The Hamelin Plague

by A Bertram Chandler

  "But who is?" asked Hall.

  "Or what is?" countered Barrett.

  The Old Man laughed briefly. "You must have been reading some of the third mate's rubbish. But it's all very .... odd. And frightening. This sort of general breakdown. Of everything. Transport. Communications." He dropped fresh ice cubes into the glasses, refilled them. He asked, "What do you make of it?"

  "A sort of revolt of the animal kingdom?" said Barrett slowly. "Suppose they're just tired of being pushed around by us and have started fighting back. A control cable in the fuselage of a passenger plane gnawed through; or holes chewed in the sprinkler fire-extinguishing system of a big building; and the tires of the fire engines in the local fire station shredded just to improve matters."

  "Fantastic," said Hall, but without conviction.

  "Yes, isn't it? But it's time somebody came up with a few theories. About the hazards of air travel, for example. Last week's crashes—that Electra over New York—probable cause, starlings in the works. That Viscount at Eagle Farm—probable cause, pilot error. That other Viscount over Botany Bay—pilot error and/or atmospheric disturbance. That Boeing between Calcutta and Karachi—but need I go on? Eight crashes at least, and the experts have tried to work out a different cause for each one. Wouldn't they have been better advised to try to find some common factor?"

  "Sabotage," said the Old Man doubtfully.

  "Yes. But by whom? The Chinese had a run of bad luck with their Viscounts not so long ago, and the Russians have suffered a few really spectacular crashes." He said, half seriously, "Let's face it, They are out to get us."

  "Damn it all!" exploded the captain. "Who the hell are They when they're up and dressed? And it's not as though aircraft were the only victims. There are still too many unexplained fires at sea."

  "It reminds me of Wells," said Barrett. "H. G. Wells, the writer. That odd phrase he used just before his death. 'The terrifying queerness that is creeping over things...'"

  "H'm," grunted Hall. "Maybe he had something. And I'll tell you something, Mr. Barrett; and you can make what you like of it. If any terrifying queerness starts creeping over things when I'm within cooee of my happy home— well, Mum and the kids come first, I come second, and the ship's an also-ran." He added, "Not that anything will happen."

  "I hope not," said Barrett.

  "It'll all blow over, same as the Cuban crisis."

  "I hope so," said Barrett.

  "Cheerful bastard, aren't you? Well, I'll pour us one for the road and then you can retire to your scratcher."

  "I shan't be sorry," said Barrett. "It's been a long day."

  It had been, as Barrett had said to Hall, a long day—but the three days of the passage from Tasmania to Sydney were even longer. All of Katana's people had hoped that the ship would berth at a reasonably early hour on Sunday afternoon, but the combination of fresh northerly breezes and, latterly, a strong southerly set had been too much for the small, underpowered vessel. Once past Gabo she crawled.

  Northward she crept, along a coast that was veiled by day by the drifting smoke of brush fires, that by night was a dark foreground for the ominous, ruddy conflagrations inland, the hundreds of square miles of blazing forest and scrub, the funeral pyre that was far brighter than the twinkling lights of the coastwise towns and villages.

  Said Barrett, when the Old Man wandered up to the bridge during his watch on Sunday evening, "The brush fires are bad this year, sir."

  "I've seen 'em worse," grunted Hall, but without conviction. He said, after a pause, "I heard on the news that a couple of towns inland have had to be abandoned."

  "It would be a change to hear some cheerful news," said Barrett. He took his binoculars from their box, raised them to his eyes and stared out at the hazy horizon ahead and to port.

  "Any sign of Cape Baily?" asked Hall.

  "Not yet. Not dark enough, even if it were sufficiently clear to pick up the light at full range. But I thought I might see the gas flare at the oil refinery."

  "You've got the radar," said Hall.

  "Yes, sir, but I thought it as well to give it a rest. The odds are that we shall need it inside the harbor."

  Hall leaned on the forward rail of the bridge, puffing moodily at his cigarette. He asked suddenly, "Do you feel edgy? I do. As edgy as all hell. Something's going to happen; I can feel it in my water."

  He looked up at the sky, at the few bright stars that were barely visible through the haze. "How do we know that there isn't something up there with our number on it? Some dirty great rocket with a nuclear warhead, plunging down through the stratosphere, homing on Sydney."

  He threw his cigarette to leeward, lit another one. "No. That's not the feeling. Have you ever been in a ship that's had a mutiny? I have. When I was a pup I was on the China Coast, and I was third mate of this little cargo-passenger vessel, and we carried a Chinese crew, of course, and a few hundred deck passengers.

  "Oh, I suppose it was piracy rather than mutiny; most of the deck passengers belonged to one of the pirate gangs. But almost the entire Chinese crew was with 'em, so it was mutiny too. And long before the fun and games started we, the officers, knew there was something cooking. You can imagine what it was like; you weren't properly dressed to go on watch until you'd belted on your forty-five, and you wouldn't dream of turning in unless the pocket artillery was parked under the pillow."

  He added glumly, "Not that it did much good."

  "Any casualties?" asked Barrett politely.

  "Just the master and the chief engineer. They had the company's interests a little to much to heart. And that taught me my lesson, one that I've never forgotten. As they used to say in sail: One hand for yourself, and one for the company, and the best hand for yourself."

  "But this mutiny idea," began Barrett. He was still sweeping the horizon with his glasses. He ejaculated, "There she is! We must be well inside. It's on the starboard bow."

  He went up to the standard compass on monkey island to take a bearing, and then, after he had jotted it down on the chartroom scribbling pad, went back into the wheelhouse to switch on the radar. While he was waiting for the set to warm up he gave an order to the helmsman, altered course until the ruddy flare was broad on the port bow.

  The whine of electrical machinery abruptly changed in pitch—the radar was ready for use. Barrett brought the heading marker to the ship's Head Up position, adjusted Gain and Brilliance. He could see the familiar coastline, realized that the ship was not inside her track. But there was something out there; something on the same relative bearing as the ruddy light that he had seen—a small, fluorescent blip.

  He called out to the captain, "It's not the oil refinery. It seems to be a small craft. Range just over three miles."

  "And on fire," said Hall, who had his own glasses focused on the unsteady light. "Or in distress. Better call out the hands for the accident boat."

  But the launch had gone down by the time the Katana reached the spot, and all that remained was a circle of oily, steaming water, slowly spreading and dispersing. Even so, the boat was lowered and taken away by Barrett. By the light of his torch he could see no floating wreckage, nothing that would be a clue to the identity of the burned-out and sunken craft. He was about to return to the ship when he heard someone call, feebly.

  It was a man, barely afloat, barely alive. As gently as possible the seamen pulled and lifted him into the boat. Barrett knew that nothing could be done for him in such cramped conditions, and he made his way back to Katana with all possible speed. The lifeboat was rehoisted and swung in; the man was passed down to the waiting stretcher and hurried into the officers' bathroom. The second mate, as acting medical officer, took charge while Barrett saw the boat secured. He was back on the bridge, talking with Captain Hall, when the Second came up to report.

  "I couldn't do anything," said the young man, his voice strained and uneven. "I couldn't do anything. He just died, and he was lucky he did.

  "What do you mean, mister?" asked Hall sharp
ly.

  "It could have been sharks," gabbled the second mate, "but it wasn't. It couldn't have been. His shorts were still on. I saw the bleeding there, so I pulled and cut them off him, and he's all eaten away there—just raw flesh. And he wasn't dead then, and he looked down at what had happened to him and started to scream; and then he must have known he was going because he calmed down and whispered, 'but we got the little bastards. They fried, just as they'll fry when they go back to the hell they came from.'"

  "What did he mean?" asked Hall slowly.

  But nobody was able to answer him.

  Barrett went down to look at the dead man. As the second mate had said, his injuries were shocking, sickening. He tried, without success, to find some identification, but there was none. The shorts—the only garment—were of drip-dry material and there were no laundry marks. The only thing in the pockets was a sodden box of matches. Barrett reported to Hall, who made his own report to Sydney Harbour Control on the VHF transceiver—time, location and a physical description of the corpse. Barrett had the body transferred to the officers smoking room and covered with a sheet and then, his watch being over, stretched out on his settee to try to catch a nap before arrival.

  But he could not sleep. There was a pattern, he knew; some design behind all the disasters of the past few weeks; those that he had witnessed himself, those that he had read about and heard about. But what was it?

  He was still awake when the third mate came down to call him, fifteen minutes from the Heads.

  From the bridge Barrett watched the glimmer of the bo's'n's torch as, on the fo'c's'le head, the petty officer cleared away the anchors. The Old Man had told him not to go for'ard until the ship was just off the berth. Barrett could tell that Hall was still tense, more uneasy than ever, and wanted an experienced officer with him as long as possible.

  Speed had not yet been reduced, and at all twelve knots Katana proceeded up the harbor. There was little traffic at this late hour—a Manly-bound ferry, a couple of launches, that was all. Surprisingly, there were no yachts. The night was clear, with only the faintest suggestion of haze along the shoreline. The moon, just past its full, was at the meridian. The wind had dropped.

  Up the harbor steamed Katana, her twin diesels throbbing steadily. To the south, inshore from Double Bay, Barrett could see the blinking red light atop the block of home units that was being constructed not far from his house. For a long time he had regarded it as his own, private beacon. He wondered if Jane was asleep. On the starboard bow the flashing green light on Bradley Head was showing up, and beyond it the riding lights of a couple of ships at anchor. And there was the flashing white at Fort Denison.

  "Quiet enough," grunted Hall. "The calm before."

  "I can see the weather beacon now, sir," interjected the third mate. "Steady white lights. Fine weather."

  "That wasn't what I meant," muttered the captain.

  And what did you mean? asked Barrett wordlessly. What did you mean? Do you, like me, find this calm ominous? But what is there to make anybody so uneasy? Dead dogs, and dead cats, and a mutilated child and an even more horribly mutilated man, and a series of unexplained, inexplicable fires—ships and buildings, forests and oil wells—

  The bridge was in view now, massive yet graceful, its sweeping lines picked out by the lights of the roadway. Barrett realized that Bradley Head was well abaft the starboard beam now. "What about finishing the passage, sir?" he asked. "And reducing speed?"

  Hall said, "I'll not reduce yet"

  "But—"

  "Don't you want to get home tonight?" exploded Hall. "The harbor regulations..."

  "Damn the regulations!"

  There was the bridge, the neon diamond marking the center of the span directly ahead. There was the bridge and there, below it, to eastward of it, were the pleasant waterfront hotels and blocks of flats at Kirribilli, lights still showing at a few of the windows. Then Barrett thought, Something must have disturbed those people. Perhaps our wash, or the noise of our engines.

  But the new lights springing into being behind the big windows were flickering, faint and unsteady at first, red and orange—and then flaring blue and yellow. And the roaring of the flames was becoming audible even as they steamed past—the roaring of fire, the tinkling and crashings of heat-shattered glass, and, worst of all, the screaming. And the wavering, terrifying glare was reflected from the underside of the huge girders beneath which the ship was sweeping, and then from the fantastic minarets and from the huge, laughing face that was the harbor entrance to Luna Park, to the west of the bridge.

  And Luna Park exploded abruptly and shockingly, quivering tongues of fire outlining the trestled, latticework hills and valleys of the Big Dipper even as, only a short hour or so ago, they must have been outlined with light bulbs and neon tubing. Then a new sound made the night hideous; some freak of the fire set into operation the machinery that was designed to appeal to the ears of the fun seekers, and peal after peal of idiot laughter rolled out from the gigantic, blazing face across the still waters of the harbor.

  "Sir," the third mate was pleading, urgently, desperately, "shouldn't we stop? Shouldn't we try to help? Shouldn't we—?"

  But Hall ignored him, still went on giving his helm orders in a low, steady voice, all his attention devoted to the conning of his vessel. A dense curtain of smoke descended on the ship. "Mr. Barrett," he called briefly, over his shoulder, "keep an eye on the radar, will you?"

  Barrett obeyed. He was stunned by the enormity of what was happening, was glad to have some task to occupy his mind. He found a dim sort of comfort in watching the screen, the retina of the electronic eye that perceived only the outlines of shore and ships and jetties, that ignored the mounting flames, the billowing smoke. But, even in the corner of the wheelhouse, he cringed from the wave of heat that surged out from the Circular Quay, and heard the whistle of some big ship at the Overseas Passenger Terminal bellowing like a great beast in agony.

  "Where are we now, Barrett? Where are we now?" Hall was demanding urgently.

  "Off Walsh Bay," replied the mate.

  "I'd put in there, but I can see the flames. Even through this smoke."

  "We're heading straight for Miller's Point now."

  "Starboard a little, starboard a little," ordered Hall. "How does she look?"

  "We shall pass clear," reported Barrett.

  "Steady, now. Steady as you go. Do you see that flashing red light? Too much smoke? Then steer by compass."

  "Number Five almost abeam to port," called Barrett.

  "Anything there?"

  "Can't be sure. Yes. All the berths are occupied."

  "The smoke's clearing now," Hall was saying. "There's the Pyrmont Bridge. Christ! What a bloody mess! Some silly bastard must have tried to get out before the span was open!" Hall addressed the third mate. "Your eyes are better than mine. Can you see the linesman's launch yet?"

  "No, sir."

  The captain laughed bitterly. "Always the bleeding optimist, that's me. Sydney going up in flames, and I expect the linesmen to be hanging around waiting for me. Then, to the chief officer, he said. "You can shut down the radar, Mr. Barrett. There aren't any fires at this end of the harbor, and I can see where we are."

  Barrett turned down gain and brilliance controls, then switched off. He went out to the port wing of the bridge. The telegraph pointers, he noticed, were on Stop, although the ship still had considerable way on her. Hall pointed to the berth. With the almost full moon, and with the glare of the fires to the eastward reflected from the pall of smoke overhead, details stood out clearly. The captain said quietly, "It is my intention to lay her alongside, starboard side to. Have a man ready to jump down to the wharf to take the lines."

  Said Barrett, "There won't be much point in putting out much."

  "Of course there won't. I've got a home to go to, and so have you, and so has every man jack of the crew. Tell 'em to put out eyes and bights and shoulder wires and back springs, and I just hate to think of
what they'll tell you."

  "All the same, sir, I think we should—"

  "Get for'ard!" roared Hall. "Get for'ard and help me to get this bitch alongside as soon as is humanly possible. You can tie her up with a couple of rope yarns for all I care."

  Barrett looked to the fo'c's'le head, saw that the crew were already at their stations, then ran down from the bridge.

  CHAPTER 5

  With an economy of engine movement that was beautiful to watch, Captain Hall laid the ship alongside the berth, killing her way by going Full Astern just as long as was necessary and not a fraction of a second longer. From the waist the ordinary seaman and one of the A.B.'s jumped down to the planking, the youth then running forward and the older man aft. From fo'c's'le head and poop the heaving lines snaked down, and to them were bent the ends of the Manilas. Hastily, hand over hand, the volunteer linesmen pulled the heavier ropes down to stringer level, then threw the eyes over the most convenient bollards.

  Barrett saw them running to the wharf gate as soon as this task was accomplished. There was nothing he could do about it. He gestured to the bo's'n at the windlass controls, saw the slack taken up on the mooring line. When the Katana was hard alongside he ordered, "Make fast on the drum end." He might as well have saved his breath; it was obvious that the men had no intention of wasting time transferring the Manila from the warping drum to the bitts.

  Down the ladders to the foredeck they streamed and then, clambering over the bulwarks, dropped to the wharf decking. And they were not the only ones involved in the hasty abandonment. From his vantage point at the high stem Barrett saw the tubby figure of Captain Hall running toward the wharf gate, closely followed by the ungainly, gangling chief engineer. And the two cooks were there, and the chief steward and his assistants, and most of the engine-room crowd.

  And what am I doing here? Barrett asked himself.

  He realized he was not alone, that Joe Mollucca—middle-aged, fat, lazy, yet utterly reliable—was standing beside him. He demanded, "What are you doing here, Joe?"