Southtrap

Then everything went black.

The St Elmo's Fire had shut off as swiftly and dramatically as it had come. My eyes were still dazzled and I couldn't see the length of the Quest's deck.

Then, as my eyes accustomed themselves to the change, I saw that the sea still flamed — a softer glow, a gentle feminine thing alongside the harshness of St Elmo.

The Quest drove on into the blue-green ocean with its million lances and bickers of light. After a while this, too, began to fade, not suddenly but slowly, as the ship drew clear of the phosphorescent patch. Then finally we were in the night again.

CHAPTER NINE

'It's just a mess, sir,' Persson, the radio operator, handed me the RTT signal. 'I can't make head or tail of it.'

A mess the radio-teletype slip was. Anything further from a weather report would have been hard to imagine. There was a garbled string of disconnected letters and figures.

He stabbed the slip with his finger. 'ZRS — that's about all I can make out — that's Marion Island's call-sign.'

We were on the Quest's bridge the next morning, Saturday. It was shortly after seven o'clock. What I had wanted was Marion's weather report at 6.45 a.m. as well as the first mainland Weather Bureau forecast at seven. The previous night I had ordered all the ship's clocks to be switched to GMT. This was because the buoy launch was scheduled for 10h00 GMT on Monday.

'Looks like an ionospheric storm to me,' I remarked. 'That means a radio black-out, if it's bad.'

'I've never sailed this way before, sir,' replied Persson. 'I haven't any experience of them. But after last night…'

'The St Elmo's Fire was purely a local phenomenon,' I assured him. 'An ionospheric storm is something very different. Sunspots. This is a year of maximum sunspot activity. We must expect trouble.'

'It was bad enough last night, sir. All the instruments went for a burton. I worked halfway through the night getting 'em right again.'

They're all okay, then?'

'The radar's still flukey — I've nothing to test it out on. No ships or land.'

That's the way it is in these waters, Persson, no ships, no land.'

We had run clear of the Agulhas Bank during the night. The Quest's jerky motion in the short, savage seas of the Bank had given way to a long see-sawing up-and-under motion as she felt Antarctica's first great swells under her. Judging from the deserted decks and empty corridors of the ship, the members of the cruise found little to choose between the two types of motion.

'No signals coming direct from the mainland?' I asked Persson.

'No, sir,' he replied gloomily. They're more confused than Marion's signals — if that's possible.'

'What's this grouping — ZRP?'

'That's the SANAE station on Dronning Maud Land, on the mainland of Antarctica itself,' he answered. I was fiddling around trying to raise something or someone.

'There's sometimes a relay via Mawson, the Australian ice station.'

I made a mental note to check the Quest's magnetic compass. A magnetic storm can affect a compass to the extent of a couple of degrees. I would also have to check her gyro. She was equipped with the old type of gravity-controlled instrument which is inclined to wander when a ship is far South, and I didn't want any inaccuracies due to gyro error at the buoy's launch-point, still less in the vicinity of Prince Edward's dangerous approaches.

There's nothing we can do but hope,' I told Persson. 'When's the next signal scheduled from Marion?'

'At half-past nine, sir.'

'My bet is that it will still be just as bad, Persson. Keep trying, though.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Even as I gave the order I knew I was kidding myself. I was well aware that what the weather might or might not be doing at Marion, over a thousand kilometres to the east, was as immaterial to the state of the Quest's immediate weather as would be a forecast from Gough Island, a thousand kilometres in the opposite direction, to the west. The Quest was completely on her own. It might be snowing on Prince Edward now, while the Quest swung through blue seas, a clear blue sky and a cool breeze.

Suddenly I became aware of a commotion at the rear of the bridge. MacFie, the chief engineer, rushed up. His face was angry and flushed and for a moment I suspected he might have been having a liquid breakfast.

'What the hell…?'

'You'd better come below,' he snapped at me. He shredded a piece of oily waste between his powerful fingers. 'You've got a mutiny on your hands.'

'What the devil are you talking about, Chief?'

He glanced round the bridge. All eyes were on him. He had the sense not to blurt out anything further. He jerked his head. I followed. We had got only as far as the bridge companionway when he started again.

'It's that bluidy ghost. And they're Irish. Bluidy Irish. They say they won't go on watch and the Norwegians are with 'em…'

'Pull yourself together, man! Talk sense!'

MacFie halted suddenly on the steel steps so that I was almost on top of him before I could stop myself. Close contact with MacFie meant the smell of oil, grease and an overlay of sweat.

'It began with O'Byrne,' he growled. Then Reilly came into the act. He's a sea-lawyer, a trouble-maker, if ever there was one, blast him! Now the two Irish greasers have been joined by two Norwegian motor-men. They're all great pals. They're saying they won't stand watch. How the hell am I supposed to run the ship…'

'What happened, Chief?'

'You'd better read 'em the riot act. Or lay the bluidy ghost.'

'MacFie!' I called. The note brought him up short. 'Come back here. I want an explanation, a proper one. Make it official.'

'Goddamned Irish greasers!' he muttered to himself. Then he said, It was like this, sir. O'Byrne and Reilly were on the stint after midnight. O'Byrne went to his locker…'

I broke in sharply. 'How much Tullamore Dew did O'Byrne bring aboard, Chief?'

MacFie said drily, with a cynical, smile, 'I haven't run an engine-room all these years without learning a few tricks. If O'Byrne had any booze left, it wasn't much. I searched the place myself when we sailed. No, he'd stashed away some supper and was wanting a bite in the early hours.'

'And so?'

'His locker had been broken open. His plate of chow was gone.'

This sounds to me like a storm in a teacup. Or in a dinner-plate. Surely you're capable of settling a little thing like this yourself, Chief.'

He bridled under my tone. 'I've settled better men than O'Byrne and Reilly before now. But they're all in, and standing together. The whole ruddy watch. Even the electrician.'

'Go on.'

'O'Byrne wasn't too upset, I might say, when he missed his food. He went and told his chum Reilly. Reilly handed over his duties for a moment to O'Byrne and went to look. He came back and said he'd seen a ghost between the deep tank and the shaft tunnel. It's dark down there.'

'Carrying O'Byrne's supper?'

MacFie eyed me grimly. 'No. A sub-machine gun.'

'Rubbish, Chief.'

That's what I said. But he spread it around among the rest of 'em and now they're on his side.'

I thought quickly. 'I'll have this out with Reilly myself. Chief, what have you heard about Captain Prestrud?'

He appeared surprised. 'He's in hospital. Got hurt. That's why you've taken over.'

'You didn't hear anything more on the engine-room grapevine?'

'Is there more?'

'Yes, but keep your mouth shut. I thought Reilly might have heard something and his Celtic temperament had embroidered it into a ghost story. Captain Prestrud died yesterday morning.'

I'm truly sorry.' MacFie replied slowly. 'He was a great gentleman.'

'The passengers don't know this either,' I added. 'Miss Prestrud and I decided to go ahead with the cruise as if nothing had happened.'