“Same here,” Bigelow agreed. “Even though I know those Navy psychiatrists have been right about ninety-nine percent of the time.” “But this was wonderful!” March exclaimed. “I just thought those three docs were all looking at blood pressure and listening to my heart and such things. Sure, one of them was especially friendly and talked to me a lot, but that was just natural. And, come to think of it, he talked a lot about what I did when I was on the _Plymouth_, and how I liked its Skipper, and where I’d gone to school.” “I remember now,” Bigelow said, “that he asked me about my leave before I came here. Mentioned big drinking parties. I didn’t go in for any and said so. I thought he must be a heavy drinker from the way he talked, but he was just finding out whether _I_ was or not.” “He pulled the same line on me,” March said, “and I just thought it was making talk—you know, the way a dentist does before he does something that hurts, to take your mind off what’s happening.” “Well, that won’t be the end of the psychological tests,” Bigelow said. “I understand that a psychiatrist is always there when we make our first dives, and he’s just happening to be around in the escape-tower tests. He’s keeping an eye on us all the time.” “Some people might not like that idea,” March said. “I suppose they wouldn’t like the idea of having somebody looking them over to spot their bad reactions to everything that goes on.” “Like a guilty conscience,” Bigelow added. “Always on hand,” March grinned. “But I don’t think it’s a bad idea. After all, it’s for our own protection. They’ve got to try to weed out the guys who will crack at the wrong time. And nobody thinks he will, so you can’t find it out just by asking. If I’m that kind, then you don’t want to find yourself out in the Pacific undergoing a depth-charge attack with me alongside you, suddenly going nuts inside a very small submarine.” “I should say not,” Bigelow said. “And it’s nothing especially against a fellow if he can’t stand this particular kind of strain that he gets in a sub. Maybe he’s got a kind of claustrophobia—fear of being shut up in small places—without knowing it. Maybe he’d make a swell aviator or bombardier or the bravest PT-boat Skipper in the world! It’s just that submarining takes certain qualities, that’s all. You’ve either got ’em or you haven’t.” “And those docs find it out before you go out,” March agreed. March spent the evening with Bigelow and began to like the red-headed young man more as he got to know him better. Stan Bigelow was a chunky, broad-shouldered fellow who looked so hard that a tank could not bowl him over. A broken nose, covered with freckles, added greatly to his appearance of toughness, even though it had come, as he told March, from nothing more pugilistic than a fall out of a tree when he was sixteen years old.