“Unexplained weather phenomena, of no consequence.” Levere’s voice was pitched to serene authority that allowed no grand opinions. “Cutter Able is on fire. Give me Abner’s position.”
Chappel nodded as if the new information made complete sense. He wrote meticulously, then turned to the radio file and to his charts.
“I got the proceed-and-assist,” said Howard. “I can’t make Abner’s send.”
“That,” said Chappel abstractly, “is the reason God made quartermasters.” He turned to Howard. “You have not logged Wysczknowski to the bridge and to repair.”
Howard turned, indignant.
“When your log is complete,” said Levere, “raise Aphrodite. Then get on twenty mile range. I estimate another two hours.”
“Watchstander?”
“Not unless you want to stand it,” Chappel said. “I don’t want to risk a man out there.”
Howard, who in some vague way understood that he was taking flak because of the unknowable, and having perhaps been accused of being a Jonah, chose the course of wisdom and kept his big mouth shut.
“There is no excuse for a log to get behind,” Levere said, “but the yeoman has been busy.”
“I make it about twenty miles,” Chappel told Levere, “assuming both ships maintained their direction of search since last position report.”
Levere grunted above the crashing of waves, found a deep grunt at the top of a swell. The grunt expressed the opinion that, because it was Able, he was being asked to make a huge assumption. Howard hesitated between a sigh and a sneer, but he did not log the grunt.
Chapter 17
Howard was relieved from watch a half hour before Adrian closed Aphrodite, when Aphrodite’s lights lay like a dusty glow on the horizon. Radioman James came to relieve the watch and assume his contact station. His natural, pale, meager remoteness was overlaid by a pallor like a man who, having vomited all but that last resource, had taken to vomiting blood. Howard looked at James, muttered to him that Chappel was raring to eat someone. Howard prepared to leave the bridge.
“How bad is it?” James whispered.
“You sick?”
“I’m never sick. Never. You know that.”
“It’s bad.”
“They don’t deserve that,” James said. “It’s a lousy ship, but nobody deserves that.”
“I meant the other.”
“The other isn’t true.” James spoke with firm conviction. “Levere logged weather, so it’s weather. We all got to believe that.”
“You weren’t here.”
“Has there been a situation report?”
“Static. All I can tell you is that they’re still afloat.”
Howard left the bridge and headed for the messdeck. He passed the galley where Lamp wedged his huge bulk in a corner and built cold ham sandwiches. On the messdeck, hands not on watch were assembled and ready to take station. Third engineman Masters, as lanky as Wysczknowski, but with a face like an elf’s, looked up at Howard. He leered. Masters sat on the far, starboard side of the compartment. On some days, Masters appeared less grotesque than on others, or maybe it was that on some days he did not leer.
Men clustered on the damp, steaming messdeck. A few chewed on sandwiches, and the more adventurous attempted to drink rancid coffee from half-filled mugs; for even Lamp could not claim fresh coffee from that sea. Adrian rose in large and generous movements, coasting plumply down high, broad swells. The sea ran wide and huge. Shocks went through the ship each time it bottomed, and the half-full mugs spouted small brown geysers onto foul weather gear that was already soaked.
Men stared at the coffee-splashed surfaces of tables. They muttered to each other, a half-dozen private conversations. They seemed a collection of broken parts—a watch cap pulled over one man’s brows so that his eyes were dark sparks beneath the darker wool. An arm lay forward on a table, as if about to be chopped, the arm ending in a white clenched fist. Boots lay like dismembered feet, and a man’s back arched in a questioning line as he bent and whispered to a fellow. A leg, Masters’s, was contemptuously raised to plant a wet boot against a washed bulkhead, and streaks of dirty water ran down the clean white paint. Faces were halved by the huddled-together, half-dozen private conversations. There was no banter, no sarcasm, and men seemed to be isolating themselves from all but their most trusted chums. Brace, that nebulous part-time steward, part-time engineman, part-time seaman, sat alone and crouched, balled into himself in a far corner. He did not look like Amon, but he looked as Amon used to look just before crawling under a table.
Conally sat at the small table used by the bridge gang. Howard looked at Brace, then crossed the messdeck to sit with Conally. Footsteps sounded on the ladder and Glass appeared on the messdeck. He looked like he was casing a bank. He moved quietly to join Conally and Howard.
“Before you get started with your mouths,” Glass said, “I just wanta say that Racca is your basic dirty guy. I get along with him, but that’s what he is.”
“How is he?” Howard was startled, having forgotten his patient.
“A lousy busted arm. We musta had ten busted arms on this ship.”
“Well, ten busted somethings.”
“All mouth,” Glass said. “Did he break his mouth, we wouldn’t be having this.” Glass looked around the messdeck. He seemed like a citizen about to complain that you could never find a policeman when you wanted one.
“I ain’t Lamp,” Conally said, “but a guy can’t help it if he gets to thinkin’.”
“I’ve been on watch.”
“Racca’s passed the word,” said Glass. “Racca claims the kid Jonahed him into a bust arm, so the kid could get to the engine room.”
“Brace wasn’t anywhere near Racca.”
“And Racca says it makes no difference. All a Jonah’s got to do is be on board.”
“These guys don’t believe that. Nobody’s that dumb.” Howard looked about the messdeck as if he viewed the crew for the first time.
“No, but these guys are scared.”
“A guy does get to thinkin’.”
“You’re a bosun’s mate,” Glass said, “you’re not a pansy.” Glass stood, a sort of passion of indignation driving him to his feet. “Going on deck,” he said. “Up where the air’s only fulla water.” He could hardly have moved faster had he been making a getaway.
“I’d ought to book that punk,” said Conally. “Only probably he’s right.” Conally seemed lost in thought or dream. “Lost that flyer, got that bumboat, and the steward sent crazy over Jensen. Busted arm, ghost on the mudflats, ghost ahead-a the ship, and Jensen talking in the fog…” He stopped, looked at Howard, and Conally was a man who had tripped himself.
“He only grabbed me by the shoulder,” Howard said. “It really happened.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m not Lamp, either. I know what happened.”
“He said look out for ice.” Conally looked around the messdeck, bent forward like a conspirator. “Said, ‘Ice—look out or you’ll lose’, an’ that’s all he said.”
“You’re sure it was Jensen?”
“Chum, do fish swim?”
Brace huddled, seemed entranced by Masters’s dirty boot plunked against the bulkhead that Brace had scrubbed so many times. Brace’s face was white with either fear or anger. As Conally and Howard watched, anger moved ahead of fear. A flush came to Brace’s cheeks. His forehead wrinkled, and his eyes narrowed with the kind of joy men feel when they are about to beat one offender or another into the deck. Brace stood, his way blocked by men sitting at the table. He shook his head like a punchy hearing bells.