by Greg Bear
I guess because the ankylosaur is heavier than she is strong. I mean the cage was lighter on the sides because Sheila doesn't rush the bars like the venator, or butt them as Sammy sometimes does. That meant the animals had to be transferred to wooden pens on the wharf while the welders went to work.
Father took some pictures looking over the side of the ship. The ankylosaur turned and turned in her pen as the arc welders flashed and hissed and snapped. She must have thought there were some very funny animals that she could hear but not see.
OBie and Ray Harryhausen spent the day exploring the ship, when they weren't stowing their cameras and other stuff as it arrived. Mr. O 'Brien (all his friends call him OBie, with a capital O and B) seems to be a nice man but sometimes a little sad. His face lights up when he sees the animals, and he stares at them with such concentration.
The ship is clean but a little old, rusty in places. The engines are big, though Dad says they aren't nearly as big as the engines in an ocean liner like the Queen Mary. Dad was on the Queen Mary during the war. It was hit by a big wave and nearly capsized, he says.
The ship's insides are painted white and green and everything smells of fried food and diesel oil and bilge and other things I can't identify—some really funny smells that I will never forget, but not unpleasant. All together, it smells like a big iron ship, Dad says.
There is lots of polished brass on the bridge. The captain takes pride in his ship. This evening, at dinner, he said he had served on much larger ships in the war. He had two ships sunk from under him by German submarines, one off the coast of New York, the other off Florida. His English is fine, but I'd like to learn to speak Spanish.
On the ship, the sailors speak Spanish and Portuguese, and some know German and French. Most speak at least a little English.
Our cabin is amidships, two decks below the bridge, with a porthole on the starboard side. I'm talking like a sailor already! We 're about twenty feet above the water. It's dark outside now. The provisions have been loaded, including the meat, hay, and alfalfa, and all the expedition supplies. (Is that too many commas? Father says commas slow things down.)
The captain told OBie that we had received clearance from Venezuela to put into Boca Grande, on the south side of the Orinoco Delta. We should be there in less than a week. It's not hurricane season and the weather should be good.
Shellabarger did not have much to say at dinner. He was quiet, but he had a fierce, angry look. He didn't come out of his cabin when we gathered on deck this evening after dark to talk about the day.
I guess I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Ifeel a little better now. Writing helps. Dad's getting great pictures and I like OBie and Ray Harryhausen a lot. I've always wanted to learn how to draw.
Peter put down the fountain pen and looked at the pages he had covered. Except in school, he had never strung so many words together in one sitting.
Chapter Six
The Libertad was not designed to comfort landlubbers. At sea, she would roll thirty degrees, then slow her roll, give an alarming shudder, and right herself, continuing over to the other side until she shuddered again: back and forth, hour after hour, over the dead calm sea.
Anthony, OBie, and Harryhausen were seasick after a few hours; Peter, to his surprise, joined Vince Shellabarger in feeling chipper.
The sky was clear from horizon to horizon and the sun warmed the ship's decks until they were almost too hot to walk on barefoot. Still, Peter reveled in the sensation of strolling from end to end of this little world, smelling the paint, the oil, the salt water, the warm and pure air. The dull steady pounding of the engine vibrated the deck, and any interruption of this reassuring rhythm seemed ominous. It was so totally unlike New York that he might have been carried to another planet.
He leaned over the wooden rail on the starboard wing of the bridge, using his hands to block his peripheral vision until he couldn't see the ship, and became one of the seagulls that wheeled and glided beside him.
Anthony recovered from his seasickness by the second day, but after a few quick turns around the ship with the Leica, there wasn't much left to do except remain vigilant. "If the ship sinks, or if a dinosaur escapes, I'll get some good shots," he told Peter.
Peter played shuffleboard and Ping-Pong with Harryhausen, burly, sandy-haired Rob Keller, who was in charge of the roustabouts and reported directly to Shellabarger, and Osborne from the camera crew. Keller and his men would travel with them all the way to the Pico Poco, to provide whatever was needed for the care and confinement of the animals.
Ping-Pong on the rolling ship was a real challenge. Harryhausen and Keller played a few games, and then Harryhausen handed his paddle over to Peter. Peter played against Osborne and quickly whacked two balls over the side. Harryhausen and Keller joined them at the rail to see if they could spot the balls in the flat sea. "If we roll far enough, I'll just pluck them out and we'll play another game," Harryhausen said.
It was at this point that Harryhausen insisted Peter call him "Ray." "Anything else makes me feel ancient, like C. B. De Mille," he said, eyes crinkling.
The roustabouts and camera crew ran around the ship to keep in shape, or read paperback books on the few deck chairs, or hung out with the sailors, trying to pick up information about the ports they would be seeing. Sailors knew a lot of things that Peter found fascinating. Anthony warned him against some of those things.
There were four other passengers, a middle-aged British lady named Mrs. Cantwell and her traveling companion, a thin, pretty young woman named Fiona, and two Venezuelan men who wore white suits on deck and did not speak to anybody. Anthony said the two men worked for an American oil company as translators.
"The anglos way back in the 'teens came down to see dinosaurs," Shellabarger explained at dinner on the second night, "and found oil instead."
"Is oil made from old dinosaurs?" Peter asked.
"No," Anthony said. "Ancient sea plants, like algae, not dinosaurs."
The ship rolled back and forth as dessert was served. The stewards wore white. Captain Ippolito insisted on all the amenities, to "keep up morale," as he said, "and because it is part of tradition."
"She's a well-run ship," OBie said as he joined them at the long table, "though exuberant. She wallows like a whale in heat."
At that moment, the ship rolled a little farther than usual, and the larger of the two oil company men tipped backward in his chair. He grabbed hold of the tablecloth and pulled everything off the table as he fell: plates, bowls of food, pitchers of water, all came crashing down around him. He was a portly fellow, and while everyone hung on to their tables for dear life, he rolled through the food, eyes wild, shouting curses in Spanish and bumping against chair legs.
Mercifully, Captain Ippolito leaned over, stuck out his arm, and stopped him. The poor man grabbed the captain with a desperate squeal, and the engineer and first mate helped him to his feet, apologizing profusely.
"She is top-heavy," Ippolito explained, looking around the cabin for support. "As Senor O'Brien says, exuberant."
"Dear me," exclaimed the English woman.
The steward dabbed with a towel at the stains of gravy, milk, and red wine on the portly translator's white suit. With a grimace, the large man pushed away the solicitous hands and stalked out of the mess, lurching against the door and almost slipping again with another roll to starboard.
Afterward, on the main deck, Ray and OBie and Anthony fell into helpless laughter. Peter couldn't help joining them, though he felt sorry for the man.
"He could have h-h-hurt himself," Anthony said to Ray, trying to keep a straight face. "Aren't you ashamed?"
Ray straightened and lifted his chin. "I have nothing to say," he intoned with great dignity, imitating Oliver Hardy.
"It's been a umpty-ump years since I've been rocked to sleep at night," OBie said. "This ship should be condemned!"
"Do you think he'll sleep well?" Anthony asked.
They all doubled over, faces red,
laughing so hard.
Ray tugged his lips down with two fingers to keep from smiling. "Poor man," he said, and tears of laughter filled his eyes. They managed to keep solemn faces for about a second, and then began roaring and cackling all over again.
"We're all sick, cruel human beings," OBie said, shaking his head and wiping his eyes.
Shellabarger stepped out of his cabin to stare at the ocean and the stars. He caught the tail end of the laughter, but did not seem in a mood to have the joke explained.
"How are the animals?" Ray asked him.
"Sammy sleeps most of the time," Shellabarger said. "Most of them are eating all right, but Sheila is seasick. Has my sympathy, I'll tell you. Dagger just stands in his cage, rocking from leg to leg, staring at whoever's in the hold. The sailors won't go down there. We'll have to keep our own watch at night, just in case something breaks loose."
Keller came from below to join them. "I hope we don't have any rough weather," he said. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pocket, passing it around. OBie and Ray refused. Anthony took a swig. Shellabarger waited for him to be done, then took the bottle, wiped it on his sleeve, took a deep swallow himself, and threw it overboard.
"Hey!" Keller shouted, rushing to the rail and tracking the bottle as it soared into the ocean and vanished. "We can't get that kind of stuff where we're going!"
"I'll need all the sober help I can get," Shellabarger said. "So far, we've been lucky. But things aren't going to get any easier."
Keller grumbled and shook his head, but the roustabout knew better than to cross the trainer.
The next morning, Shellabarger invited Anthony and Peter to come down to the hold and inspect the animals. It was too dark in the hold for Anthony to get any decent pictures, but he took the camera anyway. Shellabarger's attitude had softened since the night before, and he even smiled at Peter as they walked along the catwalk between the forward hold and amidships.
Peter made out the square bulks of covered cages below, dimly lit by incandescent bulbs at the same level as the catwalk. He recognized the large venator cage, the Aepyornis cage, and the cage that contained the struthios. Shadows hid the rest, farther aft in the cavernous hold.
"I check on 'em every couple of hours," Shellabarger said, gripping a ladder and swinging out from the catwalk. He deftly clambered down to the bottom of the hold. Anthony let Peter go next.
Shellabarger led them between the cages. The hold smelled terrible. "We bring hoses down each evening to wash the shit into the gutters," he said. "The captain doesn't want it in the bilge, and I don't blame him. We haul the slop up in barrels and dump it overboard. Keeps the seagulls off our tail." He grinned and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. The light's yellow beam played over the tarps. Nearby, something made faint gurking noises. Heavy feet slapped ponderously.
"Sheila's still feeling poorly," Shellabarger said. He raised the corner of the tarp and aimed the beam into her cage. Peter and Anthony peered around the trainer to get a glimpse of the ankylosaur. She lay on her huge stomach, legs doubled up beneath her, almost hidden by the brown spikes and great folds of armored skin. Sheila raised her head and gurked again, stretching her beaked jaws wide.
"Ever seen a dinosaur throw up?" Shellabarger asked Peter.
Peter shook his head.
"It isn't pretty," Shellabarger said. "Though better the herbivores than the venator. Funny that Sheila's the only one who's sick. I was hoping Dagger would get a little under the weather. Be easier to handle."
"Is he acting up?" Anthony asked.
"No," Shellabarger said. He pulled his lips back in an expression Peter couldn't read. "Conserving his energy."
"What are you feeding him?" Peter asked.
"Shall we go look?" Shellabarger invited. "Sheila's going to spend this trip sleeping and throwing up. She hasn't eaten much . . ." He dropped the tarp and Peter and Anthony followed him on the steel-plated deck between the cages. The smell grew worse, sharp and strong enough to make Peter want to gag. A thick yellow fluid with massed black and white curds poured across the deck as the ship rolled. Peter narrowly missed stepping into the middle of the flow.
They came to the venator's cage. Shellabarger untied a rope near the cage and raised the tarp like a curtain. Inside, the venator lifted his head and blinked. His skin glimmered in the flashlight beam.
Shellabarger looked on the dinosaur with lifted chin and thinned lips. His jaw muscles worked for a moment as if he were chewing tobacco, and then he turned to Peter and Anthony and said, "You going to write about the changes on El Grande? No one's said much about them."
"Changes?" Anthony asked.
"Yeah." Shellabarger tied off the cord. "The cleft's closing. Everything mixing up like a big old stew."
"That's not exactly news," Anthony said.
The venator gazed steadily at the trainer, his only motion the steady rise and fall of his breast, flushed slightly pink in the heat.
"You can't understand El Grande without knowing about the old divisions. For tens of millions, maybe hundreds of millions of years, El Grande used to be cut up into three parts. There used to be a cleft north of the Lago Centrale, and another just south of it, each about a hundred feet across, like the present gap between Pico Poco and El Grande. Nothing crossed over but flying birds and insects. Just after Challenger arrived in 1912 came the first quake. In the north lived the therapsids and the suchids—mammal-like reptiles and crocodilians. They weren't seen in the southern portions of El Grande until after the earthquake. In 1917, another quake, and the second cleft collapsed, and the central region started to spill south, too. Avisaurs and small mammals invaded the realm of the venators and other dinosaurs, along with the therapsids and suchids. Now it's a big stew pot. Who knows what other kinds of competition and change are going on? In just thirty years . . . what a laboratory the Grand Tepui becomes."
Shellabarger held up his hand, palm toward Dagger, as if signing "peace." "Dagger's one mean fancy pachuco, but his kind can't compete with the death eagles. I figure in a few more years, the venators will die out and the death eagles will take over. I wonder if he knows what he's going home to."
The venator had eyes only for Shellabarger. It did not even look at Anthony or Peter. Shellabarger kept them well back from the thick steel bars. "Couldn't train him, couldn't tame him, and you know what? He's my favorite. Humans are perverse bastards, don't you think?"
"He's fascinating," Anthony said. "Like looking at your own personal death."
"Yeah," Shellabarger said. "Audiences would have stopped coming to Lotto's circus years ago if it hadn't been for the venator. Elephants are great, but lions and tigers make us shiver . . . And the venator is scarier than any tiger ever born."
Peter's eyes had adapted to the darkness. He examined the venator from ten feet away, through the bars of the cage, feeling the hair on his neck prickle. The animal's throat wattle flicked as if trying to rid itself of a fly, and his ribs swelled and subsided with slow, steady respiration. The venator's breath smelled thick and sour-sweet, like an ancient slaughterhouse.
Shellabarger turned to look at Peter. "I envy you, Tony."
"Why?" Anthony asked.
"Years ago, I wanted a son so I could teach him about the circus. How to know and care for the animals. Have him follow on after I was gone. I've lived a lot longer than I thought I would. Between this beast and a half dozen others, I was sure I'd be crushed or bitten in half by now. I never had a son, and I've outlived the circus. So what's to pass on?"
Peter stepped forward. "I'd like to learn," he said.
Anthony stared at Peter, brows lifted.
Shellabarger studied Peter for several seconds. The venator's warm stench surrounded them. "What's the first thing to know?" he asked quietly.
Peter felt his lungs catch and his shoulders stiffen. He had never liked direct challenges from older people, whether they were teachers or people on the street.
"What they like to eat," Peter said.
/> Shellabarger angled his head away but kept his slitted eyes on Peter's. "You have to know what they need to be. Animals
remember, but they don't exactly think. Life is one long sensation for them."
"Oh," Peter said.
"What does Dagger need?" Shellabarger asked.
Peter glanced at the animal. The venator still had his eyes fixed on Shellabarger.
"You," Peter said.
Shellabarger gave a rueful snort of laughter. He looked away from Peter. "Does he have any other chores on this voyage?" he asked Anthony.
"Not for the moment," Anthony said. "If you want him, he's yours."
"You'll have to hose down the shit," the trainer warned. He looked at Anthony curiously. "Is it okay if I use a few good old Anglo-Saxon words in front of the boy?"
Anthony grinned and shook his head. "I guess you will whether I want it or not."
"Maybe," Shellabarger admitted. "You'll have to hose down this . . . this muck and climb into the cage and feed Sammy and Sheila with your own hands. You'll have to scrub and curry the struthios and spend an hour each day with the toothed birds. They get lonely and they like someone to talk to them and fluff their feathers."
Peter found it harder and harder to breathe. The air seemed rank and gelatinous and his eyes burned. His body couldn't decide whether to be excited or terrified.
"You up for that?" Shellabarger asked him.
"Yeah," he said. He felt a little dizzy.
"Then you'll be my apprentice," Shellabarger said.
"Thanks," Peter said, gulping. He looked at his father, who was still grinning, and then swung his head around to see Dagger.
Dagger watched him now, with the same steady, needful glare he had reserved for the trainer. His throat flexed and he blew a glob from his nose through the bars to the deck. The glob landed squarely between Peter's shoes.
"You have his blessing," Shellabarger told Peter. "All right, let's get to it."
