Voyage into Violence Read Online Free PDF

nothing in Captain Cunningham’s manner suggested that there were other things he would rather be doing.
    Pam and Jerry, Dorian and Bill, were first, but only by minutes. Respected Captain J. R. Folsom was next, and now he was in full uniform, complete with cap. A little unexpectedly, once in the cabin, Folsom stood to attention and saluted, as one officer to another. Pam looked for surprise on Captain Cunningham’s long face, and found none—found only grave courtesy. Captain Cunningham even returned the salute, although uncovered. Courtesy could hardly go further.
    The rosy steward—beamish if anyone ever was—served cocktails and canapés. The canapés were admirable, the drinks cold and as ordered. Captain Cunningham sipped sherry and they talked tentatively as people do, when met at cocktail parties. The room was small enough to be talked across, and the captain, who was clearly experienced in such matters, prompted conversation. And he seemed to listen to everyone, and to listen as if he heard.
    This was true even after Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Peterson arrived, to fill the small, neat room. Mr. Peterson was short and round, and wore a gray business suit—unexpectedly complete with vest. His wife was a little larger, but of the same general design; she wore a flowery print. Mr. Peterson operated a flour mill in Minnesota; it was the first time they had been on what Mrs. Peterson preferred to think of as a boat. And about this lack of wide experience they were in no way defensive. Some people lived in New York and went to night clubs (Mrs. Peterson didn’t doubt) and others were captains of cruise ships; some published books (apparently) and others milled flour. It was the way things should be, and nobody made a point of “living up” to anyone else—or even, Pam realized, thought of doing so. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were very sweet, and Mr. Peterson was interesting on the subject of flour. It had never occurred to Pamela North that flour could be so interesting, and she got some very good advice from Mary Peterson about the making of cherry pie.
    In civilian life, Respected Captain Folsom made shoe boxes—paper boxes in general, but shoe boxes in particular. This momentarily surprised Pamela North, for reasons slightly obscure. Once thought of, it became evident that somebody—and Mr. Folsom as well as any—had to make shoe boxes; clearly boxes did not merely grow around shoes, as cocoons about larvae. Pam had merely never thought of it before. When you came to think of it, as Pam now did, somebody had to make rubber bands, too. The world is a varied place.
    The minds of Mr. Peterson and Mr. Folsom met briefly—one of these days the unions were going to go too far; not that they disapproved of unions, but—and were parted by Mrs. Peterson, who had the air of a person who had certainly heard that one before. Mrs. Peterson parted them by complimenting Respected Captain Folsom on his uniform. She had, she said, never seen a uniform quite like it. Pam looked at her, and decided that Mrs. Peterson meant it in only the nicest way.
    â€œTraditional,” Folsom told them. “Been the same since the Riflemen were organized. War of 1812, you know. Stood by to repel those damned—” He stopped, abruptly.
    â€œQuite all right,” Captain Cunningham said. “Threw our weight around a bit, probably.”
    â€œEr—” Folsom said. “Anyway, been going on ever since. Drills. Kind of a militia. Not that it is the militia. I don’t say that. Have a dinner once a month and when something comes up people ought to take a stand on, we take a stand on it. Know what I mean?”
    Pam was a little afraid she did. But she smiled brightly, at the same time warning Jerry with a quick glance. He smiled reassurance; he would not go into the matter of stands taken. One of them would probably turn out to be on books permissible to libraries, but this was