Over the years, he'd grown used to the noises she made and prided himself on his ability to diagnose problems just by sound or "feel." After all the damage and repairs she'd undergone, Walker moaned with all sorts of new sounds and resonated with many feels he wasn't accustomed to, and he felt disoriented as he tried to identify and categorize them all. He shuddered to think of the stopgaps and jury-rigged repairs he'd performed, and he was secretly amazed that the ship was still afloat, much less under way. He grimaced at the thought of how they might have to stay that way. Wood in the boilers! That would finish them off. The thing was, if they were down to burning wood, that meant they had nothing else, so with a bleak but philosophical grunt, he resigned himself to the possibility.
He was supposed to sleep. The captain had actually ordered him to, but he couldn't escape the premonition that something would come disastrously unwrapped as soon as he did. Besides, while he worked he didn't have to think about the dark, looming scope of their situation. It was finally starting to hit the crew. There were several guys hanging out near the throttle station now, talking about just that. He listened only halfway, but for the first time really, he noticed an edge of fear.
He rubbed his tired eyes and looked up to see two pale faces peering at him from the gloom. He was a little startled, since he hadn't known the Mice were there. As usual, they ignored the conversation flowing around them. He sighed.
"What are you doing up? This ain't your watch. Get some sleep."
Gilbert blinked at him and looked around the compartment. The other men were arguing about the creatures on the big ship again. His gaze returned to Spanky.
"We seen a dinosaur before," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "Me and Isak. We seen one in New York, in a big museum, on liberty a few years back."
McFarlane's eyebrows rose at the non sequitur. "That so?" he managed.
Isak nodded grimly. "God's truth. 'Course they was all bones. There was more than one, but one looked sorta like those we saw on Bali the other day, only the one in New York was bigger." They paused and looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to comment. He just stared, baffled by their train of thought. Gilbert got impatient and spoke again. "Oil's made out of dinosaurs, they say. A long time ago a bunch of dinosaurs died and took to festerin', just like a dead cow, and all that old black ooze seeped into the ground and turned into oil. 'Least, that's what they say."
"Stands to reason," said Isak. "If oil ain't made out'a dinosaurs, why would Sinclair have one on their sign?" He paused thoughtfully. "Which them little dinosaurs on Bali looked a lot like the one on the Sinclair sign, 'cept they weren't green."
McFarlane's eyebrows had risen as far as they could go. He was way too tired for this. "Boys," he began, but Gilbert actually interrupted him.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but that got us thinkin'. We was both wildcatters when we was kids. Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, Wyoming . . . We brought in a lot of wells before we got in the Navy."
"We didn't like it, though, neither of us. Too much damn sun and dust—and heat too, but heat ain't all that bad. That's why we got in the Navy, though," put in Isak, and what passed for a tentative smile crossed his face. "We know a thing or two about heavy machinery, but we like burnin' oil better'n findin' it."
Gilbert looked at his partner with an air of bitter resignation, but nodded agreement. "We got to thinkin'. If things is like they say, then if we're gonna keep our boilers fed with oil, I guess we'll have to drill for it." Gilbert took a breath. "We know how, and if that's what it takes, well . . . we know how."
Spanky looked at them with surprise and then slowly nodded. "Thanks, boys. I'll remember that."
Matt and Sandra dried their hair with towels from the officers' head. Matt's hair took only an instant, short as it was, and he watched Sandra, drying and brushing her long, almost-brass-colored strands. He'd known she was attractive, but at that moment, arms over her head, wet blouse tout against her bosom, she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen and he resisted an electric urge to take the brush himself. Suddenly he realized she'd caught him staring and his ears burned. The expression on her face was . . . what? Fortunately, just then Bradford swept into the wardroom. He was still excited about what they'd seen.
"Amazing! Such jaws! I'm certain you're thankful we didn't hit the larger one, Captain Reddy! Of course you are!"
"I think we should all be thankful for that, Mr. Bradford," Matt replied, both grateful and resentful of the intrusion.
Bradford looked quizzically from one to the other, for the first time sensing tension between them, and attempted to quell his enthusiasm. "Quite so. Forgive me. I do get carried away. I've not forgotten the seriousness of the situation. In fact, it's been foremost on my mind. I've done a bit of preliminary research—oh, for my office library!—and I may have a few helpful suggestions for your Mr. Letts tomorrow."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Yes. Bear in mind, however, anything I suggest is qualified by the assumption that we are, well, where we were, for lack of any better way to phrase it."
"I think you may safely assume that, Mr. Bradford," said Matt. "Our charts of this area are pathetic. Some actually date from the eighteenth century. Depths were all wrong even before . . . Anyway, I don't think there's ever been a proper survey unless the Dutch did one. That being said, there's enough agreement over landmarks and positions that we know to be accurate that I don't think there's any question we are, as you put it, where we were."
Sandra set the brush on the table and ran her fingers through her stilldamp hair. She spoke for the first time and her lip quivered slightly. "That still leaves the question we've all been avoiding." There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. "What happened? I wish someone would think of something, even if it's wrong. It's driving me nuts, and I'm coping well compared to some. Ensign Theimer won't even come out of the cabin. Nobody wants to talk about it! I know everyone's afraid"—she looked at Matt with eyes reflecting a strange mix of accusation, respect . . . and something else—"even you, Captain. But everyone just keeps going as if nothing unusual's happened at all."
Matt smiled a sad, gentle smile. "Thank God they do, Lieutenant Tucker. You're right. We are scared. And between the three of us in this room," he confessed woodenly, "I'm more scared than anybody. But we'll continue to do our duty because we have to. It's all we've got to hang on to and it's our only hope to survive."
Bradford shifted uncomfortably and Sandra covered her face with her hands for a moment, but nodded. "Of course, Captain. I'm sorry. I'm just . . . tired." She looked up and her eyes were rimmed with red. "This crew—everyone—is exhausted, but I've just about emptied the dispensary of sleeping pills."
Matt's eyes narrowed, but she quickly dispelled his concern with a flick of her wrist, and the corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Oh, don't worry. There weren't many on board to start with and it's not an epidemic. I made it sound worse than it is. If the truth were known, half these guys would conk out if you gave them a chair to sit on in front of a firing squad." She shook her head with genuine admiration. "It beats me how most stay so calm." She frowned. "Not all have, though, and some you'd think have dealt with it really haven't." She sighed. "Like me, I guess. It's like a nightmare, or some H. G. Wells or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel."