He’d been to Northwestern, another family tradition. I vaguely remembered a Grafalk Hall on the Northwestern campus and the Grafalk Maritime Museum next to Shedd Aquarium.

“What about the Pole Star Line?” I asked Bledsoe. “That an old family company?”

“Martin’s a Johnny-come-lately,” Grafalk said lightly. “How old’s PSL now? Eight years?”

“I used to have Percy MacKelvy’s job,” Bledsoe said. “So Niels remembers every day since my desertion.”

“Well, Martin, you were the best dispatcher in the industry. Of course I felt deserted when you wanted to go into competition against me … By the way, I heard about the sabotage on the Lucella. That sounded like an ugly incident. It was one of your crewmembers?”

Waiters were bringing our entrees. Even though they slid the plates in front of us, barely moving the airwaves, it was enough of a distraction that I missed Bledsoe’s facial reaction.

“Well, the damage was minor, after all,” he said. “I was furious at the time, but at least the ship is intact: it’d be a pain in the ass to have to spend the main part of the season patching the Lucella’s hull.”

“True enough,” Grafalk agreed. “You do have two smaller ships, though, don’t you?” He smiled at me blandly. “We have sixty-three other vessels to pick up any slack the Ericsson’s incapacitation has caused.”

I wondered what the hell was going on here. Phillips was sitting stiffly, not making any pretense of eating, while Sheridan seemed to be casting about for something to say. Grafalk ate some minced vegetables and Bledsoe attacked his broiled swordfish with gusto.

“And even though my engineer really screwed up down there, I’m convinced that the guy just got overexcited and made a mistake. It’s not like having deliberate vandalism among the crew.”

“You’re right,” Bledsoe said. “I did wonder if this was part of your program to junk your 360-footers.”

Grafalk dropped his fork. A waiter moved forward and wafted a new one to the table. “We’re satisfied with what we’ve got out there,” Grafalk said. “I do hope you’ve isolated your trouble, though, Martin.”

“I hope so too,” Bledsoe said politely, picking up his wineglass.

“It’s so distressing when someone in your organization turns out to be unreliable,” Grafalk persisted.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bledsoe responded, “but then I’ve never shared the Hobbesian view of the social contract with you.”

Grafalk smiled. “You’ll have to explain that one to me, Martin.” He turned to me again. “At Martin’s school they went in for a lot of memorizing. I had an easier time, being a gentleman: we weren’t expected to know anything.”