"We are looking for the skipper’s papers," Waterhouse says. The boat goes into free fall again; he leans against something slippery, claps his hands over his ears, closes his eyes and mouth, and exhales through his nose so that none of the soup will force its way into his body. The thing he’s leaning against is really hard and cold and round. It’s greasy. He shines his light on it; it’s made of brass. The light-scribbling trick produces the image of a brass spaceship of some sort, nestled underneath (unless he’s mistaken) a bunk. He’s just on the verge of making a total ass of himself by asking what it is, when he identifies it as a torpedo.