Read Online Microcosmic God by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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surrounded by ‘vimmin mit tails on.’ ”
The mate cocked an eyebrow at the Old Man. The captain lurched to his feet.
“Vell, it’s true! An’ I bat y’u y’ur trip’s pay against mine dat I gat one for myself! Ve is taking on a cargo of—” He swallowed noisily and put his face so close to mine that our foreheads nearly touched. “Vare de hell y’u t’ink I got dis viskey?” he bellowed. “Somebody has chartered dis ship, and ve’ll get paid. Vot y’u care who it is? Y’u never worried before!” He stamped out.
Harry laughed hollowly, his four pale chins bobbing. “I guess that tells you off, third.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said hotly. “I trust the Old Man as much as anyone, but I’m not going to take much more of this.”
“Take it easy, man,” soothed Harry. He reached for the canned milk. “A lot of this is fog and imagination. Until the skipper does something endangering crew, ship or cargo we’ve got no kick.”
“What do you call staying in his room when the ship rams something?”
“He seems to know it’s all right. Let it go, mate. We’re O.K., so far. When the fog clears, everything will be jake. You’re letting yourimagination run away with you.” He stared at Toole and upended the milk can over his cup.
Ink came out.
I clutched the edge of the slanting table and looked away and back again. It was true enough—black ink out of a milk can I’d seen the messman open three minutes before. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t. Neither Toole nor Harry noticed it. Harry put the can on the table and it slid down toward Toole.
“All right,” said Toole, “we’ll keep our traps shut until the skipper pulls something really phoney. But I happen to know we have a cargo consigned to a Mediterranean port; and when and if we get off this sandbank, or whatever it is, I’m going to see to it that it’s delivered. A charter is a charter.” He picked up the can and poured.
Blood came out.
It drove me absolutely screwball. He wouldn’t watch what he was doing! Harry was working on a pile of scrambled eggs, and the mate was looking at me, and my stomach was missing beats. I muttered something and went up to the bridge. Every time there was some rational explanation developing, something like that had to happen. Know why I couldn’t pipe up about what I had seen? Because after the ink and the blood hit their coffee it was cream! You don’t go telling people that you’re bats!
It was ten minutes to eight, but as usual, Johnny Weiss was early. He was a darn good quartermaster—one of the best I ever sailed with. A very steady guy, but I didn’t go for the blind trust he expressed in the skipper. That was all right to a certain extent, but now—
“Anything you want done?” he asked me.
“No, Johnny, stand by. Johnny—what would you do if the officers decided the captain was nuts and put him in irons?”
“I’d borry one of the Old Man’s guns an’ shoot the irons off him,” said my quartermaster laconically. “An’ then I’d stand over him an’ take his orders.”
Johnny was a keynote in the crew. We were asking for real trouble if we tried anything. Ah, it was no use. All we could do was to wait for developments.
At eight bells on the button we floated again, and the lurch of itthrew every man jack off his feet. With a splash and a muffled scraping, the
Dawnlight
settled deeply from under our feet, righted herself, rolled far over to the other side, and then gradually steadied. After I got up off my back I rang a “Stand-by” on the engine room telegraph, whistled down the skipper’s speaking tube, and motioned Johnny behind the wheel. He got up on the wheel mat as if we were leaving the dock in a seaport. Not a quiver! Old Johnny was one in a million.
I answered the engine room. “All steamed up and ready to go down here!” said the third engineer’s voice. “And I think we’ll have that generator running in another twenty
The mate cocked an eyebrow at the Old Man. The captain lurched to his feet.
“Vell, it’s true! An’ I bat y’u y’ur trip’s pay against mine dat I gat one for myself! Ve is taking on a cargo of—” He swallowed noisily and put his face so close to mine that our foreheads nearly touched. “Vare de hell y’u t’ink I got dis viskey?” he bellowed. “Somebody has chartered dis ship, and ve’ll get paid. Vot y’u care who it is? Y’u never worried before!” He stamped out.
Harry laughed hollowly, his four pale chins bobbing. “I guess that tells you off, third.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said hotly. “I trust the Old Man as much as anyone, but I’m not going to take much more of this.”
“Take it easy, man,” soothed Harry. He reached for the canned milk. “A lot of this is fog and imagination. Until the skipper does something endangering crew, ship or cargo we’ve got no kick.”
“What do you call staying in his room when the ship rams something?”
“He seems to know it’s all right. Let it go, mate. We’re O.K., so far. When the fog clears, everything will be jake. You’re letting yourimagination run away with you.” He stared at Toole and upended the milk can over his cup.
Ink came out.
I clutched the edge of the slanting table and looked away and back again. It was true enough—black ink out of a milk can I’d seen the messman open three minutes before. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t. Neither Toole nor Harry noticed it. Harry put the can on the table and it slid down toward Toole.
“All right,” said Toole, “we’ll keep our traps shut until the skipper pulls something really phoney. But I happen to know we have a cargo consigned to a Mediterranean port; and when and if we get off this sandbank, or whatever it is, I’m going to see to it that it’s delivered. A charter is a charter.” He picked up the can and poured.
Blood came out.
It drove me absolutely screwball. He wouldn’t watch what he was doing! Harry was working on a pile of scrambled eggs, and the mate was looking at me, and my stomach was missing beats. I muttered something and went up to the bridge. Every time there was some rational explanation developing, something like that had to happen. Know why I couldn’t pipe up about what I had seen? Because after the ink and the blood hit their coffee it was cream! You don’t go telling people that you’re bats!
It was ten minutes to eight, but as usual, Johnny Weiss was early. He was a darn good quartermaster—one of the best I ever sailed with. A very steady guy, but I didn’t go for the blind trust he expressed in the skipper. That was all right to a certain extent, but now—
“Anything you want done?” he asked me.
“No, Johnny, stand by. Johnny—what would you do if the officers decided the captain was nuts and put him in irons?”
“I’d borry one of the Old Man’s guns an’ shoot the irons off him,” said my quartermaster laconically. “An’ then I’d stand over him an’ take his orders.”
Johnny was a keynote in the crew. We were asking for real trouble if we tried anything. Ah, it was no use. All we could do was to wait for developments.
At eight bells on the button we floated again, and the lurch of itthrew every man jack off his feet. With a splash and a muffled scraping, the
Dawnlight
settled deeply from under our feet, righted herself, rolled far over to the other side, and then gradually steadied. After I got up off my back I rang a “Stand-by” on the engine room telegraph, whistled down the skipper’s speaking tube, and motioned Johnny behind the wheel. He got up on the wheel mat as if we were leaving the dock in a seaport. Not a quiver! Old Johnny was one in a million.
I answered the engine room. “All steamed up and ready to go down here!” said the third engineer’s voice. “And I think we’ll have that generator running in another twenty
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