In still another way de Camp preserves empathy with his readers; there is nothing of "Gee-Whiz!" about his stories, no matter how remote or improbable the scene. Even in the Viagens series, although the stage is so large as to require light-speed transportation, the characters are no more than lifesize and the actions are the actions of men, not demigods. De Camp has never destroyed a galaxy and has only rarely and excusably rescued the human race.
This' restraint may reduce the flavor for some — but not for me. The best fantasy is usually no more than light wine, the worst mere soda pop, all bubbles and synthetic flavor. The best of the Galaxy Busters are strong Bourbon; the worst are rotgut. In this analogy I would class de Camp's fiction as a very dry Martini.
R.A.H.
Chapter One
The Dagmar II sank into the trough of the waves, hiding all but her naked poles. As if to take advantage of the momentary shelter afforded by the crests, Knut Bulnes shouted forward, "Any sign of Antikithera?"
"What?" called Wiyem Flin.
"I said, is there any sign of Antikithera?"
Flin shook his head and picked his awkward way aft. When he reached the stern, Bulnes repeated his question.
"No," replied Flin. "But that doesn't mean anything. With this beastly rain on my glasses, I might as well be blind."
"Then go below, if you please, and see if you can pick it up on the scope. It'll soon be too dark for a viz."
Flin hesitated, looking up at the white crest of the nearest wave. He said something that Bulnes could not catch, except for the words "hippoi Poseidonos," then went below.
Bulnes, hoping that Flin would not blow the fuses again, watched his shipmate squeeze his chubby form through the cabin door. Bulnes admitted that it was something to be able to get up from an attack of seasickness that not even the latest antivertigants could cure and spout Classical Greek. On the other hand, Flin was the kind of man who thought that the right to call himself a Greek scholar made up for his other shortcomings.
Lightning flashed in the dusk. Bulnes smiled faintly. A few good ones like that, and the circuit breakers on Antikithera would go. Then, with luck, the Dagmar II could slip through before the force wall was re-established. To run into the wall while it was up would not be good for the little yawl and its crew. Nor would it be good to be picked up on the scopes of Antikithera in the act of slipping through the wall into forbidden Greece. Bulnes was gambling on the hope that the personnel of the station would be taking a relaxed view of their duties, just as he had gambled on the chance of a late spring storm.
Flin stuck his head out the cabin door and shouted, "Ten nautical or seventeen metric, on our right."
Bulnes suppressed an impulse to correct the statement to "starboard." Instead, he shouted back, "We'd better edge up to the wall. It's dark enough."
He set their course to azimuth thirty, then turned the rheostat control. The Dagmar II quivered and squatted in the water as her bow rose with the added speed. Although darkness and level-blowing rain hid Antikithera, Bulnes could see the aurora-like glow of the force wall ahead. He called down, "Watch out for those rocks!"
Flin shouted something. The pair of islets between Antikithera and her big sister Kithera ought to show up on the oscilloscope in ample time to avoid them — at least with a more competent radar-operator than Wiyem Flin.
A flash of lightning, and the light curtain dimmed for a few seconds. It would take a bigger one than that to knock out the force wall.
Flin came out and shouted, "The rocks are a good four nautical away. Going to run it?"
The light curtain loomed; Bulnes twisted the rheostat control to low speed. The Dagmar II, the wind on her port quarter, settled into a long dignified pitch with a little roll at the crest of every buck. As each wave bore her up from behind she slid forward down the slope like a surfboard, then slowed almost to a stop as the crest of the wave passed under her keel and her bowsprit poked skyward on the rear slope.
Bulnes looked speculatively at the great white crests. He didn't like the shaking-up they'd get if they hove to in that position, nor did he like the prospect of turning broadside to the swell in order to circle to kill time. Although it was hard to judge distance in the murk, he guessed the curtain to be no more than a hundred meters ahead.
Then came the granddaddy of all lightning flashes. Thunder roared, and the light curtain blinked out.
"They're out!" yelled Flin. "Why don't you ..."
Bulnes had already spun the rheostat to "Full." The Dagmar II leaped forward, wings of spray rising from her bow. Her pitching ceased as she caught up with the waves and skittered along with them.
Flin said, "I hope we get through before they ..."
"If you please," interrupted Bulnes, "go below and check the scope again."
Trust Wiyem to put the obvious into words. Of course they hoped the ship would pass through the barrier zone before the electronicians replaced the circuit breakers and the force wall built up again. They ought to be passing through the zone now.
A yelp came from Flin as a misty radiance appeared in the atmosphere around them. Bulnes, gripping his control column, shook as the spasm went through his nervous system. If he once let go, the uncontrolled jerking of his muscles would send him over the side into the black and white smother around them.
Forcing his neck to obey, Bulnes craned it far enough to see that the radiance was mostly astern. If they had been right in the middle of the zone, nothing would have saved them.
The lights went out.
The Dagmar II slowed, lost way, and lay drifting before the wind and pitching wildly. Flin's pale round face appeared dimly in the cabin door. "The motor — fuses — stopped ..."
Bulnes, blessing the caution that had led him to rig the sails against the remote possibility of power failure, felt for the button controlling the flying-jib winch. He pressed it. Nothing happened.
He shouted to Flin, "Know where the headlamps are?" Flin nodded.
"Get a couple, if you don't mind."
The cabin door closed, and the shimmer of the force field faded out astern. Flin reappeared wearing one headlamp and handed the other to Bulnes, who slipped it on over his oilskin hat. The lights cast wan beams into the dark, but with the power off they were the best source of light left.
Bulnes said, "Can you find the crank for the sail winches in the tool locker?"
"I think so."
During Flin's absence Bulnes shifted the steering control from the now useless gyro to the direct-steering wheel. When Flin came out with the crank, Bulnes said, "Kindly take the wheel. Keep the wind on our port quarter."
Bulnes took the crank and worked his way forward. He located the flying-jib winch at the base of the mainmast and inserted the crank. Not having had to hoist sail by hand power for over a year, he hoped the hand winch wouldn't be corroded.
The ship bounced beneath him. He squatted, holding the mast with one hand and the crank with the other, and heaved. The crank moved, sluggishly at first, then faster. The flying jib rose, the light gaskets that held the sail popping, and water spilling out of the folds in the canvas to blow away. The ship began to pick up way as the wind tautened the sail.
When he had hoisted both jibs, Bulnes went aft, took the wheel from Flin, tested it until he found a stable angle of bearing, and lashed it. Then he and his companion went below.