Upon a Sea of Stars (67 page)

She said, “I’ve handled ships too.”

“I know, my dear. I’ve seen you do it. Your landing technique is a little too flashy for my taste.”

“Never mind that now. I’m talking about surface ships. Is there any reason to believe, John, that two ships built to the same design, but in different yards, would have conflicting personalities?”

Grimes was starting to get annoyed with his wife. “Damn it all,” he expostulated, “spacemen’s superstitions are bad enough! But I’m surprised that you, of all people, should pay any heed to seamen’s superstitions.”

“But are they superstitions? Couldn’t a machine absorb, somehow, something of the personalities of the people who built it, the people who handle it?”

“Hogwash,” said Grimes.

“If that’s the way you feel about it . . .” She slumped in her deep chair, struck a cigarillo on her thumbnail, put it to her mouth, looked at her husband through the wreathing smoke. “All right. Before you get back to your precious research, what do the initials P N mean?”

“In what context?”

Sonya nudged with a slim, sandaled foot the bulky
Aquarian Registry
, which lay open on the deck in front of her. “It’s printed against the names of some of the ships, the newer ships—but only those built by the Carrington State Dockyard or Varley’s.”

“P . . . N . . .” muttered Grimes. “P . . . N . . . ? We can ask the Mate, I suppose . . .”

“But you don’t like to,” she scoffed. “You’re the Captain, you know everything.”

“Almost everything,” he qualified smugly. The ship lurched suddenly, and Grimes knew the reason. When last he had been on the bridge he had been slightly perturbed by the chart presented in the met. screen, televised from one of the weather satellites. Ahead of
Sonya Winneck
was a deepening depression, almost stationary. He had considered altering course to try to avoid it—but, after all, he had a big, powerful ship under his feet, well found, stoutly constructed. And, he had thought, he would not like to be remembered on this world as a fair weather sailor. Even so, he saw in his mind’s eye that chart—the crowded isobars, the wind arrows with their clockwise circulation. Now the heavy swell running outward from the center, like ripples from a pebble dropped into a pond, was beginning to make itself felt. He looked at the aneroid barometer on the bulkhead. The needle had fallen ten millibars since he had last set the pointer, two hours ago.

He said, “I fear we’re in for a dirty night.”

She said, “It’s what you’re paid for.”

He grunted, got up from his chair, went up to the bridge by the inside companionway to the chartroom. He looked at the instruments over the chart table. According to the Chernikeeff Log, speed through the water had already dropped by half a knot. The barograph showed a fairly steep fall in pressure. The met. screen, set for the area through which the ship was passing, showed a chart almost identical with the one that he had last seen.

He went out to the bridge. The sky was mainly overcast now, with the larger of the two Aquarian moons, almost full, showing fitfully through ragged breaks in the cloud. There was high altitude wind, although it had yet to be felt at sea level. But the swell seemed to be increasing.

Young Mr. Denham, the Third Officer, came across from the wing of the bridge. He said, rather too cheerfully, “Looks like a blow, sir.”

“We can’t expect fine weather all the time,” Grimes told him. He stood with his legs well apart, braced against the motion of the ship. He wondered if he would be seasick, then consoled himself with the thought that both the actual Lord Nelson and the fictional Lord Hornblower had been afflicted by this malady.

Mr. Denham—since Grimes had torn that strip off him regarding the unauthorized engine movements he had tended to overcompensate—went on chirpily, “At this time of the year, sir, the revolving storms in these waters are unpredictable. In theory the center should be traveling east, away from us, but in practice it’s liable to do anything.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. I remember one when I was in the old
Sally
—
Sara Winneck
, that is. Captain Tregenza tried to outmaneuver it; we had a pile of deck cargo that trip, teak logs from Port Mandalay. But it was almost as though it had a brain of its own. Finally it sat right on top of us and matched speed and course, no matter which way we steered. We lost all the cargo off the foredeck, and the wheelhouse windows were smashed in . . .”

Cheerful little swine
. . . thought Grimes. He stared ahead into the intermittently moonlit night, at the long swell that was coming in at an angle to the ship’s course.
Sonya Winneck
’s bows lifted then dipped, plunging into and through the moving dune of water. They lifted again, and a white cascade poured aft from the break of the fo’c’sle, spangled with jewels of luminescence. Grimes said, “Anyhow, we have no deck cargo this trip.”

“No, sir.”

He remained on the bridge a while longer. There was nothing that he could do, and he knew it. The ship was far from unseaworthy, capable of riding out a hurricane. There was ample sea room; the Low Grenadines were many miles to the north of her track. And yet he felt uneasy, could not shake off a nagging premonition. Something, he somehow knew, was cooking. But what, when and where?

At last he grunted, “You know where to find me if you want me. Good night, Mr. Denham.”

“Good night, sir.”

Back in his quarters his uneasiness persisted. He told Sonya that he would sleep on the settee in his day cabin, so as to be more readily available in the event of any emergency. She did not argue with him; she, too, felt a growing tension in the air. It could have been that she was sensitive to his moods but, she told him, she didn’t think so. She quoted,
“By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes.”

He laughed. “A tropical revolving storm is not wicked, my dear. Like any other manifestation of the forces of nature it is neither good nor evil.”

She repeated, “Something wicked this way comes.”

They said good night then, and she retired to the bedroom and he disposed himself comfortably on the settee. He was rather surprised that sleep was not long in coming.

But he did not enjoy his slumber for more than a couple of hours. A particularly violent lurch awakened him, almost pitched him off his couch. He switched on a light, looked at the aneroid barometer. The needle was down another twenty millibars. And, in spite of the well-insulated plating of the accommodation, he could hear the wind, both hear and feel the crash of the heavy water on deck. He thrust his feet into his sandals and, clad only in his shorts (Master’s privilege) went up to the bridge. He found the Second Officer—it was now the middle watch—in the wheelhouse, looking ahead through the big clear view screen. Grimes joined him. When his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness he could see that the wind was broad on the starboard bow; he could see, too, that with each gust it was veering, working gradually around from southeast to south.
Southern Hemisphere
, he thought.
Clockwise circulation, and the low barometer on my left hand
. . . Now that he had something to work on he might as well avoid the center with its confused, heavy seas. “Bring her round to starboard easily,” he told the Second Officer. “Bring wind and sea ahead.”

“Wind and sea ahead, sir.” The officer went to the controls of the autopilot. Grimes watched the bows swinging slowly, then said, “That should do, Mr. Andersen.”

“Course one three five now, sir.”

Grimes went back into the chartroom, looked down at the chart, busied himself briefly with parallel rulers and dividers. He grunted his satisfaction. This new course took him even further clear of the Low Grenadines, that chain of rocky islets that were little more than reefs. There was nothing to worry about.

He was aware that Sonya was standing behind him; there was a hint of her perfume, the awareness of her proximity. He said without turning around, “Passengers not allowed on the bridge.”

She asked, “Where are we?”

He indicated with the points of the dividers the penciled cross of the position, the new course line extending from it. “I’m more or less, not quite heaving to. But she’s easier on this heading, and it pulls her away from the eye of the storm.”

She said, “There’s a lot to be said for spaceships. They don’t pitch and roll. When you’re in your virtuous couch you’re not slung out of it.”

“We take what comes,” he told her.

“We haven’t much option, have we?”

Then they went below again, and she made coffee, and they talked for awhile, and eventually Grimes settled down to another installment of his broken night’s sleep.

The next time he awakened it was by the insistent buzzing of the bridge telephone, which was in his bedroom. He rolled off the settee, stumbled through the curtained doorway. Sonya, looking rather hostile, lifted the instrument off its rest, handed it to him.

“Master here,” said Grimes into the mouthpiece.

“Second Officer, sir. There’s a Mayday . . .”

“I’ll be right up.”

The Second Mate was in the chartroom, plotting positions on the chart. He straightened as Grimes came in, turned to speak to him. “It’s
Iron Warrior
, sir. One of their big bulk carriers. She’s broken down, lying in the trough, and her cargo’s shifted. Zinc concentrates.”

“Not good. Where is she?”

The young man stood away from the chart so that Grimes could see, indicated the other ship’s position with the point of a pencil. “Here, sir. Just twenty miles south of the Low Grenadines. And she reports a southerly gale, the same as we’re getting.”

“Not good,” said Grimes again. “Not good at all. She’ll be making leeway, drifting . . .” Swiftly he measured the distance between
Sonya Winneck
’s last recorded position—electronic navigation had its good points!—and that given by the disabled ship. One hundred and fifty nautical miles . . . And
Sonya Winneck
would have to turn, putting the wind right aft. With her high superstructure this should mean a marked increase of speed . . . Suppose she made twenty knots over the ground . . . Twenty into one hundred and fifty . . . Seven and a half hours . . . He looked at the chartroom clock. Oh three thirty . . .

“Put your standby man on the wheel, Mr. Andersen,” he ordered. “I’m bringing her round manually.”

He went out into the wheelhouse. Both moons were down, but the sky had cleared. Overhead the scattered stars were bright; and bright, too, were the living stars thrown aloft and back in the sheets of spray each time that the ship’s prow crashed down to meet the racing seas. Grimes stood there, waiting, hoping for a lull, however brief. He glanced behind him, saw that the wheel was manned and that Andersen was standing beside the helmsman.

He looked ahead again. It seemed to him that the pitching of the ship was a little less pronounced, that sea and swell were a little less steep. “Port,” he ordered. “Easily, easily . . .” He heard the clicking of the gyro-repeater as the ship’s head started to come round. And then he saw it, broad on the starboard bow, a towering cliff of water, white capped, a freak sea. “Hard a-port!” Grimes shouted. “Hard over!”

She responded beautifully, and the clicking of the repeater was almost one continuous note. She responded beautifully, but not quite fast enough. The crest of the dreadful sea was overhanging the bridge now, poised to fall and smash. Still she turned, and then she heeled far over to port, flinging Grimes and the Second Officer and the helmsman into an untidy huddle on that side of the wheelhouse. She shuddered as the tons of angry water crashed down to her poop, surged forward along her decks, even onto the bridge itself. There was a banging and clattering of loose gear, cries and screams from below. But miraculously she steadied, righted herself, surging forward with only a not very violent pitching motion.

Somehow Grimes got to his feet, disentangling himself from the other two men. He staggered to the untended wheel, grasped the spokes. He looked at the repeater card. Three two oh . . . Carefully he applied starboard rudder, brought the lubber’s line to the course that had been laid off on the chart, three three five. He saw that Andersen and the seaman had recovered their footing, were standing by awaiting further orders.

“Put her back on automatic,” he told the Second Officer. “On this course.” He relinquished the wheel as soon as this had been done. “Then take your watch with you and make rounds through the accommodation. Let me know if anybody’s been hurt.”

“Who the hell’s rocking the bloody boat?” It was Wilcox, the Chief Officer. Then, as he saw Grimes by the binnacle, “Sorry, sir.”

“It’s an emergency, Mr. Wilcox. A Mayday call.
Iron Warrior
, broken down and drifting on to the Low Grenadines. We’re going to her assistance.”

“What time do you estimate that we shall reach her, Captain?”

“About eleven hundred hours.”

“I’d better start getting things ready,” replied the Mate.

Grimes went back into the chartroom, to the transceiver that had been switched on as soon as the auto-alarm had been actuated by the Mayday call. “
Sonya Winneck
to Ocean Control, Area Five,” he said.

“Ocean Control to
Sonya Winneck
. I receive you. Pass your message.”

“I am now proceeding to the assistance of
Iron Warrior
. Estimated time of visual contact ten thirty hours, Zone Plus Seven.”

“Thank you,
Sonya Winneck
.
Pleiaidic
cannot be in the vicinity until thirteen hundred hours at the earliest. Please use Channel Six when working
Iron Warrior
. Call me on Sixteen to keep me informed. Over.”

He switched to Channel Six. “
Sonya Winneck
to
Iron Warrior
. . .”

“
Iron Warrior
here,
Sonya Winneck
.” The other Captain’s voice, was, perhaps, a little too calm.

“How are things with you,
Iron Warrior?
”

“Bloody awful, to be frank. A twenty degree list, and my boats and rafts smashed on the weather side. Estimated rate of drift, two knots.”