by Nevil Shute
He had seen this sentence coming, and he knew what he would do. As his business had grown he had bought huge varieties of engineering products, but he had never been an engineer. He had never formed a thread upon a bolt, though in theory he knew how it was done. He had concealed his lack of engineering knowledge all his life by virtue of his native wit, but always he had been uncertain in the background of his mind. If now he had to stay out of the office for a portion of his life he would devote that portion to learning something about engineering, the craft that impinged so largely on his business. He set to work to organize a very spacious workshop in the basement of his house at Wauna where he could learn some engineering quietly and secretly, away from the eyes of the engineers that he employed. Very soon he found out about the English magazine, the Miniature Mechanic, and had it sent to him by airmail every week with several other, and lesser, American publications. In a short time he became completely absorbed in his new interest, to the satisfaction of his sons and of his doctors.
He became conscious of a considerable debt of gratitude to the little magazine, the Miniature Mechanic. All his life he had heard his engineers speaking casually of milling, and he had not known what the process was. The magazine taught him in the first few issues that came to hand. He consulted with the engineer who maintained their three executive aircraft at the airport, and went with him to a machinery store in Seattle and bought a bench milling machine with a variety of cutters. He got his airplane engineers to install it in his workshop beside the lathe and drill press that he had already bought, and learned to use it; thereafter he could talk on equal terms on milling with his engineers and once or twice was able to correct them, which gave him immense pleasure. In lathe work it was the same.
Of all the contributors to the magazine he held Keith Stewart in the highest regard for the lucidity of his descriptions and his comprehension of the difficulties of the tyro. Once in a difficulty, which he later realized to be due entirely to his own stupidity, he had dictated a letter asking for advice, hardly expecting to receive an answer. He had got one promptly, brief but helpful; the letter of a friendly man. Encouraged, he had written again some months later, and again, and help had never failed to reach him by return airmail.
This was the mental climate in which he received the sheets of typescript from Julie ten minutes after the call from Professor O’Leary in Ann Arbor. He sat in front of the big picture window in the sunset glow. The girl switched on a standard lamp and moved it to throw the light over his shoulder. He thanked her absently as he refreshed his memory of the call by glancing over her typescript.
“Say,” he said at last, “he’s got himself into a real jam. I wonder where this fisherman came from?”
“Would you like me to try and find out, Mr. Hirzhorn?”
“No, leave that be. What time is it in Honolulu now?”
“Half-past three.”
“Well, get me a call to Paul Setches. If he’s not in the office, give his girl hell ‘n tell her to find him and tell him to call me at once.”
Ten minutes later he was speaking to the president of Setches and Byrne, Inc. “Say, Paul,” he said, “this is Sol Hirzhorn. I want you to see if you can contact a man called Keith Stewart for me. He has been staying at the Beachcomber Hotel, but it may be that he’s living on a fishing boat called the Mary Belle in the yacht harbor or some place.” He went on to describe the situation, and read out the letter from Mr. McNeil. “The message is, tell him to contact his editor before going any further, and especially before sailing for Tahiti. After he’s done that, ask him if he would call me. I’d like to speak with him. He can do that from your office if he’s short of money.”
Mr. Setches said that he would make some enquiries and call him back. Mr. Hirzhorn laid down the receiver, and heaved his bulk up out of the chair. He went to the door of the next room, furnished half as sitting room with a log fire and half as office. He said to Julie, “I’m going down into the workshop. If Paul Setches calls again I’ll take the call down there. Tell me when it’s half an hour before supper, ‘n we’ll have a drink.”
“Okay, Mr. Hirzhorn.”
He lumbered off, and went down to his workshop and stood fingering the tilting table of the clock that he had made and burnished with such loving care. He was a slower worker than Professor O’Leary, partly from inexperience and partly from age; on the other hand he was lavish with equipment and spared no expense in providing machine tools for the workshop. He stood fingering the half-machined bronze trunnions that would support the table, his mind far away. Ten or eleven days had elapsed since the Mary Belle had been due to sail for Tahiti; there was little chance that Paul Setches would find her still in the yacht harbour. She could be halfway to Tahiti by this time. But how to find a fishing boat in the wastes of the Pacific Ocean, a boat that had no radio?
Chuck Ferris had a yacht, and — yes, it was a yacht in Honolulu. He had been on a world cruise, and had interrupted it to fly back to New York or some damn place. Paul Setches had entertained Chuck Ferris and his party at the Royal Hawaiian, on the old man’s instructions, and he had written later to say that the cruise had been interrupted. Sooner or later Solly Hirzhorn meant to fit Ferris hydraulics as a trial installation in one of his mills, on all of the conveyors. Amongst the many accidents that happened in the lumber business a man caught in the flying chains and sprockets of the conveyors was the most horrible; it always made the newspapers in all its gory detail. It created too much adverse comment. Sooner or later he would have to fit a trial mill with Ferris hydraulics throughout, and cut out every chain. It would be expensive; one million, seven hundred thousand bucks was the Ferris estimate for the Flume River mill. Manny was for it; Joe said that it would never pay. His son Joseph was the treasurer of Hirzhorn Enterprises. It was for the boys to decide, but he thought it ought to be tried out one day, in one mill.
He started work upon the backplate of the clock, a thick sheet of brass which involved little but simple cutting and filing. He was, as yet, nowhere near the difficulties which had beset Professor O’Leary. He did not strain his dubious heart by cutting the thick metal with a hand hacksaw, as the Professor did; among his many machine tools Mr. Hirzhorn had a little handsaw powered by an electric motor which did the job for him in no time. He worked on happily for an hour or so and made good progress, till the telephone rang on the corner of the bench. He switched off the machine and picked up the receiver.
“I have Mr. Setches on the line,” said Julie. “Will you take his call down there?”
“Sure,” he said. “Get it on the tape.”
A minute later he was speaking to Honolulu. “Well, Mr. Hirzhorn, I’m sorry to say he’s gone. He sailed in this fishing boat, the Mary Belle, on Tuesday of last week.”
“Where were they going to?”
“Well, they told the harbor launch that they were bound for Hilo. That’s on Hawaii, in the group of islands. But they never turned up at Hilo, and the gossip on the waterfront says they were bound for Papeete, in Tahiti. That checks with the letter that you read me out.”
“Why would they say that they were going to Hilo, then?”
“I’d say they were afraid of the formalities, Mr. Hirzhorn. They’d have to have a French visa on their passports, for one thing, and the French don’t like immigrants that haven’t any money. That could be the reason. I wouldn’t know.”
“What’s going to happen when they get to Papeete, then? If they get there?”
“They’ll find themselves in trouble, Mr. Hirzhorn.”
There was a long silence. Paul Setches said, “You still there, Mr. Hirzhorn?”
“Okay, okay. I was just thinking. Did you hear anything about the captain of this fishing boat?”
“Well now, that’s another thing, Mr. Hirzhorn. The Customs officers say he’s nuts. The yacht owners down in the yacht harbor, they say he’s a good seaman, but kind of simple. They don’t any of them think he’ll find Tahiti. You see, he’s got no radio,
no DF loop, no echo sounder, no Iron Mike — nothing. The ship hasn’t even got an engine — no engine at all, not even an outboard. And the captain certainly wouldn’t know how to use a sextant, if he had one.”
It was bad. “You’re sure Keith Stewart sailed upon this boat?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hirzhorn. I spoke with the Customs officer that went after them in the harbor launch. They left without paying harbor dues. He said Keith Stewart was on board. That’s when they said that they were bound for Hilo.”
“There wouldn’t be any way to get in touch with them, would there?”
“Not that I know of. You see, they’ve got no radio.”
There was another silence while the old man’s mind reviewed the situation. “Tell me,” he said at last, “is Chuck Ferris’s yacht still in the harbor?”
“The Flying Cloud? Sure, she’s still here. Mrs. Efstathios, Chuck’s daughter, she’s living on board. Making quite a fool of herself with a bandleader, Manuel de Silva. You know— ‘Music with Manuel,’ on the TV.”
There was another pause. “Well, thanks, Paul. Thanks a lot for what you’ve done. I’ll have to think this over. Maybe I’ll be in touch with you again, but that’s all for the present.”
“Okay, Mr. Hirzhorn. It’s been a pleasure.”
The old man stood by the bench for a few moments. The conversation had interrupted the thread of thought connected with his work, and now he could not take up his enthusiasm again. He took off his working apron and hung it on the hook on the door, put on his jacket, and went up again to the big sitting room with the picture window. Julie had drawn the curtains to shut out the darkness; she came in from her own office in surprise, for she had expected him to stay down in the workshop much longer. “Will you have the drinks now?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Say, that engineer Chuck Ferris keeps at Boeing — the one who came with him last time. Jim Rockingham.”
“Rockawin, Mr. Hirzhorn.”
“That’s right. You know where he lives?”
“It’s somewhere out by Renton,” she said thoughtfully. “Elliott, or Maple Valley, or some place like that. I can find out easy enough. Do you want to speak with him?”
“It’s more than I can do upon the telephone,” he said. “What I’d like him to do is to come here right now and visit with me for a little while. See if you can get him at his home. If so, I’ll speak with him myself.”
She went into her office and closed the door, and he sank down into his chair before the fire. One million, seven hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money, and on top of that they’d lose at least a fortnight of production from the mill while the conversion was going on. In terms of cash Joseph was probably right; hydraulic operation would put up their costs. But Emmanuel had the right idea. The day was passing when such ghastly accidents could be tolerated in the interest of cheap lumber. People thought much more of human lives now than they used to do. They must convert the Flume River mill for a trial of the Ferris system, but if they were to do that he would see that Chuck Ferris lent his yacht for a few weeks. Chuck had been trying to get his hydraulics into the lumber business for years.
Julie came in again. “I called Mr. Rockawin at his home,” she said. “He left this afternoon to spend the week-end with his family at the Mount Rainier Mountain Lodge. Skiing.”
“See if you can get him there,” he said.
He sat on by the fire. Presently Julie came in again. “Mr. Rockawin is on the line right now,” she said softly. She moved the table with the telephone upon it closer to his side.
He said, “That Jim Rockawin? Say, Jim, this is Sol Hirzhorn here. I’m speaking from my home at Wauna. I been thinking a lot about our Flume River mill. I’d like you to drive over ‘n have a talk, if you can make it.”
It was a royal command and must be obeyed, but it was also dark and snowing at the Mountain Lodge, and fifty-five miles to go. “I’d be happy to do just that, Mr. Hirzhorn,” he said. The skiing with his family must be abandoned. “Matter of fact, it’s snowing pretty hard up here right now and I’m not too sure I’d make it down the road to the highway. I’ll come now if you say, but I’d as soon start with the first light ‘n be with you by ten o’clock.”
“Okay, Jim. I wouldn’t want you to go and break your neck. Come over soon as you can make it in the morning. Meanwhile, I’ll be talking with the boys.”
They hung up, and Jim Rockawin stood in deep thought by the row of telephones in little counter booths. He was a man of about thirty-five, dressed in ski trousers, slippers, and an ornamental pull-over. This was business; he sensed it. This was the culmination of three years of patient, tactful work. He did not know exactly what would happen in the morning, but he knew this very certainly. Ferris Hydraulics was about to break into the lumber business.
His wife, pretty and kittenish, came downstairs from the bedroom floor, with their two daughters, twelve and ten years old. “Who was that, hon?” she asked.
“Sol Hirzhorn,” he replied. “I’ll have to go and see him in the morning.”
“Oh, honey! Won’t it do on Monday?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Not when Sol Hirzhorn takes the trouble to find me here and ring me personally.”
She sighed, but she did not complain further. Men were like that, always putting business first — but after all, Sol Hirzhorn was Sol Hirzhorn. Born and bred in the State of Washington, the name was a household word to her, and she shared in the reflected glory of her husband’s coming visit to Sol Hirzhorn in his fabulous home at Wauna. She said, “Well, come and eat, anyway.”
“Just a few minutes,” he replied. “I’ll have to call Chuck about this.”
“Oh, honey!”
“He’ll be going to bed,” he explained. He glanced at the watch upon his wrist. “It’s ten o’clock right now in Cincinnati.”
She left him, and took the children into the dining room. He turned again to the telephone, and presently he was speaking to his employer in his home. “I don’t know what it is he wants, Mr. Ferris,” he said. “But it’s about the Flume River mill, and it’s business.”
“Say, that’s great news,” said Mr. Ferris. “What was it that we quoted for the whole job? Just under two million, wasn’t it?”
“One million, seven hundred thousand and some odd dollars,” said his representative. “What will I say if he only wants to do a part of it?”
“String him along, ‘n call me soon as you can. In that case I’d not go back to New York. I’d fly right out and be with you Sunday afternoon. He shouldn’t split that job. I’d try to talk him out of it. It’s not giving the system a fair trial.”
They talked a little longer. “I guess I’ll call you anyway, soon as I get away from him,” Mr. Rockawin said. “You’ll be home tomorrow?”
“Sure I’ll be home,” said Mr. Ferris. “This is big news. I’ll just sit right here looking at the television, waiting for your call.”
Mr. Ferris was a small, dynamic man with auburn hair, fifty-three years old. The war had made him what he was. In 1934 he had been a draftsman in an aircraft drawing office, specializing upon undercarriage legs and on aircraft hydraulics generally. He had considerable inventive genius and even more business acumen. With the growth of aviation he had left the drawing office and had started a tiny specialist business in Cincinnati, working on a shoestring, getting all his machined parts made out by subcontract. He had never looked back. His business had grown astronomically with the war; by 1945 he was the president of a twenty million dollar corporation, with a business that was comparable with that of Solomon P. Hirzhorn.
For years he had wanted to get his finger into the lumber industry, which he considered to be antiquated in its equipment judged by aircraft standards. Moreover, although his business was doing well, there was little doubt that rockets and guided missiles would replace the manned aircraft in the future to a large degree. Guided missiles were not well suited to hydraulic units, and even piloted a
irplanes were now flying at such altitudes that special precautions, with increased complexity, had to be taken to prevent the hydraulic fluid boiling in the pipes. He had already switched a considerable proportion of his manufacturing capacity to the automotive industry; the lumber business was another one. As a hydraulic engineer, he was turning his attention more and more to things that stayed on the ground.
He did his best to delegate authority, but his business grew too quickly; as soon as he found a man to take one section off his shoulders another enterprise was starting up, needing his guiding hand for the first year or so. In 1952 he had a nervous breakdown and spent three months in a very expensive home. He came out mentally refreshed and fit as a flea, divorced his wife and married another one, and began working sixteen hours a day again. In 1956 he had another breakdown, and went back into the home. This time his doctors impressed on him that he really must do less work and find more interests. They suggested a long sea voyage.
He did not want to die, and so he bought a large schooner yacht, the Flying Cloud, that had been built for a cinema magnate who committed suicide for an unmentionable reason. He had actually voyaged in her on his second emergence from the mental home across the Pacific and as far as Sydney. By that time he was so bored that he left her and sank into the deep chair of a Pan-American airliner with an audible sigh of relief; in two days he was back in his office at Cincinnati and at work. Since then he had conscientiously tried to use his big yacht as his doctors had recommended, and he was actually on board her two or three times a year; each time intending a month’s cruise or longer. Each time the office drew him back as with a magnet, because he had no other interest in his life except his very fleeting loves.
