"Can I help you, sir?" The quiet voice, the blue eyes were soft with concern.
Nicholls, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror behind her, a glimpse of a scuffed uniform jacket over a grey fisherman's jersey, of blurred, sunken eyes and gaunt, pale cheeks, admitted wryly to himself that he couldn't blame her.
He didn't have to be a doctor to know that he was in pretty poor shape.
"My name is Nicholls, Surgeon-Lieutenant Nicholls.
I have an appointment------"
"Lieutenant Nicholls... H.M.S. Ulysses" The girl drew in her breath sharply. "Of course, sir.
They're expecting you."
Nicholls looked at her, looked at the Wrens sitting motionless in their chairs, caught the intense, wondering expression in their eyes, the awed gaze with which one would regard beings from another planet.
It made him feel vaguely uncomfortable.
"Upstairs, I suppose?" He hadn't meant to sound so brusque.
"No, sir." The Wren came quietly round the counter. "They-well, they heard you'd been wounded, sir," she murmured apologetically. "Just across the hall here, please."
She smiled at him, slowed her step to match his halting walk.
She knocked, held open the door, announced him to someone he couldn't see, and closed the door softly behind him when he had passed through.
There were three men in the room.
The one man he recognised, Vice-Admiral Starr, came forward to meet him.
He looked older, far older, far more tired than when Nicholls had last seen him-hardly a fortnight previously.
"How are you, Nicholls?" he asked. "Not walking so well, I see." Under the assurance, the thin joviality so flat and misplaced, the harsh edge of strain burred unmistakably. "Come and sit down."
He led Nicholls across to the table, long, big and covered with leather. Behind the table, framed against huge wall-maps, sat two men.
Starr introduced them.
One, big, beefy, red of face, was in full uniform, the sleeves ablaze with the broad band and four stripes of an Admiral of the Fleet: the other was a civilian, a small, stocky man with iron-grey hair, eyes still and wise and old.
Nicholls recognised him immediately, would have known anyway from the deference of both the Admirals.
He reflected wryly that the Navy was indeed doing him proud: such receptions were not for all...
But they seemed reluctant to begin the reception, Nicholls thought-he had forgotten the shock his appearance must give.
Finally, the grey-haired man cleared his throat.
"How's the leg, boy?" he asked. "Looks pretty bad to me." His voice was low, but alive with controlled authority.
"Not too bad, thank you, sir," Nicholls answered. "Two, three weeks should see me back on the job."
"You're taking two months, laddie," said the grey-haired man quietly. "More if you want it." He smiled faintly. "If anyone asks, just tell 'em I said so.
Cigarette?"
He flicked the big table-lighter, sat back in his chair.
Temporarily, he seemed at a loss as to what to say next.
Then he looked up abruptly.
"Had a good trip home?"
"Very fair, sir.
V.I.P. treatment all the way.
Moscow, Teheran, Cairo, Gib." Nicholls's mouth twisted. "Much more comfortable than the trip out." He paused, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, looked levelly across the table. "I would have preferred to come home in the Sirrus."
"No doubt," Starr broke in acidly. "But we cannot afford to cater for the personal prejudices of all and sundry.
We were anxious to have a first-hand account of FR77-and particularly the Ulysses-as soon as possible."
Nicholls's hands clenched on the edge of his chair.
The anger had leapt in him like a flame, and he knew that the man opposite was watching closely.
Slowly he relaxed, looked at the grey-haired man, interrogative eyebrows mutely asking confirmation.
The grey-haired man nodded.
"Just tell us all you know," he said kindly. "Everything, about everything.
Take your time."
"From the beginning?" Nicholls asked in a low voice.
"From the beginning."
Nicholls told them.
He would have liked to tell the story, right as it fell out, from the convoy before FR77 straight through to the end.
He did his best, but it was a halting story, strangely lacking in conviction.
The atmosphere, the surroundings were wrong, the contrast between the peaceful warmth of these rooms and the inhuman cold and cruelty of the Arctic was an immense gulf that could be bridged only by experience and understanding.
Down here, in the heart of London, the wild, incredible tale he had to tell fell falsely, incredibly even on his own ears.