The captain burst onto the bridge in a cloud of whisky fumes. Clutched in his left hand were the ever-present ball-bearings, clicking an obsessive counterpoint to his words.

"I know what you're up to! Don't think I don' know wha's goin' on!" he slurred.

He lurched across to the engine-room voice-pipe and uncorked it. At the third or fourth attempt he managed to blow down it, sounding the shrill whistle at the other end that could be heard over the noise of the engines.

"Gimme revolutions for twenny knots, Mr Scott!"

"Ah can give ye emergency power for about a quarter of an hour, cap'n, but Ah canny answer for the prop shafts after that."

"Goddammit, gimme the revs, Scotty!"

"Ah'll try. Cap'n, but she won't take it."

"For Chrissakes, Scotty, the U-boats are blowin' their tanks! The 109s are over us! We need every ounce of power for evasive manoeuvres!"

" And we can't keep steam up long for that kind of speed, either. Ah canny change the laws o' physics, Cap'n!"

Scourageous staggered back from the voice pipe, tripping over Rover and Anderson.

"Infamy, tha's what it is! Infamy, infamy!" His voice rose to a crescendo, "You've all got it in for me!"

He began to slide slowly down the bulkhead, his balls dropping from his hand and rolling across the deck. Moe, the officer of the watch, bent to lift him to his feet. Supporting him by one arm, he began the familiar stot back to his quarters. Putting his face close to Moe's ear, the captain mumbled indistinctly, "you're my bes' mate, you are," as they struggled through the door and down the companionway, as sailors call stairs.