by Jack Finney
The sea closed over it then, and they were paddling, so long ago now, toward the black and unknown coast of Amerika — Lauffnauer was thinking in German. He wondered what happened to Biehler and Strang — Strang, Willi Strang, the third man in the raft had been. Whatever had happened to them, they were probably dead now, for Biehler would be over eighty, Strang nearly ninety.
He had to leave now, but he did not want to. His eyes widening behind the glass of his face mask, the past dismissed, he stood for some moments in the grip of a tremendous exultation. He had thought of the U-19 now and then through the years, wondering about her curiously. He had thought idly of searching for her, as he had today and for more than a week past, but the trouble and expense of doing so to no purpose but old curiosity had never been worth it. Now, forty years later, there was a purpose, a tremendous one, and he had finally found her, and he stood exulting. For the ancient submarine seemed in good condition — as far as he could tell. And if her valves had held — and they might have, they just might — her interior not flooded, it was at least possible, he told himself, that the little sub could be made operable again; no one could now say. If so, it was his submarine. No one else in the world, undoubtedly, even dreamed that the U-19 existed.
He began to climb finally with regular, slow strokes of his flippered feet toward the surface far above. He rose slowly through the decreasing pressures toward the growing brightness overhead, occasionally slowing the speed of his ascent. Presently his masked head broke the surface of the water, and he shoved the mask back, glancing around him, and saw the red flag of his raft. But he did not immediately swim to it. Staring at the shore, he estimated its distance, and, by triangulation, using the big roof of the hotel to the south as one point and a shiny roof glinting in the sun to the north as an-other, he fixed his position as well as he could. Then, knowing he could find the U-19 again, this time more easily and quickly, he began to swim toward his raft.
On the beach he lay face-down in the sand, head cradled on his forearms, resting. He was very tired, ravenously hungry and cold to his bones. But he allowed himself only fifteen minutes or so of rest, the spring sun — almost hot now, at midday — gradually warming his body. There was no more time to rest. Beginning immediately — he grinned at the thought, feeling alive again for the first time in years — Frank Lauffnauer had a crew to enlist.
I
I suppose there are unrecognized moments in everyone's life when enormous events begin with no least hint or indication of it. I thought I was doing no more than walking slowly through the end of one of the first days of last spring, toward Lexington Avenue in New York City, on 47th Street. A girl I'd met at work, Alice Muir, was with me; I'd been seeing her now for the past few months.
We met in the building lobby at five-thirty; now, a few minutes later, we were on our way to have a drink and then dinner some place, we didn't much care where, and we took our time — it was Friday night — enjoying the walk and the day. This was the last date I'd have with Alice, almost the last time I'd see her, but I didn't know that, and, strolling toward Lexington just ahead, I kept glancing down at her, enjoying what I saw. I'm six feet one, and she's five feet six at most; under the brim of her hat I could see her blond hair, and below, the slow swing of her striped skirt. She glanced up, saw me looking at her and smiled — a wonderful smile, her intelligent eyes softening affectionately.
I said, "Look, you know the head of my department retired this week?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Well, he's sailing tomorrow on the Queen Mary. Most of the department's going down to see him off. How about coming along?"
But she shook her head. "No, I don't know him, Hugh."
"That's all right. Come along with me. Might be fun, if the weather holds. I've never seen a big ship like that, have you?"
"No, but — I don't think so."
I shrugged. "O.K., but why not?"
"Well —" She hesitated a moment, then said it. "Hugh, I'm not going out with you any more after tonight."
I didn't reply for a few steps, then I said, "Why?"
I waited, walking slowly along beside her toward Third Avenue ahead, and she glanced up at my face and said, "You're the most interesting, attractive man I've ever gone out with; I've had a good time with you this winter, and I'd like to continue. But I don't think I can afford you any more, Hugh. I'm twenty-three years old, and I'll be twenty-four soon; I want to be married and begin having children before too much longer. And you'll never marry me; you won't let yourself fall in love with me or anyone else just now."
We reached Third Avenue and turned uptown toward a little French restaurant I knew. "Who can say when a man will fall in l—"
"No." She was shaking her head, and she smiled a little sadly. "Women are supposed to be more romantic than men on that subject; but they're a lot more realistic too. And I know that a man doesn't fall in love and get married until he's ready for it. And you're not. There's something important still unresolved for you, Hugh; you live in a state of rebellion."
I shrugged. "You seem to know more about me than I do."
"Well, that's not impossible. Tell me, how do you like your job?" I actually paused for a step, grinning down at her at this abrupt change of subject. But she wouldn't smile back. "Go ahead," she said. "Answer me."
"Why, fine," I said, walking on with her. "I like it fine; you know I do." We both worked on the same floor, for one of the big broadcasting networks — Alice in the record library and I in the publicity department, writing publicity of various kinds and even being allowed to originate some of it during the past few months.
"And when are you going to quit?"
"Quit?" I said after a moment. "What do you m—"
"Hugh, stop it!" She swung toward me angrily, stopping on the walk. "Answer me honestly, Hugh; think about it. Right now. And then tell me truthfully; how much longer, at the very most, do you think you'll still be working at this job?" She stood staring up at me for a moment, her pert, good-looking little face angry and set, her eyes snapping; then she turned, and we walked on.
For four or five slow steps I was silent, thinking about what she'd said, and we crossed 48th Street. Then I smiled a little."I don't suppose I'll last out the summer."
She nodded. "And that's been your history for quite a while, Hugh. You were in the Navy, and you left it."
"I never did plan to stay. I had my time to serve in the military, that's all."
She just glanced at me, shaking her head. "You were in the Forest Service and liked it, but you left that too. And every other job! You quit them all after a while! As you did your last job, and as you will this one. Why, Hugh?"
"Well, last year I wanted to sail, Al; really learn how to sail a boat. And I did; spent the whole summer at it. I was broke toward the end; actually hungry part of the time. But I learned how to sail a boat." She sniffed angrily, and I said softly, "That sounds trivial to you, doesn't it, Alice? You think it isn't important. But it is; there's nothing more important."
"More important than a job you could have had a career at?" She glared at me. "And what about this job? Are you going to quit because you want to learn to play the trombone?"
"No, but if I did, that could be important too. Ah, we're here." I took her arm, and we went into the restaurant.
It's a small place, with half a dozen leather-padded booths along each wall and a tiny bar at the front. We took a table, ordered drinks, then sat awkwardly silent till they came. I tasted mine, then set the glass down and leaned forward toward Alice, across from me. I'd never put this into words before, but now I tried; it seemed necessary, even vital.
"Look, Al," I said gently, "what's important and what isn't? How long does a man live? Except for the lucky ones, seventy-odd years maybe, a terribly short time. And a third of it is already gone for me. And how many of those years are you young? Far fewer; so few it's pitiful. So what's eating me, Al; the freedom to live my life — as much of it anyway as I possibly can. Haven
't you ever thought of this? You have to sell your life — most of it, the best part of it! — simply in order to stay alive!"
She was staring at me, her glass in hand. "What do you mean?"
"Well, what have I done with the last five days, for example? Warm, sunny, beautiful days, the first we've had in months, and a part of the little handful like it I'll ever have to be alive in. I sold them, Al" — I was leaning toward her, staring into her eyes, trying to make her understand — "each of them for less than a twenty-dollar bill! I spent them sitting at a desk, all six feet and a hundred and ninety pounds of me. And when they were nearly over, I got the last bits of them, the tag ends, for myself. Once a week I get a couple days, or a day and a half, or not even that much, often as not. And once a year a two-week vacation. Is that all I get, Al, of my own life?" I nodded. "Almost! If I give in and accept that, if I keep on selling off my own life — all of it; all my youth and middle age! — why, I'll finally be given the last few years of it that are left, as a sort of refund. Retire on a pension at sixty-five not even knowing any more what else there is to do with a man's life except work it away."
She said, "I happen to know what they think of you at work. That's what makes me furious with you; you're in line for a promotion, and a good one."
I actually brought my clenched fists up and struck them against the sides of my head. "I don't want to argue with you about it any more!" I said. "I know, I know! You're right!" Then I brought my hands down and looked at her, slowly shaking my head. "But there must be some way to beat it, Al; there's got to be." I sighed, then my mouth quirked angrily. "You better find yourself a guy who can accept things as they are. I won't; I can't. I'm darned if I will."
"All right." She nodded. "I can and I will; I'll forget all about you, Hugh. It won't be easy, and I won't even try at first; I'll just get through the time somehow. Monday I'll ask for my vacation — just as soon as I can get it. I have three weeks coming, and could take another without pay. I'll probably take a trip, someplace different and far away — South America, Hawaii, Europe. And maybe when I get back you'll already be gone."
"O.K. Now, let's order dinner, then have a little fun," I said, and after a moment she smiled a little and nodded.
As I say, I'd never before put into words what I'd just tried to explain to Alice. But now I had. It was clear and defined in my mind now, and I was ready — ripe — for what happened on Saturday morning.
In a cab Saturday morning — another bright, sun-filled day — I sat watching the between-buildings glimpses of the Hudson River as we moved along the west side of Manhattan Island. On the oil-splotched gray water I saw a couple of tugs, some ferries, a red-bottomed tanker anchored far out in midstream, a barge-load of freight cars. As the cab slowed and stopped, the space between two of the docks slid into view, and I saw a sight that stunned me. Her prow not twenty-five feet from the open cab window, there lay an enormous ship towering over the street and dock beside her, so vast it was hard to take in.
Far up on the ship's bow, my eyes lifting to see it, hung one of her enormous anchors, small with distance; and above it and to the right, on a band of white, I saw her name in great golden letters, QUEEN MARY. I stepped out to pay the driver, onto a sidewalk thronged with people, standing in little groups, milling around, calling to each other over people's heads, pulling luggage out of cabs and car trunks; and I grinned at the driver, feeling suddenly excited. Nodding at the crowd around me as he handed me my change, I said, "It's an ordinary day everywhere else in New York, but this is like a carnival!"
"Yeah," he said as I handed him a tip. "For them, not for me." Then I turned and made my way toward the line of swinging doors leading into the enclosed dock.
I had far less trouble boarding the Queen Mary than the passengers did. They had to line up at one of the little wooden buildings on the floor of the pier, waiting their turns to have their tickets, passports and inoculation certificates examined, and their names checked off on the passenger lists. But as a visitor I simply walked aboard — up a canopy-covered gangplank to one of the enclosed decks.
Then I was inside the Queen Mary, walking slowly across a wide, brightly lighted, spacious area. Wide corridors floored with thick marbled linoleum led off to other parts of the ship — both fore and aft — and clear down the length of the one nearest me, farther ahead than I could see, it was lined with widely spaced louvered doors, with people moving along it or into and out of the cabins. At the head of each corridor stood a steward in a white uniform, and I walked up to the nearest one and asked for directions to the cabin I was looking for.
It was on the next deck above, he told me, and I walked up the stairs, past the huge photograph of Queen Mary and stepped onto another inside deck — MAIN DECK, it was labeled in black letters set into the cream-colored linoleum — and I was in a shopping area, full of separate little stores. It was a large area, the full width of the enormous ship, and the stores were magnificent, their fronts of polished wood, the showcases of curved glass.
Then I was in a wide corridor lined with cabin doors, a great many of them standing open, the rooms crowded with people laughing, talking, holding glasses.
A dozen steps farther on I found the cabin I was looking for; the door stood open, I heard voices I knew, and I stepped inside. Half the office force and a number of strangers were there, most of them holding champagne glasses, and I began making my way through them and across the room toward my ex-boss, who stood talking to a little group around him. There were maybe two dozen people here, but the room wasn't really crowded; it was big, far bigger than I'd expected. Then I reached the boss, spoke to him and shook hands, and he introduced me to his wife. He turned to a linen-covered table on which stood glasses and several opened bottles of champagne in ice buckets, and poured me a big glassful. I saluted him and his wife with my glass, wishing them a good voyage; then several new people arrived. I didn't know them and, as he spoke to them, I turned away to look around me.
Someone pulled a cord at the far wall, and a set of curtains rolled back to show two large portholes — straight-sided ovals, their heavy inch-and-a-half-thick glass bound in brass frames. Through them I saw the roof of the dock just below us and, off across the roof, the clear blue sky and the Hudson River, and I heard a girl's voice say the obvious, "It's like looking into one world out of another." But it was true. I stood talking to some of the people from the office for a few moments, but I was ready to leave, suddenly eager to see as much of this ship as I could.
Out in the corridor I walked back the way I'd come, then stepped out onto the deck, busy with people just now, their steps sounding incessantly on the scrubbed white planking. I walked to the rail and stood wondering where to go and what to see first. Then just back of my left shoulder a voice said, "How about taking my watch for me tonight, Hugh? I've got a date in port." I turned, and Vic DeRossier — I'd served in the Navy with him — stood grinning up at me.
"You dead beat," I said, "you owe me three watches already." Then I grinned at him. "How are you, Vic?"
"Good, good," he said exuberantly, as we shook hands, and I was sure he was. Vic's a little man with thick, straight, coal-black hair; handsome in a dapper way and full of life and energy. He was holding a pencil and a booklet in his hand, the booklet opened to a printed diagram of the ship, labeled MAIN DECK, the deck we were on.
"What're you doing here, Vic?" I said, and he grinned.
"Come aboard the Mary any time she's in New York these days, and you're a cinch to run into me. I'm studying the ship." Gesturing with the booklet, he grinned again. "I got this from the Cunard Line office, along with every other scrap of literature they have on the Mary. She's an old hobby of mine; I'm in love with her, and I come on board every chance I get. You seeing someone off, Hugh?"
"Yeah, I just did. Now I'm looking around."
"Well, come on then" — he grabbed my arm eagerly. "I'll show you the ship; I know her better now than half the crew."
"O.K., swell
," I said, and we walked forward into the ship.
"Where you been keeping yourself?" Vic said. "I tried to phone you not long ago, but you're not in the book."
"No, I live in a hotel; a little apartment hotel on Fiftieth, the Cliff."
He nodded and, walking along with him, I had time to wonder why Vic had wanted to phone me. It had been nearly three years since we'd finished a hitch in the Navy together, and while Vic DeRossier and I served on the same ship — we were in submarines — and I knew him well and liked him, we'd never been close friends. He'd been the dashing young naval officer when I'd known him last, twenty-two years old and busy every minute of every leave. He wasn't the type to hunt up acquaintances just to sit around chewing over old times.
I was glad I'd run into him now, though, and I glanced down at him — a dark, graceful little man walking briskly along beside me. He hadn't changed, I thought. In a white shirt, dark-blue suit and tie he looked — except for the absence of gold braid on his sleeves — precisely as he had when I'd seen him last. He touched my elbow now — I'd been letting him lead the way as we toured the ship — and, turning into a short passageway, he led me through a set of paneled swinging doors, each inset with an oval pane of glass.
