Ichiko came closer, and glanced absently through the panel in passing. ‘I’ll give you something,’ he said. Through the panel Porter saw the carts had suddenly stopped and small bulbs on the console were flashing. ‘It’s only coffee,’ Ichiko said. He was filling a mug from a flask. ‘No drink allowed.’
‘Ichiko, something has happened below. Are you supposed to do anything about it?’
‘The robots do it. A drill broke and they’re replacing it. They look after themselves, they doctor each other. They’re cleverer than we are. Here,’ he said, and gave Porter the mug.
‘Aren’t there any workers here at all?’
‘A small shift in the day. They sharpen parts, take away what’s been done. At nights it’s just the robots and me.’ He sneezed and blew his nose. ‘Johnny?’ he said suddenly. He was blinking at him. ‘What do you want here?’
‘I came to see you.’ Porter smiled at him, relieved at the abrupt return to sense. ‘I have to go to sea again, Ichiko. I need some advice.’
‘Leave it alone. That’s my advice.’
‘It’s just for a short while.’
‘You said you were going to the Ainu in Hokkaido.’
‘I went. This is something else.’
‘Another one of your projects?’
‘Yes, another one.’
‘Ah.’ Ichiko looked through the panel and pressed buttons on the console. Below, the subdued row began again. ‘Where are you going?’
‘North, the Arctic’
‘Your Eskimos, eh? Well, best regards to them,’ Ichiko said. He screwed the top back on the flask.
‘Ichiko,’ Porter said. He was glad to see the old robustness back, and he took the enlarged photograph out of his pocket. It was folded small and he opened it out. ‘It’s one of the Yakamoto ships. Remember, you did some trips with them?’
‘Stay away from the bastards. They’re dangerous.’
‘One trip only. But I don’t know the deck gear, Ichiko, the derricks. Take a look here. Maybe you can make it out.’
Ichiko peered at the photo.
‘Make it out? This is the bitch that took Kenji’s arm. Kenji – that fine boy, you remember?’
‘Kenji?’ There were many Kenjis.
‘The whistler, eighteen years old. He helped me catch eels. His first trip on the ship and they put him on this! They gave him nothing for the arm. I tell you – stay away, it’s a killer.’
Porter looked again at the photo. It was one of the last of the roll, among the shots he had thought obstructed by workmen, but it had come out the clearest.
‘Ichiko, what’s so bad about this derrick?’
‘What’s so bad? It cripples you! It belongs in a museum! See how it happened with Kenji,’ Ichiko said, and picked up a piece of pencil and began drawing on the back of the photo.
But he didn’t draw for long and he didn’t explain for long, his animation suddenly expiring. ‘No, I don’t know. I forget. I don’t know anything any more. There isn’t any more.’ He opened the door and the hellish uproar returned. ‘Just stay away from it, I tell you!’
‘Ichiko, a single second!’ He held the man’s arm and tried to close the door but Ichiko resisted. ‘About the greasing again – just once! You said with the greasing –’
‘I don’t know about greasing. I don’t know anything any more. Leave me alone now. Let me go,’ the old man said, and put his muffs on.
Porter followed him down the stairs and through the tumultuous blackness to the slit of sky in the wall.
‘Ichiko, I’m sorry!’ he shouted. But Ichiko couldn’t hear him any more; and at the hangar door when Porter held his hand out he didn’t seem aware of that either, for he put the safety bar on and turned away.
It was still early, not yet eleven, when he got out of the train in Tokyo. He crossed the station forecourt, and made for the side door of the Lucky Strike. No one inside, and he entered quickly. But the indicator showed the elevator descending, so he took the stairs, and let himself into room 303, with a sigh.
All as he had left it, his business suit on the bed, his wig in the wardrobe. From the wardrobe he took the bottle of rye and poured himself one, and drank it. Then he poured another, and sat and looked at the photograph and at the pencilled markings on the back.
Yoshi wanted him to return tonight. He had promised to call when he got back from Yokohama. Well, he would call; but he wasn’t going back tonight. Tonight he had to think. It suddenly struck him that this was the fourth of the four nights he had booked at the Lucky Strike. A figure produced at random, but the right one. This was somehow an omen.
He drank his whiskey and called the house. Yoshi answered and he told him what he had to tell him. Then he hung up. It was a few minutes to midnight.
At just this moment, as it happened, the Suzaku Maru, under floodlights, was slipping out of the dry dock at Nagasaki.
17
For the first two days of September the Suzaku Maru steamed steadily through the Sea of Japan at her customary rate of nine knots. She had left behind the southern island of Kyushu and was hugging the mainland coast of Honshu. The weather was very fine and the bosun took advantage of it to turn the hands to painting ship. The hurried departure had left no time for this in harbour, and he knew her leprous appearance would produce rough treatment from the dockers at Niigata. She was in poor enough shape already.
Eight hours before Niigata the captain radioed his expected time of arrival, 1600 hours, and asked for his berth.
Would he require bunkering facilities?
No, he wouldn’t; he would be refuelling at Otaru.
He was given the berth, and went off watch. He had stood the night watch himself for he intended to sleep the rest of the day. He knew he would be up all night: the loading at Niigata was the main one of the trip and he meant to keep an eye on it.
Also his stomach was out of order. There had been much nervous excitement before he had got out of Nagasaki, and several back-handers to various officials. He knew the ship was not in the pink of condition, but there was ample time ahead to rectify what was wrong and work in both ship and crew before they reached the Arctic.
He had taken breakfast on the bridge. Now he went below to the officers’ heads, the small convenience he shared with the mate, and eased himself before going through to his cabin. He looked over the loading plan before turning in, and also initialled the note left for him by the mate authorising a six-hour shore leave for the off-duty watch.
At 1600 hours, exactly to timetable, the ship nosed into harbour, and an hour later, as unloading of wool commenced, the four off-duty men, in their best rig, trooped down the gangway and set off jovially for Taki’s place. This was the first of a round of places, just outside the dock gates, and it was usual to sink a glass in each before finally tumbling into Yasu’s. Yasu’s was the ultimate place, an enormous cellar, the liveliest and most popular of all among the seamen. Madame Yasu was herself enormous, the widow of a sumo wrestler. In his retirement her late husband had given exhibitions to the clientele, and the establishment was still known for its entertainment. At Yasu’s you could eat, drink, sing along or accompany certain of the girls upstairs, where they served as efficiently as at table: there was always a steady turnover of talent at Yasu’s.
By seven-thirty the jovial four had arrived there. The place wasn’t yet crowded and a table was promptly found for them. It was found for them by the very latest talent, and they took an immediate interest in her. For one thing she was a pert and pretty little thing, and for another she had taken an immediate interest in them, eagerly hurrying forward as they stood grinning and swaying on the entrance balcony. She efficiently took them in tow, shepherded them down the steps, and got them seated.
Madame Yasu watched the young woman’s work with approval. She liked enthusiasm in a girl, and this one was very enthusiastic. Following house etiquette, she first of all gave her own name, which was Toyo, and then invited theirs as she whipped round the menus. And
she was coquettish. She avoided the groping hands but still managed a playful pat for each of them as she took their drink orders. But in serving the drinks, as Madame Yasu noted with a frown, she was less than perfect, for in announcing the names and setting down the glasses she managed to upset one, leaving a disconsolate sailor without. She rectified the accident quickly enough, and gave him an extra big one, together with a contrite little peck on the cheek while he drank it, so everything passed well enough. All the girl needed was more experience.
From the off-duty four there were no complaints. Toyo was a little beauty – not unfortunately available for duties upstairs but very willing in all other departments. The place was famous for its seafood, and she swiftly served up helpings of sashima, all fresh, raw and glistening, with seaweed and noodles, and rice amply drenched in soy sauce; together with several more drinks, not one of which the bright little girl spilled again.
By a quarter to eleven, in good heart and voice, the off-duty men were staggering back inside the dock gates and wending their way to the Suzaku Maru. She was bathed in floodlight and loading was in full progress. On the bridge the captain watched the containers swing aboard. On the deck the bosun watched his paintwork.
*
By ten o’clock next morning she was at sea again and settling to her stately nine knots. Not too much damage had been done to the deck works, so the bosun put the men over the side. His best chance of getting an Arctic sea coat on her lay between here and Otaru, two days away. It couldn’t all be done in the time, but beyond Otaru the weather would worsen, so he kept them at it for long hours, ignoring all grumbles; except, in the late afternoon, from one of the hands who had to be pulled up in his cradle on the grounds of feeling dizzy and unwell.
The bosun looked at him as he came up. ‘Dizzy and unwell? Of course you’re dizzy and unwell, you prick. You got pissed last night.’
‘I got pissed last night,’ the man allowed, ‘but it isn’t that. I’m not right, bosun.’
‘What’s up with you?’
‘I’m just not right.’
He wasn’t right. And he didn’t look right. He looked green. His teeth were chattering. The bosun told him to turn in for a spell. But over supper, with the engineer, the bosun was again called to the man. He had fallen out of his bunk and was shaking about so much it was a job to hold him back in it.
The bosun went to see the mate.
‘Who is he?’ the mate asked.
‘Ushiba. Seaman first class. He was ashore last night.’
‘What did he eat there?’
‘Fish. Shellfish.’
‘Ah. Food poisoning.’
‘All the others ate the same.’
‘Yes, it’s chancy, seafood. Give him castor oil.’
The effect of the castor oil was to throw the man into convulsions, and at ten o’clock the captain was sent for. By then Ushiba was vomiting black and his colour had deepened. He was still shaking violently and in a high fever. The heat could be felt radiating off him from a distance.
The captain returned to his cabin and reached for his Mariner’s Medical Dictionary. He went slowly down the list of fevers until he found the matching symptoms. At these his eyes bolted. But he read doggedly on through the rest of the fevers before returning to the fateful one. Then he reached for the voicepipe and asked the mate to step below.
‘Where’s this fellow been to?’ he asked.
The mate failed to understand the question until he too read the symptoms. Then he got out the crew records. Ushiba had last been in Java waters – East Timor. Two other members of the Suzaku Maru’s crew had been there with him. All three of them had been drunk and disorderly, and Ushiba had fallen into the harbour. The ship’s captain had paid a hefty fine for them all before being allowed to leave port the same night, 28 July.
The mate looked at the calendar. It was now 4 September and he counted the days from 28 July, He made it thirty-eight. Then he looked at the Mariner’s Medical Dictionary again. Under Yellow Fever (Jav) (rare) the captain’s finger still held the place: Incubation period – 14 to 42 days: highly infectious. At thirty-eight days the sick man was within the incubation period.
By midnight, Ushiba was locked up in the after heads. This tiny toilet and shower, shared by the bosun and the engineer, had the advantage of being over the engines, so not much noise could be heard from it. None at all was now coming from Ushiba. He had been injected with a strong sedative. The mate and the bosun had waited for the crew to go to sleep before strapping him to a stretcher and carrying him through the fore ends.
There was not enough room for Ushiba to lie flat in the heads so the stretcher had been wedged at an angle, with his feet under the shower and his head over the toilet hole in the floor.
An anxious conference had taken place between the captain and the mate. Nothing seemed wrong with the other two men who had been to Java, but only Ushiba had actually fallen in the harbour. Obviously, he had to be put ashore in Otaru. But just as obviously the ship must not come under suspicion there – the shortest delay could abort the entire voyage.
At a further meeting, joined by the bosun and the engineer, some other matters were agreed. The latter men would now of course have the use of the officers’ heads. There was no need to alarm the crew over a case of food poisoning. For Ushiba’s comfort, and theirs, he had been removed to the convenience of his own heads. If still unwell he could go ashore for medical treatment in Otaru.
For the same reason, there was no need to alert Otaru yet. After refuelling had been completed, and if he was still indisposed, Ushiba could be put ashore just before sailing. Meanwhile it would be a good idea to have his bunk disinfected. The bosun should attend to this himself, preferably at a time when the crew would all be above deck painting. It would also be a good idea to have a replacement standing by in Otaru in the event that Ushiba did elect to go ashore there.
These matters took time to resolve, and it was the early hours before the captain at last climbed into his bunk. He took his Mariner’s Medical Dictionary with him. There were details there that worried him and he wanted to read them again.
The disease was viral, he saw; ‘water-borne v.’ And unlike the constipation of normal yellow fever, the variant was ‘commonly accompanied by diarrhoea, excessive perspn., dehydratn., & blood in vomit (black v.). Dvlpmnts: jaundice, convulsns.’ Yes, Ushiba had all those. ‘Patient shd be restrained, washed frequently, kept out of light. Treatment: saline solution, rice water, vitamins (inject, only); no solids. Duration of fever: 2 to 4 days, frequently fatal.’
The captain got out of bed and looked in the medical chest. Vitamins, but no saline solution. Rice water was not a problem. And in the snugness of the after heads, restraint was not one either. Nor were the requirements for washing and reduced light. There was a light switch there, and also a hose.
But the brief duration and frequent fatality of the disease worried him. Otaru still lay thirty-two hours away, and a further six would be spent in the port. Total thirty-eight hours. If Ushiba had been ill for twelve hours without knowing it – and the intensity of his symptoms suggested this – then his fever would have run fifty hours before they got out of Otaru. If he should prove one of the forty-eight hour fatalities, he could be dead before they left port. In which case they wouldn’t be leaving port …
The captain stroked his chin. His present ETA at Otaru was 1000 hours. An increase of speed could get him there earlier. But this would give time for inquiries. It would be better to cut the time in port. Ideally he should cut it to two hours. That would allow him to leave at 1200. With Ushiba going ashore at, say, 1145. Still only forty-six hours into his fever. And in no position to give any details of it.
Yes, that was the best thing to do. He was not clear at the moment how to do it. But after a sleep his head would be clearer. He looked at the bulkhead clock as he switched the light off. Two a.m. fifth of September.
18
At 2 a.m. in Tokyo, Porter was also switching
the light off. He had spent the last three hours alone on a final check of his notes. Since leaving the Lucky Strike he had slept every night at the Theosophical Society, the last two of them with Machiko; but this one he spent on his own. It was the last.
For most of the time he had been speaking Korean with the girl; the Pusan dialect of Korean, which was Sung Won Choo’s. In this dialect he had repeated his legend, recited the parts of the derrick, and also the parts of the ship. She had used a pointer on the ship, and he had given all the alternative routes for getting from one place to another. Machiko was now satisfied with his accent and his knowledge of Sung Won Choo. And he was quite certain he knew the ship from one end to the other.
Their knowledge of the Suzaku Maru’s movements had become increasingly refined. Everything had gone as planned at Niigata, and they knew to the hour her timing in Otaru. She would dock there on the seventh, at 1000 hours, and leave six hours later: 1600. Apart from refuelling, there was only a single cargo to load and the remainder of the wool to unload. He would present himself at the dock soon after 1500 and be away by 1600. There were no uncertainties any more, and he didn’t plan to study any more.
He switched the light off and went to sleep.
Next morning, over a leisurely breakfast, Yoshi gave him a final briefing. There was no change in arrangements. The Suzaku Maru was keeping to her timetable, and Porter would keep to his. His kit was waiting in Otaru, his accommodation confirmed at a rooming house there, and his name and particulars lodged with the port office.
‘So that’s it,’ Yoshi said. ‘No problems?’
‘No. No problems.’
This leg, he had insisted, he would do by himself. He felt better by himself, and Yoshi had been forced to agree.
At nine-thirty he said goodbye to Machiko. Then with his single piece of luggage, an executive attaché case, he got into the car with Yoshi, and they took off to Haneda domestic airport. There Yoshi shook his hand and wished him luck, the car left, and he was on his own.
Kolymsky Heights Page 11
