“I haven’t made your acquaintance,” he said, nodding his head. Smith glanced at the lupines, who both sat politely, smiling up at him. He liked dogs and even had one of his own at home. In general, if they were well behaved and, uh, continent, he had no objection to people hiding them out in their cabins. As the captain, he had to enforce rules but chose which ones were more important than others. His mind revealed he already knew we were friends of Morgan, and like most people, he was prepared to be annoyed at our special designation. But so far, reports had shown us to be quiet, well mannered, and asking for almost nothing from our kind steward, Charles. So, Smith had no issue with us.
As Peter went through the routine of introductions coupled with marveling over the beauty of the ship and professionalism of the crew, I stared out at the ocean. Having Peter along fed my lazy side, and it was nice to let him ramble on, seducing Smith in the manner of our kind, with gentle and interesting discourse. While they chatted, I could let my mind wander to other subjects. I’d been on ships in my long life, but never had I been on a vessel as large or with anything close to the opulence offered on the Titanic. I hadn’t been idly flattering Andrews when I told him I couldn’t feel any roll or movement of the ship. Yes, the sea was calm, but there were always waves that pushed against the hull as we plowed towards the west. It was getting late in the day, and the sun began to sink towards the horizon, becoming deeper orange as it drifted down to kiss the edge of the ocean. The reluctant light became entrapped in the water, and as I gazed back at the direction from which we’d traveled, the fire from the sun flickered, caught in the disruption the ship had made to the water, leaving a path of red and yellow streaking towards the east. One of the second class passengers, Lawrence Beesley, had described this phenomenon in the book he wrote after the sinking. His words were elegant, painting the perfect picture, while my feeble ones seemed awkward and clumsy in the back of my mind. All I knew was that it was beautiful. There was no land mass visible; I caught my breath at the isolation and loneliness. Kipp, sensing my mood, pushed closer, the warmth of his shoulder against my thigh.
“I love you,” he reminded me.
I knew he was pulling me from having thoughts that were counterproductive to our mission. It was all too easy to let one’s mind drift to what would occur in a few days, and meeting people such as Andrews and Smith only compounded those notions fraught with emotion. I looked down at Elani as she sat politely next to Peter, who was engaged, once again, in a discussion over the innovative low pressure turbine engine. Turning her head, she smiled at me, as only a lupine can do.
“I love you, too,” she directed at me.
“Ditto back to both you guys,” I finally replied with a lopsided smile.
“And Petra just loves our suite, Captain,” Peter was saying. “So very kind for us to be treated in such a fabulous manner,” he added.
Smith didn’t care that we’d displaced Ismay and actually thought it all rather funny. He had no need for people to monitor his job performance, which he knew quite well after so many years of experience. In addition, Peter’s humble expressions of gratitude were refreshing. Many of the elites expected excellence and were apt to pick out tiny flaws over which to obsess. Smith was another one who would inspire speculation that was endless, although he did go down with the ship, in the tradition of past captains. Was he intoxicated on the night of the sinking? Or did he, perhaps, allow Ismay to influence his decisions in order to break speed records and ignore the warnings about icebergs ahead? The competition between the White Star Line and Cunard was intense and unrelenting. We might pick up on some of the truth behind the speculations, but I wasn’t overly confident. On the night of the accident there would be so many distressed thoughts, it might be difficult to tweak out those of a single individual. But we would try.
Our tour complete, we returned to our cabin. The steward had promised to bring us some dinner later, and Peter and Elani were planning to go to the men’s after dinner lounge in hopes that Littleton would appear. As we rested on our personal promenade deck, I sat back, my eyes half shuttered closed, while enjoying the ocean air that streamed the length of the room, mildly hypnotized by the sway of the potted palms as the breeze touched them. The air carried with it the scent of the sea…organic, complex, and a little alien.
“Why would Smith have not slowed down?” Elani asked. She’d picked out a pleasant place on the floor and was lying on her side. Her neck was arched in a modified U so that she could see us.
“Who knows?” Kipp replied. “From my studies, his contemporaries followed a similar practice, which was to go full speed and just rely upon lookouts as well as warnings from other ships in the vicinity to spot for danger. So, he may have just been following the standard routine in place at that time. And based upon the hearings that were conducted to analyze the event, icebergs were not something that deterred ships; the crews merely watched for them and avoided them.”
“But in April, 1912, the climate was different, and the air was colder than usual. As result, the icebergs drifted farther into the shipping lanes than was typical,” Peter opined. “You’d think that everyone would have been more cautious. Or, at the very least, post more lookouts.”
“But there was something else at play on that night,” Elani said as she shifted from one side of her body to the other. “Because of the cold air temperature, there was the phenomenon of super refraction–which has been documented by ship captains for quite some time—where the light waves are bent due to cold air. The survivors described a flat calm, so there would be no water breaking on an iceberg, and the sea was close to freezing, the air was dense. With the refraction greater than usual, it created mirages, and possibly explained why the lookouts couldn’t see the iceberg as well as why the people on board thought the California was closer than it was in actuality.”
Kipp glanced at her and thumped his tail. She and Peter were the youngest of our quartet, but Elani was obviously determined to make her mark. It was good to see her speak up with such confidence. She’d obviously been studying to nail the atmospheric conditions and resulting issues. I wasn’t smart enough to figure out about refraction, super or not, and was happy Elani’s intellect was superior to my own. Kipp would have simply passed such things off as being due to my laziness, but perhaps I just wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I happily accepted my limitations.
“Well, all of those elements contribute as to why the Titanic has lingered with people as a mystery that just can’t be solved,” I said, sighing. “It’s in the nature of humans to assign blame. Maybe there is no one factor, and it was the perfect storm of events that came together at that one pivotal moment.”
The steward, after knocking politely, rolled in a little caddy that was piled with dinner fare. I had no interest in the meat selections, which seemed opulent, but there were sufficient vegetables for me to pick out enough for satiation. Kipp, initially, pulled back his lips over the scent of pickled herring, but after sampling one, wolfed down several more. I think he would have eaten an old shoe if it were boiled long enough to soften the leather.
“Good stuff,” he remarked, nodding his head as Peter piled more on his plate. Elani tried to be polite and not stare.
We subsequently retired to our rooms and rested for a few hours until after the late formal dinner was served and first class passengers were free to meander and hobnob. I helped Peter don his tuxedo and watched fondly as he and Elani exited to make their way to the First Class Smoking Lounge. Peter’s excitement, although tamped down to a manageable level, was balanced by Elani’s calm confidence. It was the way of our kind.
“Kipp, I’ll need your help so that I can focus on Peter, Elani and Littleton amidst all the activity,” I requested. It was true we could pick up on thoughts over a reasonable distance, but it became more difficult with many people present. Peter and Elani would ping on our symbiont radar, but, frankly, I wasn’t good enough to get the job done. Kipp was my superior, and I was glad to ha
ve him.
From the back of Kipp’s mind, it seemed, I followed him as he connected with Peter and Elani; the sensation was odd, almost as if I was a voyeur, staring at the tableau from their eyes. They entered the smoking room from the glass revolving door that softly thumped as it turned; the air was already thick with cigar smoke, and I felt Peter suppress a sneeze as the sharp odor tickled the back of his throat. I could visualize the dark, mahogany paneled walls and deep leather chairs that invited one to sink in comfort and read or enjoy a brandy amidst talk of wealth and power. There were lead glass panels that allowed the glow of soft, amber light into the room as well as small, marble topped tables scattered across the fine carpet. Everything mimicked the best men’s club amenities that society could offer. At several green baize covered tables, men were hunched over cards, playing bridge as well as poker. The emotions of the humans ran the gamut from pleasure and contentment to jealousy and competitiveness. A couple of men were sunk in the leather arm chairs, reading, their thoughts immersed in the books being consumed. They, perhaps, were the happiest, lost as they were in their own worlds and the ones created by the minds of authors.
“There’s more than one man in this room who’s a card sharp, looking to get easy money from rich men who think they are clever and unbeatable,” Elani remarked, her thoughts merging with ours. I glanced at Kipp in the semidarkness of our room. We were nestled together on the bed, enjoying the coolness and silky feel of the red bed cover that draped over the sides of the frame. Kipp pushed closer, his chin buried on my chest. In moments of quiet, I fancied I could hear the ocean outside as it scraped along the side of the ship. I could have easily gone to sleep except Kipp would use the point of his chin to rouse me from time to time.
“Not our problem,” I remarked, yawning, in response to Elani’s thoughts of disapprobation. “Stay focused,” I added unnecessarily.
That room contained some of the most famous men in the world confined in one small area, drinking brandy, laughing, and puffing on expensive cigars, as the air became heavy with big talk full of polite braggadocio circling amidst blue gray clouds of smoke. More than one of the men turned to glance disapprovingly at Elani, who took her cue and left Peter’s side to curl up unobtrusively in a far corner behind a leather arm chair. It only took a second for her to be lost, as the men returned to their cigars and brandy. Peter wisely avoided the spirits and, instead, took a hot lemonade while accepting a fine cigar offered by an impeccably dressed steward who, in different times, could have passed as one of the swells in the room.
“I didn’t know you smoke!” I hissed in the back of Peter’s head. I had valid concern that he might become nauseated at the taste of the cigar, and all we needed was for Peter to vomit on the fine woven carpet in the middle of the smoking lounge.
“You don’t have to know everything,” he replied tartly and with more than a little indignant attitude. “I took up the cigar before we time shifted so that I could tolerate this. And, no, I don’t care for it and plan on dropping the habit as soon as I get home.” After a pause, he pleaded, “Please don’t tell my mother.”
Kipp giggled, and I had to shush him. We didn’t need Peter to lose his focus. The next moment, I felt a pleased “aha” moment as Peter spied Littleton, who was sitting off to the side of the action, pretending to read a book. Peter actually negotiated the room quite well, managing to reply to queries from some of the men present, before casually approaching Littleton, who glanced up, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He nodded, recognizing Peter from the earlier encounter in the library.
“Not really my cup of tea,” Peter remarked softly. When Littleton didn’t answer, Peter added, “I don’t fit in with this crowd and never had much of anything until as of late.” He managed to convey the manner of an uncouth young man, awkward in his new found wealth. “Do you mind if I join you in this quiet corner?”
Littleton really didn’t want his company but nodded his head and placed the book he was reading across his lap. Reaching to the marble topped round table, he picked up his half finished brandy and took a sip. Good, I thought. Maybe a little alcohol would loosen him up.
“I see you’re reading Owen Wister’s biography of Ulysses S. Grant,” Peter remarked. “An amazing man,” he added.
“Yes, he was unassuming, and people who didn’t know him often failed to recognize his potential,” Littleton replied. As he said it, he smiled inwardly, thinking the statement also fit him. “It is a shame his presidency was marred by scandal.”
“What do you think President Lincoln saw in him?” Peter asked, sitting back comfortably now that he had Littleton engaged. He was feeling pleased that he had managed an initial hurdle with little effort. Elani, from her vantage point, quietly applauded her man.
“Well, if you read the accounts, Lincoln went through a succession of generals who he just could not motivate to engage the enemy. In Grant, he found an aggressive bulldog who was not afraid of battle.” Littleton took another sip of brandy. His face was slightly flushed from the effects of the alcohol as well as from the heat of the only functioning fireplace on board the Titanic. “American history is interesting to me as a man from England,” he added. “You are our cousins who started out a bit rough but have managed to finish nicely,” he said, raising his brandy in a mock toast. His controlled voice veiled the sarcasm behind the remark.
“Well, I just took my first trip to England, and it is a beautiful country,” Peter replied, trying to nudge Littleton to reveal his political ideation. “The people seemed very happy and prosperous,” he added cleverly, just to push the emotional envelope.
Littleton, who was more guarded than most, found his lips loosened from stress and liquor and took the bait. “It may appear beautiful, but like all other societies, there are flaws.” He glanced around the room, his mouth tightening as his brows drew together in a dark line. “The wealth is in the hand of a few while others suffer.” He glanced at Peter, his eyes slightly unfocused. “There is no social mobility, nor is there fairness.” Although he kept his words and attitude mild on the surface, his thoughts were roiling with anger and agitation. This was a very angry man.
“Yes, I quite agree with you, Mr. Littleton. My family, although not poor, struggled for years with a small business.” Peter managed to convey a conspiratorial attitude as he glanced around the room at the world’s elite while lowering his voice and tilting his head towards Littleton. “This travel is only by a fluke and certainly won’t ever be repeated. I’ll return home to take my place behind the counter of our store and try and sell dry goods.” He laughed softly. “I think I’ll enjoy this cigar while I can.”
Littleton believed Peter since there was no need not to. His plans had been revealed to no one, and there would be no reason for anyone on board the Titanic to be suspicious of him. Soft laughter, cultured and restrained, echoed in the room. There was no boisterous display as the men were on their best high society behavior with one another.
“Perhaps you might like to join me and my sister for tea?” Peter asked. “We feel so uncomfortable on board with no friends.”
Littleton squirmed, not wanting to accept but also trying very hard to fit in and not pull attention his way. Finally, he blurted out a lame excuse that he’d not been feeling well and stood, preparing to leave. He’d had more than enough of Peter’s society at that point and pardoned himself, walking to the revolving door, his gait slightly unsteady, where he disappeared, moving towards the Grand Staircase.
“Petra, he left his book behind! This gives me an opportunity to return it to him,” Peter said, excitement in his thoughts.
“Nicely done,” I replied, meaning it. Peter obviously had learned restraint and subtlety, two sterling–and necessary–qualities for a symbiont. My hands found Kipp’s large, upright ears, which I gently tugged before kissing the side of his furry face. He was tired after having to act as an amplifier for us. His eyes were shut, thoughts guarded. I realized he did that when he needed to regene
rate and rest, so I let his mind drift from mine. Actually, we both fell asleep before Peter and Elani returned, triumphant, from their evening with the elite of society.
Chapter 21
“I still smell like smoke,” Elani complained, crinkling her nose and baring her teeth as she touched her gray fur with delicate nostrils flared in displeasure.
“Yeah, you stink,” Kipp replied undiplomatically, pretending not to notice when her ears drooped at his abruptness. “Peter, you stink, too.”
Peter laughed softly at Kipp’s unsolicited assessment and retreated, without a word, to the bathroom to freshen up. He’d fallen into bed the previous night–no, make that early morning–after a night of smoking and trying to engage Littleton. He did smell like the burnt out end of a stale cigar. As the lupines feasted on breakfast, I nibbled on some thick toast, upon which I’d smeared fresh butter that was of just the right spreading consistency. A tiny crock pot of jam with beads of condensation trickling down the smooth sides of the glazed pottery rested on the table top. The scent of fresh roses, brought by Charles that morning, filled the private promenade deck with a sweet fragrance that offset the sharp saltiness of the ocean.
“Pear preserves,” I said, almost moaning. Not caring that I looked like an uncouth heathen, I licked the spoon clean.
“Hey, let me try some of that stuff,” Kipp demanded, sticking his big head up into my face. I complied, balancing a sizeable wad of preserves on a crust of bread and holding it out. Carefully, he pulled his lips back from his teeth and took the morsel. He smiled inwardly as the sweetness hit the back of his tongue. “We need to get some of that stuff for the house when we get home.” His tail wagged at the thought of food.
Peter rejoined us, his hair still damp from a bath. He’d shaved, tidying up his facial hair, and his cheeks had the look of smooth baby’s flesh, all clean shorn and gleaming. Sitting at the table, he nodded as I poured him some coffee from the carafe. Charles, thinking we Americans would prefer coffee to tea in the morning, was doing his best to please. I missed Fitzhugh’s Earl Grey, but that was in another time, another place.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 23
