards to guide us.…”
    Dan grinned in the dark, and settled in to begin his military education.
    *   *   *
    WHEN the boatswain’s pipe drilled through the metal walls, he burrowed deeper into the bunk. But only for a moment. You learned the first week at Bancroft Hall to roll your unwilling body out no matter how much it craved sleep. He threw back his sheet—it was heavy with sweat—and dangled his bare feet over the edge, yawning and looking down.
    The junior officers’ stateroom was eight feet by seven. Four bunks were stacked vertically along the bulkhead. He blinked down from the topmost at a slowly slanting tile deck, a 1944-style steel washbasin, dented sheet-metal lockers. The overhead, at his eye level, was a dusty jumble of cable runs, piping, valves, and stuffing tubes. He wiped perspiration from his hair, recalling a shred of dream; he’d been wandering in a hell of dripping pipes and hissing valves, offering his soul for water. But there were no takers.
    â€œHey, Mark, Tom. Reveille. You guys getting up?”
    â€œIn a minute.”
    â€œUh.”
    He contemplated caulking off for a few more seconds, too, then told himself sternly that he had a division to take over this morning. He groped for a handhold and swung himself out, hung for a moment, then dropped to the deck.
    It seared his bare soles. He hopped about wildly. “Ouch! Goddamn!”
    â€œUse my slippers,” a sleepy voice muttered. “By the shitcan. We’re right over the fireroom here.”
    He danced into the shower thongs, still cursing. Still, it was better than enlisted berthing. They bunked five deep, forty in a compartment. He shaved quickly and pulled on a set of wash khakis. He set the gold bars at the collar, considered, then added his midshipman-issue name tag. He checked himself in the mirror, rubbed the bill of his cap with his sleeve, and slid out into the corridor.
    The wardroom was in full swing for breakfast, hot, crowded, noisy. He squeezed in between Talliaferro and a sleepy-looking Ken Trachsler, who’d been in CIC during the midwatch. Coffee came by and he sloshed a cup full, yawning so hard his jaw cracked. The wardroom began to tilt. Beside him, Trachsler balanced his mug; above him, Mabalacat steadied himself with a hand to the table as he set down hash and eggs. When Dan pricked the yellow hemispheres with a fork, an orange stream made for the edge of his dish.
    â€œWhere’d that one come from?”
    â€œGetting ’em on the starboard bow now.”
    â€œA love tap. Wait till we hit fifty-five, sixty, they get some fetch behind them.”
    â€œHow’d your watch go?” Talliaferro asked him.
    â€œNot bad, uh, Ed.”
    â€œWhat are you guys standing up there?”
    â€œOne in three. Four hours on, eight off.”
    â€œThat’s what we’ve got down the hole, too. Be nice to get back to one in four someday.”
    While he was wondering where “the hole” was, Norden came in, small and blond and glittering, and sat across the table from him. He’d shaved this morning; he looked perky and inspection-ready. “Bacon, eggs, grits,” he said to the steward.
    â€œNo bacon. Hash today.”
    â€œThat’s what I said, hash. How’d it go, Dan?”
    â€œOkay. It was real pretty last night.”
    â€œClouds?”
    â€œSome light cover toward dawn.”
    â€œYou getting settled in?”
    â€œYes, sir. But I’m short on uniforms. I didn’t figure on getting under way the day I reported in.”
    â€œStop by small stores,” said Cummings from along the table. Dan hadn’t seen the acting supply officer come in. “I can issue you some underwear and