by Pat Murphy
Frank Robinson, a black man who had been tending bar at the Alehouse for as long as Tom had been chief security officer, was drawing a pint for a passenger at the far end of the bar. Tom sat down and waited until Frank headed in his direction, stopping en route to pour a club soda and add a twist of lemon. Frank set the drink in front of Tom.
“Afternoon, Tom.” Frank was from Trinidad. He’d been working on the ship long enough that “dat” and “de” had become “that” and “the,” but the lilting accent of the island was still with him. “I thought you’d be coming my way.”
“How’s that?”
“The manager said that charge slip was no good.” Frank shrugged. “The man told me he had forgotten his cruise card. But I knew his name. Heard about this writer teaching on board. So I just did it the way I used to—filled out the slip and all. No problem.”
Tom frowned wearily, not wanting to get into another discussion of Max's pseudonyms. “You’re not supposed to do that anymore. You have to use the passengers cruise card. That’s the new policy.”
“I should tell the man he can’t have a drink?” Frank shook his head. “Better give him a drink than have a passenger unhappy.” Frank knew the Company Policy—the customer was always right.
“So what did this man look like?”
Frank gave a description that sounded familiar: a white man in his forties, brown hair and blue eyes, mustache, medium height, casually dressed.
“He was here with another fellow,” Frank said. “What did the other fellow look like?”
“White hair. Square chin. Talked too loud,” Frank said. “Not like Mr. Merrimax.”
Tom frowned. The description matched the passenger who had complained about the card shark. “What was Mr. Merrimax like?”
“Mutton dressed up like lamb,” Frank said softly.
Tom nodded. He knew the Caribbean expression: Frank thought Weldon was pretending to be better than he was.
Frank was shaking his head. “Eyes like a snake. Not a man I’d play cards with.”
“Were he and the other fellow planning to play cards?”
“I heard Mr. Merrimax say something about it.”
Tom nodded. Weldon Merrimax, the mysterious passenger, was also the card shark. How odd that his two problems should overlap. Far from making matters tidier, it seemed to him to make more of a mess.
Susan chose a lounge chair on the side of the pool farthest from the bar. The balmy air was scented with suntan lotion and ocean spray.
Susan sat in the shade provided by a large umbrella. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Susan had put on number 25 sunscreen, but she was taking no chances. Many of the chairs in the sun were already occupied by folks who had obviously never heard of a connection between tanning and skin cancer.
Susan draped a towel over her legs, feeling a little self-conscious about her body. She was pale—San Francisco’s foggy climate wasn’t conducive to tanning—and she had never much liked how she looked in a swimsuit. She had lost weight during the divorce negotiations, but in her estimation she had managed to make the transition from too chubby to too thin without passing through acceptable. It didn’t seem fair, but there it was.
Pat was at a line-dancing class. She had told Susan that she wanted to try it out and see if there was something she could write up for the Bad Grrlz’ Guide. She had asked Susan to join her, but Susan had declined. She didn’t like dancing. In any group dancing endeavor, she would step to the left when everyone else was stepping right or go forward when everyone else was going back.
She hadn’t told Pat any of that, of course. She had just said that she was looking forward to reading Wild Angel, by Mary Maxwell. And that was true.
Mary Maxwell’s books were always page-turners. The first page of Wild Angel introduced young Sarah McKensie, a toddler whose parents have come to California in 1850, searching for gold. By page five, there had been a stagecoach robbery, three murders, and the savage killing of a litter of defenseless wolf pups. Sarah’s parents were dead and the little girl had been adopted by the mother wolf whose pups had been killed.
Susan read for more than an hour. Sarah McKensie lived among the wolves, growing up to become an amazing young savage. She was at home in the wilderness—she could bring down a deer with her lasso, kill a grizzly with a bow and arrow, hunt with the wolf pack and howl at the moon.
It was a wonderful and totally unlikely story Susan particularly enjoyed the descriptions of the Ancient Order of E Clampus Vitus, a wildly improbable secret society:
The Ancient Order of E Clampus Vitus claimed origins in 4004 B.C.
Some spoilsports said that the Order had been created in the late 1850s as a drunken response to the Masons, the Odd Fellows, and other fraternal orders. Not so, said the Clampers. Adam, the Clampers said, was the Order’s first Noble Grand Humbug, the title given to the leader of a chapter. The society counted among its past members such luminaries as Solomon, George Washington, and Henry Ward Beecher. Since these individuals were conveniently dead, they could neither confirm nor deny their membership in the order.
The Clampers’ motto was Credo Quia Absurdum, “I believe because it is absurd.” Their meeting hall was designated the Hall of Comparative Ovations. Their symbol was the Staff of Relief. Upon initiation, all members were given “titles of equal importance.” Their avowed goal was to assist widows and orphans, particularly the widows. Their primary activity was initiating new candidates in extravagant and drunken rituals. They were reputed to also do good works, but the truth of that was difficult to ascertain. Since no Clamper could ever recall the events of a meeting on the following day, the activities of the society were assured of remaining secret.
At the sound of shouting from the poolside bar, Susan looked up from the book. A group of men were drinking and shouting about something. She frowned, wondering who they were.
SIX
“We’re in the Bermuda Triangle,” the Captain said. “Better watch what you drink. I’ve heard that the effects of alcohol are intensified here.”
“ I hear a lot of things,” said the woman, mixing herself another Rum Monkey. “Some are true; some aren’t. I make a point of choosing which ones to believe.” She smiled. “I choose not to believe that one.”
—from Here Be Dragons
by Mary Maxwell
Back in the security office, Ian grinned when Tom told him what Frank Bender had done. There wasn’t really anyone on board with a Weldon Merrimax cruise card, Tom told Ian. Someone had used Weldon Merrimax’s name and managed to score a free drink.
“So it isn’t a computer problem at all,” Ian said happily. “It’s human error. That’s just great!”
Tom went on to say that the person masquerading as Weldon appeared to be the man who had played poker with the angry passenger. “So our card shark is Weldon Merrimax, a man who doesn’t exist.”
“Wonderful!” Ian said. “Non sunt multiplicanda entia praeter necissitatem.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Tom asked in a mild tone.
“Ockham’s razor, the principle stated in the thirteenth century by the noted philosopher William of Ockham. The Latin translates as: ‘Entities are not to be multiplied beyond necessity.’ That is, you should always seek the simplest solution to any problem. And there’s your answer. Weldon Merrimax is the card shark!”
“Where do you come up with these things?” Tom asked.
“I was a philosophy major before I got into computer programming,” Ian said. “Philosophy is a great excuse to stay up all night talking about ridiculous things.”
Tom nodded. He could see how Ian would enjoy something like that. From his pocket, he pulled the note that Max had received and tossed it down on Ian’s desk. “All right, here’s something else to try to tie into the mess.”
Ian unfolded the note and smiled. “An I Ching hexagram,” he said.
Tom nodded. “A bunch of gibberish.”
“Oh, no,” Ian said
. “The Book of Changes isn’t gibberish at all. It’s really quite wonderful. It’s a book of potentialities and possibilities.”
Tom squinted at Ian. “You sure know a lot about some wacky stuff.”
“I keep an open mind,” Ian said. “That’s all. Besides, how do you know the I Ching is wacky. You haven’t tried it.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “Max told me you generate a hexagram by throwing yarrow sticks and I don’t seem to have brought along any yarrow sticks.”
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be yarrow sticks,” Ian said quickly. “I’ve got a random number generator that works just as well. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“Give it a try? What do you mean?”
“You come up with a question and I’ll generate a hexagram for you.”
“And then this ancient Chinese book will tell me what’s going to happen?”
“I prefer to think of the I Ching as a method for exploring your unconscious thoughts. It’s a book of interesting advice. It encourages careful scrutiny of a situation in light of one’s own character, attitude, and motives. Come on—what could it hurt? It often provides some interesting insights.”
Tom glanced at his watch. “I’d love to, but I have to meet with the purser and let him know that I’m on top of this gambling problem. I’ll just have to struggle on in ignorance.”
Ian was persistent. “Well, if you were going to ask a question, what would you ask?”
“My question? What’s the deal with Max Merriwell and Weldon Merrimax?”
Ian frowned. “Don’t you want to be more specific?”
“I think that’s specific enough,” Tom said. “It’s what I’d like to know. Hey—I’ve got to run.”
After Tom left, Ian consulted the I Ching.
He had a program that generated a hexagram and provided interpretation and commentary from several translations of the original Chinese texts. Ian’s favorite translation was the Wilhem-Baynes edition, which had been translated from Chinese to German by Richard Wilhelm and from German to English by Cary F Baynes.
Before generating the hexagram, Ian considered the question he wished to ask the oracle. What’s the deal with Max Merriwell and Weldon Merrimax? One always formulated a question before casting the yarrow sticks (or running the random number generator). One then analyzed the resulting hexagram in relation to that question.
Ian turned to his computer and typed in a few characters. A set of six lines appeared on the screen. Beneath it were a few paragraphs of text with the heading: “The Wanderer.”
The hexagram was made up of two trigrams, each a set of three lines. The lower trigram was Ken, the mountain. The upper trigram was Li, the fire. As the commentary explained, the two could be together only briefly. The flame goes upward, the mountain presses downward. The flame represents the wanderer, who does not linger in one place. He is in a foreign land and can’t find his place. He has few friends. He must be cautious and reserved to protect himself from evil.
Ian was willing to accept that description of Max.
The third line of the hexagram was a changing line, which meant that it became its opposite—changing from a solid line to a broken line, from yin to yang, from light to dark. That change affected the interpretation of the hexagram.
According to the commentary, a changing line in the third place Through his arrogance, the wanderer loses the loyalty of his servant. He draws misfortune upon himself.
Ian nodded. His servant could be Weldon Merrimax.
Ian hit another key on the keyboard to change the third line and generate a new hexagram. The new hexagram appeared on his screen, with its commentary.
The upper trigram was still Li, fire. The lower trigram was now K’un, the earth. The commentary explained that fire over the earth represented sunrise. As the sun rises, the light grows brighter and all becomes clear. For Tom’s sake, Ian hoped that would be the case.
Tom met with the purser, dressed for dinner, and got to the Ithaca dining room a few minutes early, before the doors opened to the passengers. Just inside the entrance, Antonio was putting the final touches on the evening’s fruit sculpture.
Tom liked Antonio, a wizened old Italian who took his work very seriously. Antonio regarded fruit sculpture as a form of artistic expression overlooked by the unimaginative fools of the art world. “People have no imagination,” Antonio had told Tom. “If it is not paint, not marble, they think it is nothing. They do not understand. I carve and I make the fruit beautiful. It does not last—but beauty cannot last. The most beautiful woman someday grows old.”
From pieces of fresh coconut, painstakingly carved and neatly stacked, Antonio had created a replica of the Odyssey that was about a foot long. The miniature ship sailed on a bed of crushed ice. It was sailing toward the Bermuda Islands, constructed from mounds of grapes and identified by a small sign at the apex of the mound. Red ribbon, tied to the necks of three bottles of white wine set in the ice, marked a large triangle. The ship was sailing under the ribbon.
“The Bermuda Triangle,” Antonio told Tom when he paused to admire the Italian’s creation. “Ian told me that we entered it last night.”
Tom was the last to arrive at the table. The others were already seated. It was one of the ship’s formal dinners. People had, for the most part, dressed for the cocktail party that would be held in the Atrium that evening. Max was in his usual tweedy sport coat; Charles and Bill were in suits. Lily was elegant in flame red silk; Alberta wore something with far too many sequins. Susan wore a forest green velvet dress, the same color as the sweater she’d been wearing when he met her. It was a good color for her. Pat wore black jeans and a silk shirt that matched her hair. Ian was in jeans and a shirt, as usual.
“Hello, Tom,” Bill Carver called. “Just what we need—an expert opinion. We were talking about the Bermuda Triangle.”
“I’m hardly an expert on that.” Tom took his seat. “But you’ve been through it before,” Bill persisted.
“More than once,” Tom said. He glanced at Ian, who was grinning. Tom was certain Ian had started the conversation. He had seen Ian do it before, tossing an odd topic into a group like a fisherman chumming for sharks. Invariably, people rose to the bait.
“Ian tells us that hundreds of ships and planes have disappeared here,” Alberta said. “Vanished without a trace.”
Tom shrugged. “No real mystery there. Weather is unpredictable in this part of the world. Storms can come up fast and ships and planes can go down.” He smiled reassuringly. “Of course, we won’t have any problem with the weather. Satellites warn us about any storm systems. And even if they didn’t, no storm is going to swamp the Odyssey.”
Bill chimed in then, supporting his wife. “Sounds pretty mysterious though. Ian was telling us that one plane went missing on a perfectly clear day, right after the pilot radioed to say he’d be arriving in Bermuda on schedule. Back in 1941, a navy ship vanished on its way from the Virgin Islands to Florida—and a month later, the same thing happened to another ship.”
“And then you’ve got the Mary Celeste,” Ian said cheerfully. “It passed near the Bermuda Triangle and everyone aboard vanished.”
Tom glanced around the table. Pat seemed amused; Susan, politely interested. Lily wore an expression of mocking tolerance; she clearly thought the conversation was silly. Charles and Bill were listening to Ian. Max had taken refuge behind his menu.
Leaning back in his chair, obviously enjoying himself, Ian told the group about the Mary Celeste. On December 14, 1872, the 103 foot brigantine en route from New York to Genoa had been found abandoned and drifting, some 590 miles west of Gibraltar. The ship’s captain, his wife, and the seven-member crew were missing. The last position recorded in the log placed her a hundred miles west of the Azores, a path that took her close to the Bermuda Triangle.
Tom had heard all this from Ian, over the past few weeks. Ian delighted in sharing the stranger bits that he found on the Internet. He was particularly fond of the story of
Mary Celeste.
“The ship was in perfect shape,” Ian said, his voice pitched as low as a man telling a ghost story. “The table was set for breakfast. No sign of any foul weather. Something strange had happened—and no one knows what it was.”
Tom watched as Charles looked up from the wine list. Tom could see that Charles was thinking about how to turn this conversation to his advantage. “So what’s your explanation, Bill?” he asked, a touch of challenge in his voice.
More posturing, Tom thought. He had watched on the previous night when Bill and Charles had played one-upmanship, and he could see the same thing happening again. Charles had noticed Bill’s support of this mystery, and now he was trying to nudge Bill into a position where he’d propose a theory that Charles could ridicule.
Bill shook his head, unwilling to be nudged. “I’m no expert,” he said. “But we do have an expert at the table. You write about this weird stuff all the time, don’t you, Max? I bet you have an explanation.”
Tom frowned as Bill and Charles leaned back in their chairs, grinning. Bill had sidestepped Charles neatly. Now they were both eager, Tom thought, to watch Max make a fool of himself describing some crackpot theory. That would make them feel superior and they’d enjoy that.
Max looked up from his menu and took off his reading glasses.
“An explanation for the Bermuda Triangle?” Max set his glasses on the table beside his menu. “Well, I am, actually, a bit of an expert on this topic.”
Tom noticed that Susan was biting her lip, looking concerned. She was worried for Max. Bill and Charles were waiting, smiling like wolves waiting for a comrade to fall.
“So what’s the explanation?” Bill asked.
“People have proposed any number of explanations,” Max said in a serious tone. He had the manner of a professor lecturing his students. “Some say that the islands in this area are the mountain tops of the sunken continent of Atlantis, and that the seismic disturbances that sank Atlantis millions of years ago will occasionally capture a ship. There are others who blame sea monsters—giant squid or other monstrous animals dragging ships down. Others prefer an extraterrestrial explanation: UFOs and alien abductions. There’s one fellow who has written to me a few times: he thinks that there are tiny wormholes under the water—those are black holes that lead to white holes, you know. Anyway, these micro-wormholes open up and suck people into other dimensions. He claims he has found evidence of this in the form of magnetic anomalies.” Max paused to take a sip of water.
