The Hamelin Plague

by A Bertram Chandler

  "Now," said Keane. "Let's have it all again for Mr. Clarendon's benefit."

  "It started," said Pamela, "when Tim said something about the Pied Piper of Hamelin. And I remembered, quite suddenly, a Doctor Piper whom we used to know well. It was when he was working for the Admiralty as a civilian scientist. He used to be a quite frequent visitor at our place. And then he fell out with the high brass, and the last I heard of him he'd set up his own laboratory on some island."

  "I didn't think he was off the beam myself," her uncle said, "but most of the Board did. Frankly, I just didn't like the weapon he was trying to develop."

  "Uncle Peter specialized in gunnery," said the girl. "And as far as he's concerned, the sixteen-inch naval gun is the finest flower of our so-called civilization."

  "We should all be much happier if it were still the ultimate in weapons," said the admiral. "Anyhow, this thing of Piper's was a death ray. Not maser or laser or whatever they called this light-beam affair, but a sonic death ray, affecting the brain only."

  "But that would be ideal," squeaked Clarendon. "Set the thing so that you have a wide beam and you could clean up the ruins of the cities in next to no time. Just to make sure, you could flood the sewers with poison gas afterwards. No trouble at all. No trouble."

  "We don't know," said the admiral, "if Piper ever perfected his device. We don't know if he's still alive, even."

  "We can find out," said Barrett. "Can you remember where he set up his laboratory?"

  "One of the Broughton Group," Keane told him.

  "Hm. Just north of Port Stephens, aren't they? Trouble is, we have nothing in the way of large-scale charts north of Newcastle."

  "You've got radar," said the admiral. "And an echo sounder. You've more than Captain Cook ever had when he first came out this way."

  "Captain Cook had cannon and muskets," retorted Barrett, "even if they were only muzzle-loaders. I'd feel happier with a few weapons before I start standing inshore."

  "But I thought we'd established the fact that conventional weapons were useless against the rats."

  "True, true. But I doubt if the mutants have established complete control over the entire coastline—and I doubt still more if there's any semblance of law and order. This ship will be a tempting prize to any fishermen turned pirate—as a means of transportation and for the sake of her cargo and stores."

  The admiral pulled the heavy revolver from its holster, looked at it affectionately. He said, "It's many years since I used this."

  "My heart fair bleeds for you," said Barrett.

  The admiral glared at him.

  "Now, now," chided Pamela. She said briskly, "All right. In spite of Tim's objections, it's obvious that we must go hunting for Doc Piper. But I see Tim's point. A couple or three fishing boats, their men armed with rifles, could prove quite a serious menace to us." She said to the admiral, "After all, Uncle, you must realize that this isn't a man-o'-war."

  "You dazzle me, my dear," he said stiffly, "with the blinding glimpse of the obvious."

  Somebody was knocking at the door. It was a young man from among the survivors who had been posted on lookout duty on the bridge. He was carrying a message form. After looking at all three men he handed it to Barrett, the only one in uniform. Barrett took it, glanced over the typewritten page.

  "What is it?" demanded Keane.

  "Moscow and Leningrad have been bombed," Barrett said slowly. "With hydrogen bombs."

  "So it is war."

  "No—wait." He rear slowly: "Newscast from unidentified short-wave station. It is reported that the Russians have bombed both Moscow and Leningrad with thermonuclear weapons, and have called upon other major world powers to deal similarly with their own cities, claiming that it is there that the leaders of the rat rebellion must be. In a broadcast, President Wilberforce—lately Vice President— of the United States said that he would not consider taking such a step, mainly because of the strong probability of there still being human survivors among the ruins. From A.P. headquarters somewhere outside Detroit it is reported that a series of explosions has shaken the U.S.A., and that most of these are believed to be in the vicinity of rocket-launching sites. There is, as yet, no confirmation of this. Meanwhile—" Barrett handed the paper to the admiral. "That's all there is. He must have broken off suddenly."

  "It's obvious," squeaked Clarendon. "Obvious. They have put the rocket-launching sites out of commission. They have the cunning of rats and the intelligence of men."

  "Do you think the Russian plan will be effective?" Barrett asked the admiral.

  "It might be," said Keane cautiously. "It might be—if they had enough bombs for all their cities. But I think that the same happened in Russia as in America. The bombs on Moscow and Leningrad were two that didn't get sabotaged."

  "Aren't you supposed to be keeping a lookout?" Barrett asked the youth, who was still lounging outside the door, listening to the conversation.

  "But there was nothing in sight when I came down."

  "You'd better make sure there's nothing in sight now."

  "But—"

  "Get back on the bridge. That's an order."

  Grumbling, the young man slouched away, muttering something under his breath about brassbound bastards who thought they were Captain Bligh.

  "One of your crew?" asked Keane.

  "No," snapped Barrett. "One of yours. I told you I had only two ratings aboard, and both of them are highly reliable."

  "Then why aren't they on duty?"

  "Because they're catching up on their sleep. I shall want them on watch and watch, steering, as soon as we get under way."

  "You're the master," said Keane. "Or the acting master."

  "Might I suggest," put in Pamela, "that we do something about getting on our way for Piper's hideout?"

  Barrett finished his drink, got to his feet. "All right," he said. "I'll get up top and lay off the course. The D.R. shouldn't be too far out, and I shall be able to get a radar fix as we close the land. And you, Pamela, can give Mr. Ferris a shake. You know where his cabin is. Tell him we shall want the main engines as soon as he can let us have them."

  On the bridge somebody was shouting and jerking frenziedly at the whistle lanyard. Above the clamor sounded a sharp explosion, then another, and another.

  "Rifle fire!" ejaculated Keane.

  There was a scream, and the whistle no longer sounded an erratic succession of short blasts, but was emitting a sustained, mournful bellow.

  The admiral, revolver in hand, pushed Barrett to one side and ran out on deck.

  There were three fishing vessels, and they had taken advantage of the light breeze to approach Katana silently, ghosting along under stained and tattered canvas. One of them was already alongside to starboard and the boarding party was clambering from the wheelhouse top over the ship's bulwarks. The other two were standing off, one on either side of Katana, and it was their riflemen who were opening fire on anything that moved on Katana's decks.

  Keane was shouting something, but Barrett could not hear what it was for the bellowing of the whistle. The dead lookout still clutched the lanyard in his stiff hand, his weight dependent from it. There was already a pool of blood on the white deck-planking.

  Keane shouted again and his forty-five crashed, the noise of its firing shockingly loud even among the general commotion. And from the fishing boats there was a ragged volley, and bullets whined overhead, and others punched holes in the brightwork of the bridge apron and shattered the windows of cabs and wheelhouse. The whistle had stopped now, and Barrett noticed that Pamela had succeeded in pulling the dead man away from the lanyard, was bending over him as he lay sprawled on the deck.

  The admiral, standing in the wing of the bridge, loosed off four more shots in quick succession. He remarked, as much to himself as to anybody, "Got two of the bastards. The others thought better of it."

  Calmly, ignoring the fire from the fishing boats, he pulled a handful of shells from the pocket of his shorts, started to
reload his pistol. Almost absent-mindedly he turned to his niece and to Barrett. To Pamela he said, "Better get below, girl, under cover. You can't do anything for him." And to Barrett, rather maliciously, he said, "Well, Captain, your ship's being attacked. What are you doing about it?"

  Barrett flinched as a fresh volley came over. A bullet, deflected by a stanchion, whined scant inches past his ear. He said, "I intend to get the hell out of here. As soon as possible. But you can't start a big ship the same way as you can a motor launch."

  "I know that, young man." The admiral fired a couple of rounds at one of the boats that, now using its engine, was once again approaching the ship. He said, "I like a good revolver. Trouble is, it's accurate at short ranges only."

  "I will stand by der vheel," said a heavy German voice. "Der third engineer I haf seen. He say der engines not ready yet are. And Joe I haf told der passengers to keep below."

  "And you keep down yourself, Karl," said Barrett. "You're a big target." He addressed Pamela. "Better get below yourself and lend Joe a hand. Make sure that everybody's behind steel and not in line with a port."

  "And what now, Captain?" sneered the admiral. "You've got all hands under cover, except those who're working the ship. Your engines won't start. Furthermore, I haven't an unlimited supply of ammunition."

  "Fire hoses," said Barrett slowly.

  "Good," said the admiral. "Now you're beginning to think. A fire hose would be ideal for repelling a boarding party, as long as the man behind the hose wasn't being shot at with something more lethal than cold water."

  Casually he raised his pistol again, snapped off another shot. A string of curses drifted across the water, down the light breeze. "That," remarked the admiral, "will teach you not to come too close."

  Barrett walked slowly into the wheelhouse. He wanted to hurry; even though the wooden structure would not stop a bullet it gave some illusion of protection. He told himself that the fishermen were poor marksmen, that the killing of the lookout had been a matter of luck—or of bad luck. He told himself that, but he didn't quite believe it.

  His shoes crunched on broken glass. Every window, he saw, was shattered—and the fact that he would no longer be able to fill in and sign a Requisition for Repairs and Renewals form suddenly assumed a heartbreaking importance, looming larger on his mental horizon than the breakdown of law and order, than the piracy on the high seas.

  He paused as another volley came over, then picked up the engine-room phone.

  "Ferris?"

  "An' who else would it be?"

  "How soon can I have the engines?"

  "As soon as I get these starting valves fixed. The damn things were down for overhaul this time in Sydney."

  "Can you give me any idea?"

  "No. An' the longer ye keep me yappin', the longer it'll be." There was a pause. "Anyhow, what the hell's happenin' up there?"

  "Just a slight set-to," said Barrett, "with a few fishermen who think they're more entitled to the ship than we are."

  "I'll be as fast as I can," promised Ferris. "I'll ring Stand By as soon as I'm ready."

  Barrett put down the phone, reluctantly went back to the wing of the bridge. He saw and heard Keane fire again, and again. He watched the fishing boats slowly circling the ship, just outside effective revolver range, listened to the puttering of their motors. He looked at the body of the inefficient lookout sprawled on the planking, looked down to the foredeck at the bodies of the two fishermen crumpled just inside the bulwarks. He was aware that somebody was speaking to him. It was Maloney. He was saying, "But this is piracy. I've sent out distress calls, but there's been no reply."

  "Captain," called the admiral, "what is our situation?"

  "As long as you can hold 'em off until Ferris gets the engines started," said Barrett, "we're all right."

  "And if I can't?"

  There are knives in the pantry and in the galley, thought Barrett. There are marlinespikes. We haven't got any belaying pins, and we haven't got any cultlasses, but we'll try to repel boarders with what we have.

  "And if I can't?" snapped the admiral. "Damn it all, Barrett, surely my revolver isn't the only firearm aboard this ship. Do'ye mean to say you haven't as much as a toy pistol?"

  "Yes, we've got a pistol," snarled Barrett. It was himself he was furious with, not the admiral. He ran to the box at the after end of the starboard wing of the bridge, the large, zinc-lined box with MAGAZINE stenciled on its canvas cover. He fumbled with the lashings and then pulled out his pocketknife and slashed through the line. He threw off the covers—the new one on top, the old one underneath. He flung back the lid.

  Inside the box were the ship's fireworks—the distress rockets that threw aloft their parachute flares, a dozen each of red and blue lights. And there were other rockets there, heavy affairs, silver-painted, each with its bridle from which depended a short tail of asbestos-coated line.

  And there was a case, which Barrett lifted from the magazine. Occasional bullets were still singing overhead, but Barrett ignored them. He was no longer a helpless spectator, relying for his safety, and that of his ship, on the admiral's marksmanship, on Ferris' engineering ability. He unsnapped the catches of the case, opened it. He took from it the big dangerous-looking pistol, the weapon (although it was not designed for use as such) that had something of the appearance of the old-time blunderbuss. He laid the pistol on the deck, took out the red tin in which were the cartridges. He tore the lid off one of the trays of line packed in the hollow lid of the case, pulled out a couple of fathoms of the heavy, flexible cord, cut it off at that.

  "But that's your line-throwing apparatus," the admiral was saying.

  "I'm not throwing the bastards a line," snapped Barrett. "Only just enough line to keep the rocket steady, from coming back at us." He was bending the two fathoms that he had taken from the tray to the bridle of one of the six-pound rockets. Then, with the point of his knife, he pierced the sealing disc at the venturi.

  Quickly he loaded the pistol, sliding the trailing end of the rocket into the barrel so that the bridle hung below it. He opened the breech, slipped in the cartridge, snapped the breech shut. He walked to the side of the bridge with the weapon at the ready, his left hand on the grip above the long barrel, his right hand on the pistol grip. His thumb found and pulled back the hammer.

  He was making a target of himself. He was aware of that, but a line-throwing pistol is not a thing that can be fired furtively, from behind cover. If it is to be effective— for its proper purpose or as a weapon—the man using it must be in the open, clear of obstructions, and able to take proper aim. So Barrett was exposed to the fishermen's fire and already had felt the wind of a bullet on his left cheek, had felt another one plucking at the right sleeve of his shirt. But he was now in a position to shoot back, and that made all the difference.

  About five hundred feet distant was the fishing boat—not far for accurate revolver fire. Three of the men aboard her had rifles, and they were using them. But Barrett was determined not to spoil everything by undue haste. He knew that the correct elevation for the pistol was thirty degrees; and he knew that this applied only when the intention was to throw the line over the target. He estimated that at this range, and with no weight of line on the tail of the rocket, the trajectory would be almost flat. Carefully, he depressed the muzzle of the pistol, hoping that the rocket would not slide out. Katana was lying stern on to what little wind there was, and the rocket, influenced by the length of line bent to the bridle, would tend to come up into the breeze. But this, Barrett hoped, would be counteracted by deflection, or aim-off. He thought wryly, I hope none of those bastards gets me before I've finished making my mind up!

  He pulled the trigger, staggering with the recoil of the cartridge. The back blast of the rocket scorched his hands and bare forearms. Straight and true, the missile roared through the air, trailing orange flame and dirty white smoke. They were yelling aboard the fishing boat and there must have been some frantic, last moment attempt
to take avoiding action, and there was a loud, even at this distance, crash of shattering glass, and more shouts and screams.

  "Nice shooting, Barrett," the admiral was saying. "Nice shooting. Got him smack in the wheelhouse!"

  "Where are the others?" demanded Barrett as he ran back to the open magazine to reload.

  "They haven't seen yet what's happened. Ah, here comes one round the bow now."

  Barrett was reloaded and was ready for action again. His second shot was not so lucky as the first had been, but it was good enough. It struck the fo'c's'le of its target and threshed madly around in a pile of gear, like something living and vicious. There were nets there, and ropes, and they were dry, and before the cordite propellant of the rocket was burned out they were ablaze.

  The admiral had found a megaphone. "Do you want any more, you men? We're always ready to oblige!"

  Said Barrett, as he reloaded. "You'd better tell them to watch their language. There are ladies aboard this ship."

  And then, at long last, came the jangling of the engine-room telegraphs, the bells that signaled Stand By. Barrett dropped the pistol, ran to the nearest telegraph, and took hold of the handles, and rang Full Ahead on both engines. There was the chuffing as the pistons were impelled by the starting air, and then the first explosions as the vaporized fuel in the cylinder heads took fire. There was the vibration—a slow rhythm at first, then faster and faster.

  "Sir," called Karl. "Vot der course is?"

  "Steer north," ordered Barrett.

  "You could ram," suggested Keane. "After all, they started it."

  "No," said Barrett, although not without regret. "No. I'm a civilian, as you've told me enough bloody times, and I'm entitled, legally, to use force to resist attack, but that's all."

  He looked at the fishing boats now dropping astern—the one he had hit in the wheelhouse was also burning, and the undamaged one was taking men off the other two. He looked at the unlucky, would-be pirates, and at the body of the young man who hadn't believed in taking orders, and then at the other bodies on the foredeck, the remains of men who had been too ready and willing to believe that the law of the jungle now prevailed.