baseball. You guys ought to be wearing helmets in there.”
“Mmm. Ought to be doing lots of stuff. We do what we can.”
“Yeah. Hey, you hurt anywhere else? You’ve been squirming around like a worm on a hook, even in your sleep. By the way, now that you’re awake, you need to stay that way for a while in case of concussion.”
Laney nodded—painfully—but hesitated.
“What? You are hurting somewhere else. Where?” Kathy demanded.
“I’d, uh, rather not say. I’m fine.”
Kathy nodded. She easily recognized the code words for “I’m not telling a broad about my private agonies.” “Okay, without telling me what hurts, tell me what it feels like.”
“Like I’m shitting busted glass!” Laney blurted, then caught himself. “Hey! You tricked me!”
“It’s my job,” Kathy said. “And it was easy. I won’t even ask to do an exam, and I don’t really want to. But judging by your physique, your complaint, and your job, I bet you spend a lot of time sitting, right?” Reluctantly, and somewhat indignantly, Laney nodded. “Just as I thought. Hemorrhoids. Piles. You know.”
Laney shook his head. “Piles! That can’t be it. Sometimes I think I’m gonna die! You can’t die from piles . . . can you?”
Kathy almost laughed, but shook her head. “No, and I’ll give you something that ought to help, at least a little . . . on one condition.”
Laney’s eyes narrowed. “Doctors ain’t supposed to put conditions on helping folks, are they?”
Kathy shrugged. “Maybe I’m a doctor here, but I’m just a nurse back home. I can do what I want.”
“What’s the scam?”
“Tell you what. I get a lot of guys—’Cats—in here who work for you. Just like you, they get hurt now and then. Anyway, they’re doing important work and they’re proud of that. Some would rather be doing something else, and I understand, but your division, or whatever it is, is just as critical as any other—maybe more so—and they know it. They don’t mind the work or the hours or even getting hurt, but nearly everyone I see—though anxious to get back to work—is not anxious to get back to work for you . You’re a jerk, Dean. Right now you’re a hurt jerk, so I’m trying to be nice. What it boils down to, the ‘scam,’ I guess, is this: promise to try to quit being such a pain in the ass, or I’ll let your ‘pain in the ass’ keep reminding you how you make everybody around you feel. Deal?”
Chief Electrician’s Mate “Ronson” Rodriguez heard the exchange between Ensign McCoy and Laney through the thin reed screen that separated them. He’d come in to get his hand fixed after he’d cut it on some of the sharp Lemurian copper wire. Now stitched, disinfected, and bandaged up, he’d been taking his ease for a few moments away from the “powerhouse,” the factory he’d been put in charge of where they built, refurbished, and experimented on the various electrical contrivances Riggs was in charge of. The problem was, that stupid ox Laney was always cruising through his shop looking for deserters. Rodriguez knew Laney resented him as a jumped-up electricians’ mate third class, and thought he could toss him around with his size and personality. He was wrong.
Ronson might have let him get away with it once, but a lot of things had changed besides relative ratings. Rodriguez had been wounded in action far more often than Laney, and besides Laney’s genuinely impressive underwater adventures, Rodriguez had seen a lot bigger “elephants” than the chief machinist’s mate. His most recent escapade was the one that finally earned him a nickname. His first name was Rolando, and his shipmates had tried to tag him with “Rolo,” “Rodent,” and even “Rhonda,” but none ever stuck. When Walker took that Jap shell in her auxiliary fuel tank in the forward fireroom, somehow Rolando’s sweatband and longish hair had caught fire. Silva put him out, but the mental image of him running around on
“Mmm. Ought to be doing lots of stuff. We do what we can.”
“Yeah. Hey, you hurt anywhere else? You’ve been squirming around like a worm on a hook, even in your sleep. By the way, now that you’re awake, you need to stay that way for a while in case of concussion.”
Laney nodded—painfully—but hesitated.
“What? You are hurting somewhere else. Where?” Kathy demanded.
“I’d, uh, rather not say. I’m fine.”
Kathy nodded. She easily recognized the code words for “I’m not telling a broad about my private agonies.” “Okay, without telling me what hurts, tell me what it feels like.”
“Like I’m shitting busted glass!” Laney blurted, then caught himself. “Hey! You tricked me!”
“It’s my job,” Kathy said. “And it was easy. I won’t even ask to do an exam, and I don’t really want to. But judging by your physique, your complaint, and your job, I bet you spend a lot of time sitting, right?” Reluctantly, and somewhat indignantly, Laney nodded. “Just as I thought. Hemorrhoids. Piles. You know.”
Laney shook his head. “Piles! That can’t be it. Sometimes I think I’m gonna die! You can’t die from piles . . . can you?”
Kathy almost laughed, but shook her head. “No, and I’ll give you something that ought to help, at least a little . . . on one condition.”
Laney’s eyes narrowed. “Doctors ain’t supposed to put conditions on helping folks, are they?”
Kathy shrugged. “Maybe I’m a doctor here, but I’m just a nurse back home. I can do what I want.”
“What’s the scam?”
“Tell you what. I get a lot of guys—’Cats—in here who work for you. Just like you, they get hurt now and then. Anyway, they’re doing important work and they’re proud of that. Some would rather be doing something else, and I understand, but your division, or whatever it is, is just as critical as any other—maybe more so—and they know it. They don’t mind the work or the hours or even getting hurt, but nearly everyone I see—though anxious to get back to work—is not anxious to get back to work for you . You’re a jerk, Dean. Right now you’re a hurt jerk, so I’m trying to be nice. What it boils down to, the ‘scam,’ I guess, is this: promise to try to quit being such a pain in the ass, or I’ll let your ‘pain in the ass’ keep reminding you how you make everybody around you feel. Deal?”
Chief Electrician’s Mate “Ronson” Rodriguez heard the exchange between Ensign McCoy and Laney through the thin reed screen that separated them. He’d come in to get his hand fixed after he’d cut it on some of the sharp Lemurian copper wire. Now stitched, disinfected, and bandaged up, he’d been taking his ease for a few moments away from the “powerhouse,” the factory he’d been put in charge of where they built, refurbished, and experimented on the various electrical contrivances Riggs was in charge of. The problem was, that stupid ox Laney was always cruising through his shop looking for deserters. Rodriguez knew Laney resented him as a jumped-up electricians’ mate third class, and thought he could toss him around with his size and personality. He was wrong.
Ronson might have let him get away with it once, but a lot of things had changed besides relative ratings. Rodriguez had been wounded in action far more often than Laney, and besides Laney’s genuinely impressive underwater adventures, Rodriguez had seen a lot bigger “elephants” than the chief machinist’s mate. His most recent escapade was the one that finally earned him a nickname. His first name was Rolando, and his shipmates had tried to tag him with “Rolo,” “Rodent,” and even “Rhonda,” but none ever stuck. When Walker took that Jap shell in her auxiliary fuel tank in the forward fireroom, somehow Rolando’s sweatband and longish hair had caught fire. Silva put him out, but the mental image of him running around on
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