Barrett's watch was uneventful, although he realized toward the end of it that visibility was deteriorating fast; the ship was once again steaming into the smoke pall that overhung the entire coastline. It was old smoke, stale-smelling; the fires must have burned themselves out. A good downpour of rain would clear the air, but overhead there was no hint of cloud, and stars and moon bright in a black sky.
At 2345 hours Barrett went down to call Pamela. He switched on her light and said softly, "Rise and shine." He didn't touch her, didn't go near the bunk even. As soon as he was satisfied that she was awake he returned to the bridge. He filled the electric kettle from the bucket that held the watchkeepers' ration for the night, switched it on.
He went outside, scanned the circle of the horizon through his prismatic night glasses, decided that visibility was too far reduced for comfort, initiated the switching-on sequence of the radar. After a couple of minutes' warming up the screen came alive. Barrett adjusted Gain and Brilliance controls. On the short ranges there was nothing but sea clutter. On the forty-eight-mile range the outline of the coast was just visible on the port beam, but too faint for the identification of any features.
Italian Joe clumped heavily up the starboard ladder from the boat deck, tramped through to the wheelhouse to relieve Karl. On the port wing of the bridge the lookout was handing over to his relief. Suddenly to Barrett everything seemed normal—the routine of changing watches, the kettle already boiling in the chartroom and the dry tea already in the warmed teapot. (But for how long would the fresh water last? And the tea, and the milk, and the sugar?)
Pamela came into the chartroom by the inside entrance. Barrett joined her there. Before he did anything else he poured boiling water into the teapot, switched off the kettle. He said, "I've made the tea."
She laughed. "It makes a change. It always seems to have been my job on this ship."
Barrett moved to the chart table, picked up the dividers, used them as a pointer. "Here she is at midnight," he said, indicating the penciled cross on the course line. "That's giving her log distance from p.m. stars. I've got the radar on, but there's nothing definite showing up yet." He watched the girl as she poured the tea. "The visibility could be better—we've struck the smoke bank again—but there's not much chance of our hitting anything. There's nothing out for us to hit."
"But this is fantastic," she said. "One would think that everybody, but everybody, would have tried to make his escape by water."
"Our little friends," said Barrett, "seem to have had a down on ships from the very start. Come to that, even before the balloon went up they were sabotaging all forms of transport."
Holding their cups, the man and the woman moved out to the wheelhouse. Together they looked into the screen. Save for the sea clutter and the faint, distant shoreline to port it was blank.
"What time will you want calling?" asked the girl.
"Any time at all if you think you want me. Otherwise you can pass word to the admiral to give me a shout at six. It's not that I don't trust him—or you—it's just that there's only one navigator aboard this ship. Me."
She said, "I suppose you're still camping out."
"I am," he told her. "And likely to be until—"
"Until..." she repeated softly.
"No matter," he said.
He finished his tea, left her in charge of the watch. He wasn't altogether happy about it. Legally speaking (if those words still held any validity) he was master, and responsible for the ship. And he was leaving an unqualified officer on the bridge in conditions of moderate to poor visibility. But he couldn't keep awake all the time, and there was no traffic around (nor was there likely to be any) and it was important that he be wide-awake and alert to cope with the emergencies that were still to come.
With what was almost a clear conscience he went below and turned in on the smoking room settee.
The admiral sent the lookout down to call him at six.
Barrett opened his eyes sleepily, blinked at the face of the fat man who was shaking him. The name of the lookout, he remembered hazily, was Olsen. He was a dentist. Or he had been a dentist. But what did it matter?
"All right," he muttered irritably. "All right."
"Captain, the admiral told me to tell you that we've made a good speed and that we're well ahead of the D.R. He said to tell you that the E.T.A. is 0730 hours, if not a little earlier."
"Good," mumbled Barrett.
He rolled off the settee, got shakily to his feet. He stumbled through to the bathroom, washed after a fashion in salt water, then returned to the smoking room to dress. He mounted the ladder to the bridge without any enthusiasm.
The admiral was in the port wing. He greeted Barrett jovially. "Clearing up nicely," he commented.
"So it is," said Barrett. "So it is."
To port he could see the shoreline. Inland there was still smoke—gray masses of vapor, sluggishly stirring, slowly rising—but to seaward most of it seemed to have settled on the water, fouling the blue sea with long, drab streaks of filthy scum. And there was wreckage there, too, Barrett saw. The charred hulk of a launch drifted past, and there was a yacht, dismasted, its torn and scorched sail moving jerkily in the wash of the ship like the broken wing of some wounded bird. But there were no bodies. The sharks, thought Barrett, must be well fed by now.
"I've got the islands showing on the screen," said the admiral, "although we can't see them visually yet. And I've told Mrs. Welcome—she's taken over the catering from Pamela—to rustle up breakfast for all hands as soon as possible. It's likely that we may have to send a boat away."
"What if they have taken over the islands?" asked Barrett.
"Just too bad," said the admiral. "But I suggest that anybody who's setting foot ashore dresses properly; none of this running around in little boys' trousers. I saw what happened to that patrol from H.M.S. Watson."
"And I saw what had happened to that fisherman we picked up," grunted Barrett He went to the wing of the bridge, looked at the still partly obscured land. He returned to the wheelhouse and peered into the radar screen. He went into the chartroom and compared what he had seen with the shoreline depicted on the chart. He picked up the dividers with his right hand, measured off the distances to go from the fix at 0600 hours. The admiral's estimate of the arrival time was correct.
Mrs. Welcome bustled into the chartroom, "Captain," she asked, "have you seen the admiral?"
"He's outside," Barrett told the stout, motherly woman. "Anything I can do for you?"
"It's the bread, Captain. It's finished. And we're down to the last four dozen eggs. And there's only enough bacon for one more meal."
"If you've no time to make scones," Barrett told her, "open some tins of biscuits. As for the rest of it, we shall have to start on the canned reserves and get a few fishing lines over."
"Will you be having your breakfast up here, Captain?"
"Yes. But I think the admiral will be going down to his room."
Barrett went outside again, the woman following him. He told Keane that he would be taking over. The admiral thanked him, saying that he wanted to change. He said, "Luckily your late captain was about my build."
Barrett paced up and down moodily, checking the ship's position at fifteen-minute intervals. After a while Mrs. Welcome brought him up a tray of breakfast, which he took standing, from the folding table in the port cab. The sun was well up now, but it seemed to have lost its power to warm him. He wondered what Jane was doing, told himself that he could hardly care less. He heard the sound of activity from the boat deck on the other side of the ship, went across to the starboard wing to investigate. Under the leadership of Joe the men were clearing away the starboard boat.
Barrett called down to the Italian seaman, "When you've finished with the boat, Joe, you might get both anchors ready."
He resumed his pacing.
Keane came back to the bridge. He was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt of heavy khaki drill, buttoned at the throat. The ends o
f his khaki trousers were tucked into his socks. He was wearing stout shoes. His revolver belt was buckled around his thick waist.
"Are you coming in the boat?" asked Barrett.
"Of course, my boy. I know this man Piper."
"Have you had any experience with Fleming Gear?"
"Fleming Gear? I thought that was a motorboat."
"Don't let the screw fool you. The boat's propelled by manpower, by levers geared to the shaft. You have to know what you're doing."
The admiral grunted irritably. "All right, Barrett. What's your suggestion?"
"We're the only two seamen aboard this ship, sir. Or the only two officers. Weighing things in the balance, I suppose that I'm more expendable than you are. I suggest we approach the islands with caution, look for a landing place. Then we stop and lower the boat. I take the boat away and you stand off and on, ready to get the hell out if you have to. How does that sound?"
Keane said slowly, "I suppose it will have to do. Only you don't know Piper." His heavy face cleared. "But Pamela does."
Slowly, cautiously, Katana approached the major island of the group, her engines on Dead Slow, her radar scanner rotating atop its stubby mast, Pamela in the chartroom watching the echo sounder and calling out the recorded depths at short intervals. Maloney was standing by the engine-room telegraphs. Barrett and Keane, binoculars to their eyes, were staring at the yellow line of the beach.
"There's a jetty there, sir," said Barrett.
"Yes, yes. I see it. And there, up the hillside, half hidden by the trees, a building."
"Yes. I've got it. Undamaged, too. There can't have been any fires here."
"We can't be too certain," said the admiral.
"No ... I suppose not. But there must be quite a few islands along the coast—and the other coasts—where they haven't got yet."
"They can swim," said the admiral. "At least, I suppose they can. The mutated ones, I mean."
"They can," said Barrett, recalling the things that had escaped from the burning ketch. "But there are sharks."
"I never thought I should ever have a kind word to say about those brutes," muttered the admiral. "But—"
Barrett went to the radar. He said, "Seven cables from the beach. I think we should stop."
"You're the master," Keane told him.
"Stop both," ordered Barrett. Then, "Half astern."
The ship shuddered to the vibration of the reversed diesels. Barrett went to the starboard cab, watched the creamy wash creeping forward along the ship's side. When it was directly beneath his vantage point he ordered the engines stopped again. The way was off the ship. From the boat deck big Karl called, "Lower der boat, sir?"
"Lower to fishplate level," called Barrett. "We'll man from the boat deck."
With the way off the ship there was no longer any breeze, actual or relative, and Barrett started to perspire heavily. He was dressed for the landing party—a landing party of two—in long-sleeved shirt and slacks, both of thick khaki drill, with short sea boots on his feet. He was wearing a uniform cap, to lend, as he phrased it, an official aspect to the expedition. He was wearing, too, the admiral's revolver belt. The weight of the weapon on his hip was reassuring.
Pamela came out of the chartroom. She, too, looked hot and uncomfortable. She asked, "Are the Marines ready to land?"
"If you are," said Barrett.
He escorted the girl to the starboard ladder. They looked down to the boat deck. Already the boat had been lowered to the fishplate, and already its crew was scrambling clumsily aboard—a bowman (he had claimed considerable yachting experience) and six men for the Fleming Gear levers.
"All aboard the Skylark," said Barrett with a flippancy that fell flat.
"Don't take any foolish risks," admonished the admiral.
"I shan't take any risks if I can possibly avoid it," Barrett told him.
He followed Pamela down from the bridge. Outside the starboard door to the officers' flat she turned to him. "Tim, haven't you forgotten something?"
"I don't think so," he said.
"But you have," she told him. "You know what my views are on your marriage, but I feel that you should go to see her before we shove off. After all, something just might happen to you."
"And to us," he said.
"Never mind that. I think you should say good-bye. Or au revoir or whatever. Just in case."
"All right," he said.
He went into the alleyway, walked to the door of his cabin. It was shut and locked. He hammered on it. "Jane! Jane! Are you all right?"
Her voice was cold, distant. "Of course."
"Open up, will you? I'm just taking a boat ashore and —" He hated having to introduce melodrama. "I may not be back."
"What am I supposed to do? Go down on my bended knees and beg you not to leave me?"
Nevertheless, she opened the door. He tried to kiss her, but she evaded his mouth. She muttered, "Good luck," as though she didn't mean it, pulled away from him and locked herself in again.
Barrett went out to the boat deck, caught the lifeline thrown to him by Pamela, swung into the stern sheets of the boat. He called to Karl, standing by the brake of the boat winch, "Lower away!"
The boat dropped to the water.
The big advantage of Fleming Gear is that skilled oarsmen are not required for the propulsion of a boat. There are levers, geared to the shaft so that their to-and-from motion is converted to a rotary one. There are no heavy sweeps to handle, no crabs to catch. After a slight initial confusion the men at the levers worked with a will, the boat slid easily through the still water. In the stern sheets, Barrett and Pamela looked toward the rather decrepit jetty extending from the sandy beach into the sea, alert for any movement. But there was none. The island might well be deserted. And yet the sign displayed at the head of the little pier—PRIVATE PROPERTY—was in good repair, freshly painted. And the same, thought Barrett, could be said about the building—Piper's laboratory?—that could be glimpsed through the trees.
"Harry," Barrett called to the bowman. "Stand by!"
The bowman got to his feet, holding his boat hook at the ready.
"Way enough," ordered Barrett.
The men at the levers, still pumping, looked at him with puzzlement.
"Stop pulling," amended Barrett. "And pushing," he added, just to make sure.
The boat lost way, drifted in to the jetty. There was an iron ladder at the head of it. The bowman caught one of the rungs with his boat hook, pulled the boat in. He called to one of the others to pass the end of the painter ashore.
Barrett stopped him. "No," he said. "No, don't make fast. As soon as Miss Henderson and I get ashore, Harry, you will be in charge. Get the boat out into deep water, well clear of the jetty. Stay there until you see us come back."
"And if you don't come back?" asked the man.
"If there's any trouble," Barrett told him, "you'll hear some shooting." He patted the butt of the forty-five. I hope, he added mentally.
He made his way forward, stepping carefully over the thwarts. He clambered up the ladder, whipped out the revolver as soon as he was standing on the planked deck of the jetty. Pamela, who had followed him, laughed a little uneasily. She said, "I wish I had a camera."
He said, "The United States Marines have landed. All is well."
She said, "And what's wrong with the Royal Marines?"
"Make it the Swiss Marines if you like," he told her.
"But I'm afraid that I'm not cut out to be a commando."
He went back to the end of the jetty, watched the boat backing out under the sternpower of her reversed screw. "That should do," he called. "And stay there until you see us coming back." He looked beyond the boat to the ship. She was lying there safely enough, her engines stopped, only the faint feather of her generator exhaust showing at the funnel top. Barrett could see the admiral standing at the wing of the bridge, and another man with him. He could see the figures of men and women about her decks. He wondered if Jane was
among them.
"And what now?" Pamela was asking.
"We'll investigate that building. Damn it all, there must be somebody there."
"Or something," she said.
"Don't be so bloody cheerful, woman."
Together they walked the short length of the jetty, started up the sandy path that led inland. It wound up the hillside, was bordered by flowering shrubs and creepers. It was wild, but it was evident that trimming had been carried out, and recently. And from the undergrowth came the somehow reassuring voices of birds, the flutterings of wings. A lizard started to run across the path, paused to look at them and then darted from sight.
Then Barrett clicked back the safety catch of the revolver. He could hear movement on the path above them, the scraping of feet over the sand. Of feet—or claws? The sweat on his body was suddenly cold, clammy. He motioned Pamela to get behind him. She ignored the unspoken order.
The woman came around the bend of the path, paused to inspect the purple blossoms on one of the vines. She was wearing sunglasses and sandals, and a bright beach towel slung carelessly over one shoulder, the colored stripes of which were in vivid contrast to the dark tan of her skin. In spite of her nudity she conveyed the impression of slender elegance.
Suddenly she looked around and down, stared at the intruders. So self-assured was she, so clothed in her hauteur, that Barrett felt as though he were naked and she fully dressed.
She demanded, "Can't you read? Don't you know that this is private property?"
"But," began Barrett, "this is important."
"It had better be. Who are you? And what do you want here?"
"At least," said Barrett, "they don't seem to have reached here yet."
"Who haven't reached here? You have, that's obvious." She stared at the badge on Barrett's cap, the company's house flag with its surround of golden laurel leaves. "You aren't Navy, even. Are you playing at pirates, or what?"
"If you'd just let me explain," persisted Barrett.
"There is neither explanation nor excuse for wanton violation of privacy."
Pamela stepped forward. "Then we apologize. And, believe you me, we envy you your rig of the day." She was unbuttoning the throat of her shirt as she spoke. "We aren't dressed up like this just for the fun of it. And it's vitally important that we see Dr. Piper at once."
The Hamelin Plague Page 10
