Stop! That was a dangerous question—it couldn’t matter to Nils; it would not even occur to Nils! Better just answer the questions asked already. For instance, the Vulcania had had an escort for the first day and a half of her voyage; two destroyers which, after that time, had left her and returned to their Channel duties. The Vulcania was in Lisbon because of radioed orders concerning submarines which had sent her temporarily out of her course. The Vulcania must follow an unusual course which would take her much longer than a direct one would. And the English Quartermaster—whether or no a servant of the Machine—obviously could not be approached for help. . . .
There they were again—Otto Falken’s thoughts! It was no use—he couldn’t keep them out. He ceased pacing and sat down again upon the edge of the bunk and once more dropped his head into his hands: he was alone; he had failed; he was utterly miserable.
Then, in the darkest moment, came the Idea!
Otto raised his head and let fall the hands which had supported it: the corners of his mouth began slowly to curl upwards, and little radiating creases showed at the corners of the steel-blue eyes.
He sat motionless for a few moments; then, very slowly and with the smile now broad upon his face, fetched the oilskin packet from inside his shirt.
He took out the photographs and sorted them carefully and at last found what he wanted. It was one of the newest-looking snapshots: it had mountains in the immediate background, and showed an untidy heap of black, smoking ruins which could be recognized as the remains of a sprawling, one-storeyed house.
This, with another which showed the original of the ruins against the same background and with a man and woman standing in the doorway, he put carefully into his wallet.
He swung his legs up on to the bunk and lay down, his hands clasped behind his head and the smile still lurking in his eyes.
Captain Reynolds of the Vulcania, having seen the door close behind his Second Officer and a carpenter’s mate named Nils Jorgensen, rang for his steward and sent him for Mr. Brody.
Mr. Brody, the best First Officer Reynolds had ever had, was with him quickly. Mr. Brody accepted a drink and a chair and wondered what was coming.
“That Swede,” said Reynolds. “Carpenter’s mate. Namee of Jorgensen. Big, tall, blond boy.”
“Oh, yes,” said Brody. “Some fight or something, wasn’t there? Briggs mentioned it.”
The Captain chuckled, crossing his hands over a capacious belly. “Threw a feller down a companion. Cockney feller—Bates. Not hurt much; badly scared.”
Brody knew when to interpolate. “Yes?” he said.
“Want you to keep an eye on Jorgensen. See the men don’t rag him too much. Pass the word to Briggs.”
“Yes?” said Brody.
The Captain took two sips at his drink and set his glass down. “Feller Bates was baiting the boy. Accused him of being in the fifth column.” He chuckled again richly. “Jorgensen couldn’t take it—threw him down companion.”
“Yes?” said Brody.
“Point,” said Captain Reynolds. “Boy hates Nazis! So much he can’t be chaffed. Careful or he’ll kill someone. Wonderful specimen.”
“Very sad!” The Captain took another sip from his drink and shook his head gravely. “Boy’s got good reason to hate the Boche. Parents lived in Norway. Narvik region. Boche blew ’em to Hell. Only few months ago. Bad time to bait the lad. Fix it, will you?”
“Oh, I see, sir!” Brody stood up. “Yes, sir. Can do.”
5 ATLANTIC:
Second Phase
The weather had been fair since they left Lisbon—but as evening fell, the wind changed and there were ugly squalls. The sky grew rapidly overcast and a heavy swell began.
Reynolds himself came out upon the bridge and conferred with the Navigation Officer and altered his course half a point. There was some distress among the passengers, but nothing untoward.
By night the sky was a solid sheet of lowering black velvet without a star visible. The wind came steadily now from the south-west and was mounting towards gale proportions. The Vulcania rolled and wallowed and pitched—but ploughed on through the sea at three-quarter speed. . . .
A mile away, on her port bow, something shimmered beneath the curiously still surface of a valley between two rollers. It was grey and glistening as its back heaved above the water and bore without flinching the smashing brunt of a breaking wave. . . .
More of its back showed—a sleek, steel length. Its nose veered—until it was in line with the distant, unheeding Vulcania, It gathered speed and cut through the swelling waves at an angle which very soon, at this pace, would bring it close enough to its prey. . . .
Hearts aboard the Vulcania grew lighter: to the delight of Captain Reynolds and the immeasurable relief of the human cargo, there came a quick lull in the heavy weather. The sea, though running a heavy swell, was no longer mountainous. The wind lessened many degrees, and the sky, though still overcast, was less ominous. And then the first shell struck.
It was said afterwards that the Vulcania had no detector apparatus, or alternatively that she had but it was out of order. For some reason, the real truth about this has never emerged—but, whichever way it was, it is certain that the submarine’s presence was utterly unknown until that first shell, which struck amidships and high, landing with a downward trajectory at the very base of the foremost funnel, immediately aft of the bridge. . . .
The terror inspired by shelling is far greater than that caused by a torpedo. The torpedo, oil-smooth and silent and subterranean, strikes where it cannot be seen, below the waterline. Even the sound and shock of its explosion is dulled by depth. But a shell—albeit only from a six-inch gun—smashes from the outside; smashes down, probably, spreading visible and pressing havoc and often, as in the case of the Vulcania now, leaves an immediate wake of dead and smashed and wounded, dreadful enough upon an ordinary merchantman, or even a fighting ship, but inconceivably terrible upon a craft loaded to the gunwales with a living freight of women and children. . . .
The leading funnel sagged, swayed and came crashing down with an unearthly groaning louder and more terrifying than the explosion itself. The great mass of metal carried away the after-half of the bridge and then, its fall accelerated, tore a gaping breach through two decks and crashed down into what had once been the First-Glass Saloon but was now a dormitory for sixty mothers and their offspring. . . .
The noise was indescribable: in one tremendous instant, complete peace and such silence as the sea affords had been violently transmuted, in shocking gradations which swelled incredibly with each component, into a bedlamite inferno of sound. First, tearing a jagged hole in serenity, had come the sharp, heavy report of the gun . . . then, almost simultaneously, the rending roar of the shell’s explosion—a terrifying sound, which mingled indistinguishably with the shuddering feel of the ship trembling violently like a giant horse shaking itself beneath one. . . .
And then, swelling discordantly into a demoniac, unbelievable chorus, came the other sounds—cracking and crashing of wood . . . creaking and groaning of iron . . . the ourobboros-hiss of escaping steam . . . the thudding, tortured smashing of timber beneath iconoclastic weight . . . the crackling of shivered glass . . . the antlike, futile shouting of men thrusting improbably through the whole enveloping roar. . . .