Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  “I’m not picking on you. I want to find out what has happened to the water!”

  “Well, tain’t me.” She was about to go below when Bette moved swiftly back to the cockpit. She grasped the girl’s shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about it?”

  “Leggo my arm!”

  “Answer my question!”

  “I ain’t touched yer bleedin’ water!”

  Bette did not answer; she grabbed the girl’s hand, and before Sandra realized what she was doing, sniffed her skin. “You’ve been using soap—my soap!”

  “Leggo!” The girl was struggling now, but Bette’s grip tightened. “Answer! You’ve been using my soap!” I had never seen Bette so angry.

  “Wot if I ’ave?”

  “Just this—that soap is no good with saltwater, so you must have used fresh!”

  Now it was Bill’s turn; his face was a dusky red. “Is that true?”

  Sandra turned on him, spitting the words out venomously. “Yes, it is bleedin’ true! It’s my water, came from my boat. Who are yew to tell—”

  “You—you stupid, selfish little bitch, I’ve a good mind—”

  Bette pushed him back. “Leave this to me.” She thrust Sandra down the hatch. “We’ll discuss this down below.” After they had gone, Bill really cut loose on the subject of Sandra, but he’d scarcely got started on a general outline of her character when he was stopped by a screaming howl from below, followed by a flow of appalling language which stopped abruptly with a crack that made Bill wince. For two or three minutes it sounded like a major battle. We made out Bette’s voice raised in real anger, but mostly it was Sandra’s yells and flow of invective that reached us. Finally there was silence, and Bette came on deck, her face pale with rage, and a fair-sized scratch down one cheek.

  “What’s happened, honey?” I ventured.

  “Something that should have happened years ago!” she snapped, and returned to her work.

  Sandra did not appear for lunch, and when Karen suggested hesitantly she might take her a sandwich, Bette cracked down on the idea fast. “No! Not a goddam thing until I say so! And lock the galley up!”

  For once in his life Bill was out of his depth, and said nothing.

  It was a very subdued Sandra that Bette allowed out for supper. Her eyes were red, her face puffed and livid, but the eyes were undefeated. If looks could have killed, we’d have all been stiff in seconds, but Bette would have been stiff first.

  By that time we were experiencing our first bad weather since the voyage down to San Diego. Mayfly was jumping around, and just before sunset we reefed down for the night, the wind increasing to nearly a full gale. The reduction in our canvas made no difference to our speed. Bill’s chief anxiety was the patch, and he set up hourly checks on the bilges, but there was no sign of a leak. We plunged south in the strengthening storm, but since Sandra joined any speed would have been too slow for us.

  After the water incident, Bill cut the ration to a pint each, and that, in the tropics, is not funny. Suddenly, Pago Pago loomed very large in our minds.

  I don’t think any of us had given much, if any, thought to what would happen when or if we survived the waves. Now, I for one, wanted the trip to end. The cohesive force of the SARAH threat had held us together. With that gone, we were slowly falling apart, but the process was obscured by the presence of that nasty, impossible girl. In that sense she was invaluable.

  After her “crash course” with Bette, she was a lot more careful, especially if Bette was around. Even if she had been the nicest doll in the world, the situation would have been loaded against her, for with five people on board, Mayfly was crowded, there was no privacy at all, no chance to talk over personal matters. But Sandra was a genius at riling people; anywhere we would all have loathed her, and in a small boat our dislike reached an intensity that would appear ridiculous ashore, but is all too easy to achieve in the close confines of a yacht.

  The next morning we did get a bucketful of rainwater from our collecting sheet, but it was heavily contaminated with spray. We tried making coffee with it, but it was barely drinkable. By the afternoon the wind and sea had moderated. Better still, we got a real tropical downpour. Bette, who had the watch, immediately called the rest of us. Happily we splashed about, filling buckets, containers, even the washbasin. Sandra roused herself and helped. Our spirits rose, and even Bette, soaked to the skin and unable to join in because she was steering, unbent to the extent of telling Sandra she could have the water in the washbasin.

  Sandra, mistakenly thinking she detected weakness, sneered, “Sure yew kin spare it?”

  Bette let go of the tiller, took one quick step forward and loosed a terrific backhander across the girl’s face. Mayfly, out of control, flew up into the wind. The sudden movement upset a bucket of water I was balancing on the cabin top. I let it go and grabbed the tiller, bringing the yacht back on course.

  Sandra stared at Bette with hate-filled eyes, one hand nursing her cheek. Whatever else, the girl had spirit. “If I get the chance, I’ll bleedin’ do yew!” She spat full in Bette’s face.

  Bill was down below, Karen was on the cabin top, and I had the tiller. None of us could interfere, or had much inclination to do so.

  Like lightning, Bette lunged forward. With one hand she grabbed the girl’s hair, and with the other she hit her, once, twice, forehand, backhand, as hard as she could. Sandra’s nose was bleeding. Screaming with rage, she clawed at Bette’s face, aiming for her eyes, leaving another furrow down Bette’s cheek.

  Bette jerked the girl’s head back by her hair, caught her one final staggering crack, and thrust her backward down the hatch. There was a hell of a crash.

  Bette turned away, her breasts heaving, dabbing at her cheek. “Mitch, sort it out, will you? If I go down there I’ll kill the whore!”

  Bill was involved, underneath. Sandra scrambled to her feet, groggy, blood over her face and shirt. I grabbed her shoulder.

  “What the bloody hell’s going on?” demanded Bill.

  “Skip it,” I advised, pushing past with the battered Sandra.

  “Leggo o’ me!”

  “Don’t worry, I will!” I shoved her, none too gently, into the head, grabbed some soap and a towel, and hastily withdrew. From the relative safety of the doorway I spoke. “Grow up, Sandra! Keep your trap shut! We all hate your guts, and you’ve got Bette fighting mad! Get cleaned up— and only use that water in the basin. Remember, we’re a long way from anywhere, and you don’t have to arrive!”

  God knows, it was an empty threat as far as I was concerned, but I was not at all sure about Bette. Sandra turned on me, leaning against the basin for support, snarling, showing her sharp, pointed little teeth. “Yew! Yew half-baked ponce! Git back ter that fat-arsed ole bag of yourn before I ’av yer balls for beads!—orf!”

  I left hurriedly. I might be kidding, but she wasn’t.

  It was a relief to get back to the deck and the torrential rain. Bill and Karen went up forrard, Bette and I stripped in the cockpit, and we all reveled in bathing with unlimited water. Had this happened ten, or even five days earlier, we would have been happy, even gay, despite the threat that then overhung us, but now…. Washing Bette’s back, I noticed nail marks on her neck. There was no doubt about it, Sandra was a tough little broad with a lethal tongue. Finishing Bette’s back, I decided Sandra was wide of the mark with one of her thrusts. Biggish, yes. Fat, definitely no.

  /Not surprisingly, Bette and Sandra remained in a state of alert readiness with each other, and the rest of us tried to avoid any dangerous confrontations between them. Sandra must have realized she was out on a limb, and modified her attitude to Bill and myself, and particularly Karen. She became reasonably helpful in the galley, even did an occasional chore without being told. It was the final, infuriating twist that she had a quick and intelligent mind when she chose to use it.

  Radio reception remained bad for all stations except Sydney. With the end of the waves—their final d
ying kick devastated New Zealand’s North Island—somewhere down in the Antarctic wastes, the hourly news flashes ceased, and we usually got only one bulletin a day. That was enough.

  The situation in the States was chaotic. California, with San Francisco and Sacramento gone and L.A. and San Diego severely hit by the waves, was near mortally wounded. Oregon had suffered immense damage from the waves, but little from the gas. The Midwest was patchy; some areas were untouched by the gas, but practically all had been hit by the unparalleled storms the gas cloud trailed in its wake. The astonishing increase in plant growth had been of little use; wrecked by disease and storms, many had been completely ruined. There would be no surplus this year. Further east, places touched by the gas cloud, mainly eddy areas on the lee side of mountains, had been depopulated. The national death toll was estimated between fifteen and twenty million. The civil defense organization was at full stretch, dealing not so much with the living as the dead….

  Europe was making frantic efforts to prepare for the onset of the gas. In Britain, all private transport except the handful of electric cars was banned. All oxygen-burning plants, including power-generating stations, were prepared to shut down at an hour’s notice. The population had been instructed to make their houses airproof. Local warnings would be issued if necessary. The old and the sick were being evacuated as fast as possible, mainly to Africa. Throughout northern Europe the unauthorized extraction of oxygen from the atmosphere, and the destruction of any green plant was punishable by death. As in the States, people were being exhorted to grow anything green. In London and Paris it was a serious offense to walk on the grass…. All games played on grass were prohibited. Schoolchildren were even encouraged to grow mustard and cress on flannel….

  Those last few days seemed interminable. The weather was more often bad than good, but the wind was favorable, and we did not ask more than that. Once we saw an airplane; otherwise the sea and sky were empty. We sighted several atolls, but with our water position pressing, we did not waste time on them.

  On the eighth morning after the waves we sighted Tutuila, a black lumpy mass to the south, and by midday the other islands in the group were visible.

  Exhausted, sick of our food, tired of the cramped life on the yacht, and heartily sick of Sandra, I gazed at Tutuila and got a fair insight into the Israelite state of mind on sighting the Promised Land. We might still be a long way from civilization, but on one point Bill was utterly determined: this was where little Sandra got off.

  In the late afternoon we rounded the eastern end of Tutuila, and entered the magnificent harbor of Pago Pago. Once inside those encircling hills, the wind eased, became variable. We got the sails off Mayfly, and motored hopefully toward a concentration of huts and buildings on the north shore. Beside a jetty a large, immaculate Stars and Stripes flapped lazily from a white painted mast. The USN was in residence, and the base appeared to be undamaged.

  As we neared the jetty, a chief petty officer, with the self-contained calm of CPO’s the world over, strolled out of a hut and watched us. The sight of the British Red Ensign aroused his interest.

  “What ship?”

  “Mayfly of London, England! Last port of call Honolulu!” bawled Bill with considerable satisfaction.

  That shook him. “Hon—Honolulu!”

  “Correct!”

  He had difficulty in answering. “Ho—hold it, right there! Don’t go away!” He shot back into his hut. Seconds later two sailors came out at high speed, and took our lines as we came alongside. We bumped gently on the fenders and Bill cut the engine. We had arrived.

  Bill smiled. “Well, we made it!”

  Bette, coming aft, looked at him, and her expression was pure pain to me. “Yes, Bill, we made it—thanks to you. You’re the most marvelous sailor ever!” And then she kissed him.

  What was there for me to do, or say?

  We had scarcely made fast when a jeep screeched to a halt beside us, and a commander and a lieutenant climbed out. Bill jumped ashore, and the three shook hands. The lieutenant was casting swift, appraising glances at our collection of women. He was not the only one; sailors seemed to pop up out of the ground. Karen, whose short hair was a mess, and she knew it, bolted below. Bette and Sandra were made of much sterner stuff, and both had straight hair anyway.

  “My chief says you’re from Honolulu!”

  Bill agreed.

  “But how—” the commander stopped. “Well, that, right now, hardly matters. Any assistance we can give—”

  “That is most kind, Commander. I do have a few problems. My crew, by the way, is healthy, no infectious or contagious diseases. I have three women and one man aboard, three of them US citizens. We started back in San Francisco—”

  That attracted the attention of the lieutenant as well. The senior officer’s astonishment deepened. He turned to his young officer. “Lieutenant, go fix the rest-house!”

  Reluctantly, the lieutenant left.

  The commander explained. “We have a small rest-house for guests, and I don’t doubt you’d like to get ashore for a spell.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Bill. He was being so British, you could practically see the Tower of London. “Would you care to come aboard?”

  The commander said he would indeed care, his natural curiosity reinforced by several sharp glances at Bette.

  Over cans of beer, introductions were made, and Bill gave a short account of our voyage, including the picking up of Sandra. She was on her best behavior, sitting very still, drinking her drink, watching points very closely from behind her hair.

  Bill ended smoothly, “Miss Bates, although British, is of course a survivor and I would appreciate it if you could arrange for her transfer to the charge of the nearest British consul.”

  “Sure!” The naval officer smiled genially at Sandra. “Don’t worry, little lady, we’ll take care of everything.”

  She pushed her hair back, gave a quick smile, and looked down once more at her drink. Stars have got Oscars for less.

  “Well,” said the commander, slapping one knee, “my jeep should be back. It’s at your disposal to take you— when you’re ready. I would be honored if you would all be our guests for dinner tonight—don’t worry about dress.”

  No one could have done more for us. The rest-house, a single-story affair overlooking the harbor, had a veranda facing the water, and the rooms opened off that. Bette and Karen shared one room, Bill and I another, and Sandra had a room to herself. The sight of those clean Navy beds, with trim blue-and-white coverlets, was the finest thing I’d seen in weeks.

  Shaved, showered, and dressed in our crumpled shoreside clothes, Bill and I waited on the veranda for the women. Their drip-dry dresses had fared rather better than our suits, and they looked very good. Ever kindhearted, Karen had lent Sandra one of her dresses, and the alert and very attentive steward, drafted in from the wardroom, had, in true Navy style, rustled up from somewhere a pair of sandals that fit Sandra.

  It was a very successful evening. There were only seven officers, all delighted at the sight of our women, whom they treated like visiting royalty. Sandra was the surprise. She blossomed out, displaying a ready, bawdy wit that went over big. Two young lieutenants, if not exactly captivated by her, quickly appreciated her potential, and I foresaw that her interrupted education was likely to be resumed with the minimum of delay. Even more likely, it could be the other way around.

  We were split up for dinner. Bill and Bette sat on either side of the commander, and were in turn flanked by the executive officer and the doctor. I sat between the exec, and a lieutenant. After weeks together, we were all glad to be among new faces, new voices.

  The exec., a serious-faced two-and-a-half striper, was deeply interested in my account of our voyage, and there are few better reasons for liking a guy than that he should be interested in what you have to say, so I liked him.

  After dinner, we all drifted out onto the patio, and the conversation became less one-sided. He told me
all the latest terrible news from the States. I learned that even here, the long arms of SARAH had reached out. Native fishing craft had been lost, and the capital, Pago Pago, was crowded with refugees from Hawaii, flown in by the Navy. The exec, summed up the tragic tale: “A lot of young people have been protesting for a better world, a better country. Now they’ve got their chance to build it.”

  What with all that, and the situation on Mayfly, plus the feeling of flatness, I must have absorbed more drink than I realized. What I had been saying I don’t recall, but I do remember what the exec. said. We were way past the polite stage of conversation; he was “Earl” and I was “Mitch,” I knew all about his wife and kids, now evacuated to Mexico, and he had the complete rundown on Sandra. Maybe I was going on about Suffren when he cut in.

  “Okay, Mitch, okay! So you ran away! If you hadn’t, the chances are you would now be dead—and what good would that have been to anyone? This professor you talk about, he said to get out—right? Right. Your next step is the important one. That’s up to you, but to me the answer is loud and clear. You sidestepped this almighty disaster, and you owe it to someone—” He waved vaguely at the stars—I wasn’t drinking alone—and went on. “Someone—perhaps that professor—or the country—hell, even yourself—to go back.”

  Which is what I thought he’d say, and why I was listening and remembering it.

  I was leaning on the rail of the patio, smoking a large cigar, thinking with half my mind about Bette and Bill and everything….

  “Yeah, you’re so right, Earl, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But how do I do it?” I pointed toward the yacht. “Life there is kinda complicated.”

  “Complicated, my right foot! You’ve got a guilt complex ten feet tall, and you’re never going to unload that until you go back, and the best way to do that is to just go! I don’t know what the hell your personal situation is on that boat, although I might hazard a very reasonable guess, but whatever, you have to go. The boat situation will take care of itself, believe me. You go, and I,” he tapped himself on his chest, “I am the man to fix it. This National Reconstruction Corps has A-l priority; even men in the armed forces, key men, who have the right technical knowledge, are being released without relief. That’s why our mess is so thin. Six have gone back this week. We have an R3Y due in here the day after tomorrow. Say the word, and you have a seat right back to Navy base, San Diego.” San Diego! A whole lifetime back. I sighed. There was no point in hesitating, no point in a lot of things, now…. “Okay, Earl, I’ve said the word. Just one thing: no mention of this to the rest of the crew.”