“Will you give her a divorce?” Matthews asked again.
“What a one-track mind you have!” Debner laughed. “Doesn’t all this impress you?” He waved a hand at the sea.
“It scares me, if you want to know. But I suppose you can get us back.”
“I suppose I can,” Debner said, “if it doesn’t get much worse. That handle over there is the bilge pump. Would you?”
Matthews pumped the bilge dry. When he looked up, the wind seemed to have increased in force. He took another look through the binoculars, this time keeping his head low. There was no sign of the Port Everglades offshore buoy, but he could make out the distant hull of a boat.
Debner started the engine and slid the boat into gear. Even at full throttle he was barely able to maintain steerage way in the steep, breaking seas.
“I’ll give her a divorce,” Debner said abruptly.
“You will?”
“Yes, why not? I’ve been bored for sonic time. And the Layton Mills income isn’t the fortune you might imagine. But there’s a condition attached to my acquiescence.”
“What’s that?” Matthews asked.
“I want custody of the sailboat,” Debner said, grinning.
Matthews had to laugh in spite of himself. “I’m sure Jannie doesn’t want it.”
“Right,” Debner said. “I’m glad we talked this out in an intelligent manner. Sometimes marriages just don’t work out. When it happens, there’s no sense getting dramatic about it. Now let me concentrate on getting us back.”
DEBNER looked toward the northwest, where thick black clouds were piling up. He said, “I’m afraid the worst is yet to come. Here, hold her in the wind. Tin going to drop the main.”
Before Matthews could answer, the tiller was thrust into his hands. It was like gripping a live thing. The. sailboat quivered and groaned as, under full power, he thrust her bow into the wind.
Clutching the grab rail on the cabin top, Debner fought his way to the mast. Matthews could see him gripping the mast with one hand, working at the lines with the other. In a moment he returned and took the tiller.
“The main halyard’s jammed,” he said.
“What does that mean?” Matthews asked. “What’s a halyard?”
Very quietly Debner told him. “The halyard is a rope that hauls a sail up the mast. The main halyard passes over a wheel that’s set into the top of the mast. Our jibe apparently jarred it out. Now I can’t get the main down.”
“Can’t we continue with it up?”
Debner shook his head. “We should be double-reefed by now, and there’s more coming. She isn’t built for this kind of driving.” He located a big screwdriver and stood up. “Take over.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, we can’t live much longer with full mainsail, and we’re almost as bad off with no sail at all. There’s only one thing I can do. Climb the mast and pry the halyard back on.”
“You’re crazy!” Matthews said, looking at the wildly swaying mast. “You wouldn’t last a minute up there!”
“You exaggerate the difficulty,” Debner said. “Just about every ocean wanderer has done this at one time or another. The old square-rigger men did it every day of their lives, in worse weather than this.”
“Will the mast hold your weight?”
“It’ll hold a lot more than that. Now take the tiller and listen closely. Keep her as close to the wind as you can, and still maintain steerageway. Don’t let her fall off, or you’ll be chancing a knockdown. But above all, don’t get her in irons, She’ll shake herself to pieces and you’ll never bring her out. Got that?”
“No,” Matthews said. “I can’t handle this boat. Give me the screwdriver.”
“What? Oh no, my friend. You don’t look like a mast-climbing type to me.”
IF your damned mast will hold me, I can get up it,” Matthews said grimly. “But I know I can’t sail this boat. Give me the screwdriver.”
“All right,” Debner said. “No fancy stuff. I don’t want to go in after you. Slip the halyard and get down as quickly as you can.”
“I’m not planning on eating lunch up there.” Matthews said. He tucked the screwdriver into his belt and fought his way to the mast.
It wasn’t as hard as he had imagined; certainly not as hard as climbing a rock chimney. He stayed to windward of the sail, and the gale pressed him firmly against it, steadying him. He was able to grip the mast with one leg and use both hands on the halyard for climbing. When he reached the lower spreaders he stopped to catch his breath. Down below’, Debner was hunched over the tiller. In the distance, Matthews could see the gray hull of a power boat, laboring toward them through the seas.
The next part was harder. He could feel the mast sway and buckle under his weight. The sail narrowed, giving him nothing to lean against, and the wind was trying its best to tear him loose. The deck looked alarmingly small beneath him.
He clamped his jaws together and pulled himself to the jumper stays. The top of the mast was still 10 feet overhead.
The wind was stronger up there, screaming wildly in his ears. Matthews reached the top and took a firm grip on the halyard. One-handed, he eased the screwdriver out of his belt and started to slip it under the halyard.
And stopped. The halyard was firmly seated in the deep-grooved wheel. There was nothing wrong.
He felt the boat heel as fresh gusts reached it. Could the line have sprung back into place? Or had Debner been mistaken? The wind pressure might have held the sail up.
And then it occurred to him that Debner was trying to kill him.
This was no thought to have, 40 feet above the deck. But it was inescapable. Accidents came easily to a small boat in a gale. He had read that sort of thing in the newspapers: Man lost from fishing boat in heavy seas off Montauk, or Cape Charles—or Port Everglades.
The boat began to heel, swinging him inexorably outward. Matthews tried to grip the mast with his legs, but couldn’t get them around the jumper stays. He dropped the screwdriver, hanging on to the halyard with both hands, swinging pendulumlike over the water.
It couldn’t be true, Matthews thought desperately, wondering why Debner didn’t straighten the boat. Debner had been perfectly agreeable about the divorce. Or had that been part of the plan? Like pretending he was going to climb the mast. He’d known that Matthews couldn’t handle the boat, had known he wouldn’t even try.
His hands were slipping on the halyard. He saw Debner leave the cockpit and crawl toward the mast.
Debner had even asked him if anyone knew about him and Jan, Matthews thought. If he were lost from the sailboat there would be no reason to suspect foul play, no apparent motive.
Debner was at the foot of the mast now, looking up at him. Something bright glinted in his hand. A knife? What would he be doing with a knife?
The boat heeled still farther, her rail went under, water coursed along the cabin sides.
There was an explosion. Matthews felt himself flying through the air.
THE Coast Guard cutter Seabright had been driving for three hours, and her crew was wet and disgusted. It never failed. With storm warnings flying from Cape Hatteras to Key West, someone had to take a pleasure trip.
When they found the sailboat, she was a wreck. The gale had wrenched her open, ripped her sails to shreds, flooded her engine. She was lying beam-to the wind, drifting slowly seaward. A man was bailing steadily and mechanically, not looking up even when the Seabright made a lee above him and put a man aboard.
“Your wife reported you were out here,” the man said. “We better get you off. Where’s your passenger?”
“What?”
“Your passenger. Where is he?”
From the bridge of the cutter, a man shouted. “Hurry it up! Get them off there!”
“Where is he?”
“Washed overboard. There was nothing I could do. The sails were gone, and her engine’s dead.”
“OK. You can make a full report inside.
Mr. Debner.”
“My name’s Matthews. Debner was washed overboard. He was trying to help me. I was up the mast. We were heeled so far over I couldn’t get down. Debner would have been safe if he’d stayed in the cockpit. But he came forward and slit the sail to let the boat straighten. Then he couldn’t hang on.”
“It was a brave thing to do,” the man said. “Come on, let’s get off here.”
They took the sailboat in tow, but her seams had opened too far. Soon her cabin top was awash, and the Seabright had to cut her loose. Matthews watched her sink. He remembered that Debner had wanted custody of the Hope. Well, he had it.
They took him below and gave him a steaming cup of coffee. He told them again what had happened, keeping it short. There was no sense in going through the whole story, and no satisfaction in maligning the dead. It was finished.
But he wondered if Janice would guess the truth.
He knew that he would always remember the sound of the overburdened mainsail exploding, the green water sweeping everything, the shock of seeing an empty deck where a moment before Debner had stood, knife in hand, stark hatred in his eyes.
And Matthews would remember that halyard he had climbed down, to find two of its strands cut neatly through, and the third strand notched and unraveling.
THE MOUNTAIN WITHOUT A NAME
When Morrison left headquarters tent, Dengue the observer was asleep with his mouth open, sprawled loosely in a canvas chair. Morrison took care not to awaken him. He had enough trouble on his hands.
He had to see a deputation of natives, the same idiots who had been drumming from the cliffs. And then he had to supervise the destruction of the mountain without a name. His assistant, Ed Lerner, was there now. But first, he had to check the most recent accident.
It was noon when he walked through the work camp, and the men were taking their lunch break, leaning against their gigantic machines as they ate sandwiches and sipped coffee. It looked normal enough, but Morrison had been bossing planetary construction long enough to know the bad signs. No one kidded him, no one griped. They simply sat on the dusty ground in the shade of their big machines, waiting for something else to happen. A big Owens Landmover had been damaged this time. It sagged on its broken axle where the wrecking gang had left it. The two drivers were sitting in the cab, waiting for him.
“How did it happen?” Morrison asked.
“I don’t know,” the chief driver said, wiping perspiration from his eyes.
“Felt the road lift out. Spun sideways, sorta.” Morrison grunted and kicked the Owens’ gigantic front wheel. A Landmover could drop twenty feet onto rock and come up without a scratched fender. They were the toughest machines built. Five of his were out of commission now.
“Nothing’s going right on this job,” the assistant driver said, as though that explained everything.
“You’re getting careless,” Morrison said. “You can’t wheel that rig like you were on Earth. How fast were you going?”
“We were doing fifteen miles an hour,” the chief driver said.
“Sure you were,” Morrison said.
“It’s the truth! The road sorta dropped out—”
“Yeah,” Morrison said. “When will you guys get it through your thick skulls you aren’t driving the Indianapolis speedway. I’m docking you both a half-day’s wages.”
He turned and walked away. They were angry at him now. Good enough, if it helped take their superstitious minds off the planet.
He was starting toward the mountain without a name when the radio operator leaned out of his shack and called, “For you, Morrie. Earth.” Morrison took the call. At full amplification he could just recognize the voice of Mr. Shotwell, chairman of the board of Transterran Steel. He was saying, “What’s holding things up?”
“Accidents,” Morrison said.
“More accidents?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Shotwell said, “But why, Morrison? It’s a soft planet on the specs. Isn’t it?”
“Yes sir,” Morrison admitted unwillingly. “We’ve had a run of bad luck. But we’ll roll.”
“I hope so,” Mr. Shotwell said. “I certainly hope so. You’ve been there nearly a month, and you haven’t built a single city, or port, or even a highway! Our first advertisements have appeared. Inquiries are rolling in. There are people who want to settle there, Morrison! Businesses and service industries to move in.”
“I know that, sir.”
“I’m sure you do. But they require a finished planet, and they need definite moving dates. If we can’t give it to them, General Construction can, or Earth-Mars, or Johnson and Hearn. Planets aren’t that scarce. You understand that, don’t you?”
Morrison’s temper had been uncertain since the accidents had started. Now it flared suddenly. He shouted, “What in hell do you want out of me? Do you think I’m stalling? You can take your lousy contract and—”
“Now now,” Mr. Shotwell said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean anything personally Morrison. We believe—we know—that you’re the best man in planetary construction. But the stockholders—”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Morrison said, and signed off.
“Rough, rough,” the radio operator murmured. “Maybe the stockholders would like to come out here with their little shovels?”
“Forget it,” Morrison said, and hurried off.
Lerner was waiting for him at Control Point Able, gazing somberly at the mountain. It was taller than Everest on Earth, and the snow on its upper ranges glowed pink in the afternoon sun. It had never been named.
“Charges all planted?” Morrison asked.
“Another few hours.” Lerner hesitated. Aside from being Morrison’s assistant, he was an amateur conservationist, a small, careful, graying man.
“It’s the tallest mountain on the planet,” Lerner said. “Couldn’t you save it?”
“Not a chance. This is the key location. We need an ocean port right here.” Lerner nodded, and looked regretfully at the mountain. “It’s a real pity. No one’s ever climbed it.”
Morrison turned quickly and glared at his assistant. “Look, Lerner,” he said.
“I am aware that no one has ever climbed that mountain. I recognize the symbolism inherent in destroying that mountain. But you know as well as I do that it has to go. Why rub it in?”
“I wasn’t—”
“My job isn’t to admire scenery. I hate scenery. My job is to convert this place to the specialized needs of human beings.”
“You’re pretty jumpy,” Lerner said.
“Just don’t give me any more of your sly innuendoes.”
“All right.”
Morrison wiped his sweaty hands against his pants leg. He smiled faintly, apologetically, and said, “Let’s get back to camp and see what that damned Dengue is up to.”
They turned and walked away. Glancing back, Lerner saw the mountain without a name outlined red against the sky.
Even the planet was nameless. Its small native population called it Umgcha or Ongja, but that didn’t matter. It would have no official name until the advertising staff of Transterran Steel figured out something semantically pleasing to several million potential settlers from the crowded inner planets. In the meantime, it was simply referred to as Work Order 35. Several thousand men and machines were on the planet, and at Morrison’s order they would fan out, destroy mountains, build up plains, shift whole forests, redirect rivers, melt ice caps, mold continents, dig new seas, do everything to make Work Order 35 another suitable home for homo sapiens’ unique and demanding technological civilization.
Dozens of planets had been rearranged to the terran standard. Work Order 35
should have presented no unusual problems. It was a quiet place of gentle fields and forests, warm seas and rolling hills. But something was wrong with the tamed land. Accidents happened, past all statistical probability, and a nervous camp chain-reacted to produce more. Everyone helped. T
here were fights between bulldozer men and explosions men. A cook had hysterics over a tub of mashed potatoes, and the bookkeeper’s spaniel bit the accountant’s ankle. Little things led to big things.
And the job—a simple job on an uncomplicated planet—had barely begun. In headquarters tent Dengue was awake, squinting judiciously at a whiskey and soda.
“What ho?” he called. “How goes the good work?”
“Fine,” Morrison said.
“Glad to hear it,” Dengue said emphatically. “I like watching you lads work. Efficiency. Sureness of touch. Know-how.”
Morrison had no jurisdiction over the man or his tongue. The government construction code stipulated that observers from other companies could be present at all projects. This was designed to reinforce the courts’ “method-sharing” decision in planetary construction. But practically, the observer looked, not for improved methods, but for hidden weaknesses which his own company could exploit. And if he could kid the construction boss into a state of nerves, so much the better. Dengue was an expert at that.
“And what comes next?” Dengue asked.
“We’re taking down a mountain,” Lerner said.
“Good!” Dengue cried, sitting upright. “That big one? Excellent.” He leaned back and stared dreamily at the ceiling. “That mountain was standing while Man was grubbing in the dirt for insects and scavenging what the saber-tooth left behind. Lord, it’s even older than that!” Dengue laughed happily and sipped his drink. “That mountain overlooked the sea when Man—I refer to our noble species homo sapiens—was a jellyfish, trying to make up its mind between land and sea.”
“All right,” Morrison said, “that’s enough.” Dengue looked at him shrewdly. “But I’m proud of you, Morrison, I’m proud of all of us. We’ve come a long way since the jellyfish days. What nature took a million years to erect we can tear down in a single day. We can pull that dinky mountain apart and replace it with a concrete and steel city guaranteed to last a century!”
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