The Master Chief would be waiting. He would be standing at the bottom of the ladder, the thick vein of his forehead pulsating like it always did. Master Chief did not like when people were late. He did not like it at all.

John Cantwell had been late. He was five minutes late for his watch. Three months later, on the northern run, after the food ran out, he had been dinner.

Master Chief did not like when people were late, and Master Chief had a long memory.