The Hamelin Plague

by A Bertram Chandler

  He said, "Having a common enemy should have made us see the folly of our ways; should have obliged us, all of us humans who survive, to pull together—"

  "You aren't tough enough, Barrett," said the admiral. "You're too much of an idealist."

  CHAPTER 8

  Even so, Barrett sensed that he had risen in the admiral's estimation. What he had done, with the only makeshift weapon available to him, had been approved by the gunnery specialist. He felt himself warming toward the older man when Keane said gruffly, "You've a funeral to organize, Barrett. That's your job, as master. Then you can go below to get your head down, if you like. I'll take over. It's many a year since I stood a watch, but I'm still capable."

  "There's also damage to check," said Barrett. "We have to find out if anything important got hit. The radar, for example."

  Pamela was back on the bridge. She looked at the bullet holes, the broken glass. She said, "I'm glad you made them pay for this, Tim."

  "I'm sorry I was driven into it," he replied soberly. "Now, as you know, I'm short-handed. Karl's at the wheel, and Joe should be getting his head down again. Do you think you can organize a party to get poor—"

  "His name was Clarry," said the girl, looking at the dead lookout. "I heard one of the others call him that."

  "All right. Get Clarry carried down to the afterdeck, and if there's anybody near and dear to him among the survivors, keep 'em under control. Then you can have those two pirates carried aft, too. You saw what we did with the last funeral; you should be able to get things ready for me."

  She said, "I'll try. And I'll get somebody up here with a hose, too, for the blood."

  He thought, She is hard. But this is a time when hardness is essential.

  He left matters in her hands, prowled through the wheelhouse and chartroom. All the windows had been smashed by the rifle fire but, luckily, the binnacle was undamaged. (Karl would soon have sung out if such had not been the case.) The radar casing was scored by a glancing bullet but, to Barrett's great relief, the set was still operational. Fantastically, it was in the radio office, abaft wheelhouse and chartroom, that the most serious damage had been sustained. Bullets had whistled through the wheelhouse windows and through both open doorways into the wireless room; others had smashed through the side ports. Maloney was uninjured, but he was far from happy. With Ryan, the ex-telegraphist, he was tearing down panels, exposing to view a shocking mess of broken glass and severed wiring. "But we haven't got the spares," he was complaining bitterly. "We haven't got the spares."

  "How serious is it, Bill?" asked Barrett.

  "Bloody serious, Tim. Bloody serious. We can't send, and we can't receive. And there's not a decent receiver aboard the ship—just these bloody absurd little transistors with no range at all."

  "The ship's broadcast receiver?" suggested Barrett.

  "You know bloody well it went on the blink on the way up from Burnie. I was supposed to be getting spares for it this time in Sydney." He threw up his pudgy hands in despair. "I was going to make a stab at getting in touch with that poor bloody Russian in orbit. I suppose he's still up there. I was going to keep my ears flapping for all the hams who must still be operating. I was going to—aagh! What does it matter?"

  "There's the VHF," said Barrett. "The Pilotphone."

  "And what range has that got? Can we talk to a cosmonaut a thousand miles up? Can we have a friendly chat with a ham in Greenland?"

  "I suppose not," said Barrett.

  "I should bloody well think not!" exploded Maloney.

  Barrett left the experts to it, went back outside. The admiral was pacing up and down, a pair of binoculars about his neck, every inch the complete watch officer in spite of his informal civilian attire.

  Barrett said, "The radio's had it."

  "My dear boy," said Keane, "naval battles were fought, and won, long before Mr. Marconi started fouling up the ether."

  "They were lost, too," said Barrett.

  The admiral laughed tolerantly.

  Barrett went below, passing through the officers' flat on his way to the poop. He looked into his cabin. Jane was back in the bunk. She was sleeping. Christ, he thought, not without envy, how that woman can slow it away!

  He continued down through the accommodation, on his way aft. Most of the survivors were gathered on the after-deck. There were three long bundles there. Somebody had lashed them in blankets rather than sewing them in canvas. There was the painting stage, its horns removed, protruding over the side. There was the clean, bright, new Red Ensign.

  Pamela approached him. She handed him the book, the Ship Captain's Medical Guide, that useful volume covering every medical and surgical contingency in the life of Man, from the womb to the tomb, from childbirth to the burial service. She had marked the place, Barrett saw.

  He said, "Will you have the first body placed on the board?"

  "Yes, Captain," she replied.

  Then there was a little woman confronting Barrett—a little, shabby, nondescript woman, of the type that is almost invisible in normal circumstances. But Barrett could see her now. He could see that she had suffered great loss —the marks of it on her face were all too evident. He could see that she was not far from tears.

  She whispered, "Captain, he was a good boy, my Clarry. He was a good boy, and never forgetful of his duty. You'll be writing a report, won't you? And you'll put it all in, so that he gets some recognition. I've all his father's medals at home still."

  "Yes," said Barrett, "he did his duty."

  And I suppose he did, when it was almost too late, he thought He might have bolted for cover instead of hanging on to the whistle lanyard the way he did. We didn't get much warning, but it was just enough.

  He said, "I'll do what I can."

  "Thank you, Captain. Thank you."

  And then there was the service, and the consigning of the bodies to the deep: the body of the murdered man (dead, after all, through his own negligence) and the bodies of two of his murderers (who would have killed more people had not their victim made belated amends). And there was Barrett, morbidly wondering who would bury him when it came to his turn, and the solemn faces and the hushed voices, and Barrett, wanting to get back to an atmosphere of more or less cheerful efficiency, hurried back to the bridge.

  "I'm quite happy up here, Barrett," the admiral told him. "Why not go below and get your head down? You can take evening stars if we haven't picked up anything by sunset."

  Barrett thanked him and went down to his cabin. Jane was still sleeping.

  He undressed quietly, threw on a dressing gown and went to the bathroom. He remembered that he still hadn't done anything about water rationing, but he was tired and dirty and sticky with stale perspiration, and the pleasure in renewed cleanliness outweighed all his worries. He went back to his cabin for razor and aerosol lather, shaved carefully in front of the bathroom mirror.

  When he returned to his room after shaving, Jane was still asleep. He began to feel resentful. He thought, She's had a rough time, but so has everybody else. Other people are pulling their weight—Pamela, the admiral, and Ryan in the radio office, and those two motor mechanics who're lending a hand in the engine-room and—after all, as wife of the chief officer—or the acting captain—Jane has more standing in the ship than any of these others. She should be setting the example. The least she could do would be to hold my hand and make wifely noises from time to time.

  He flung himself on his settee in his dressing gown and tried to sleep. He knew it was important that he maintain himself as fresh as possible for whatever emergencies would arise in the future, and he was certain that there would be such emergencies. But sleep would not come. At last he got up and decided to look in the bookcase in the officers' smoking room in the vain hope that there would be some magazine there, or some paperback, that he had not already read.

  As he passed the door of the second mate's cabin—open, but with the curtain pulled partially across—he heard Pamela call his name softly. He
went in. She was in the bunk, her face and neck and shoulders very dark against the linen, her hair lustrous against the white of the pillow.

  "Who's holding the fort?" she asked.

  "Your uncle. He seemed very pleased with me after the recent unpleasantry. He thinks I'll make a gunnery officer yet."

  She said, "He has his little ways, but he's not at all bad when you get to know him. If you two stop fighting each other we shall get someplace yet."

  "Where?" he asked, with a sudden descent into deep depression.

  "What do you mean?"

  He said, "Have you ever had those spells when everything seems futile? When life boils down to jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, but no jam today? Ever. It seems to me, sometimes, that human beings have been constructing this peculiar sort of hell for themselves ever since our first ancestors decided to come down out of the trees or to walk on two legs instead of four or whatever it was they did. Are we so much better than the things that are trying to wipe us out? Or that have wiped us out, as a race. Have we the right to fight back?"

  She laughed softly. "Tim, Tim. Who's talking? You or your glands? I'm a woman, you know, and I'm not a fool, and I've seen how things are with you."

  And he could see how things were, too. He could see that the bedclothes were slipping down as she talked, and that under the sheets she was naked. Her breasts were as deeply tanned as the rest of her.

  He said stiffly, "There are still certain loyalties—"

  "Loyalties be buggered," she said, with a coarseness that somehow did not shock. "For all we know, we're the only survivors. We may have to find ourselves an island, and you'll be the king and you'll make your own laws, and if you want a harem, why not?"

  "I can guess who will be king," he told her. "And it won't be me. Three bands and a diamond on the sleeve are somewhat outranked by gold braid up to the elbow. In any case, where are we getting the oil fuel from to go island hunting? To say nothing of fresh water."

  "Don't quibble," she said. "Life's too short."

  He was finding it hard to look away from her erect nipples, pink against the brown skin. At last he did so. And to look at her face was worse. (Or better.) There was no mistaking the invitation in the eyes, on the wide, generous mouth. He wondered how he had ever thought her face hard. And he thought, Surely, after all this, I have earned something. Surely we have earned something, a little respite from the heat and labor of the day.

  He kissed her then, and her slim arms were about him, pulling him to her. He no longer felt any shadow of doubt and he was reluctant to pull away, yet he did so.

  He said a little shakily, "There are some occasions when privacy is essential, and this is one of them."

  She said, "Darling, don't be long."

  Barrett went to the door to shut and to lock it. But first of all he had to pull the curtain back and clear—and found himself face to face with Jane.

  She said tonelessly, "I woke up. I went up on the bridge to find you, to be with you. The admiral told me you had gone below."

  He said, "I was discussing water rationing with Miss Henderson."

  She said, "I suppose that if people go nudist they'll save on water by having no clothes to wash."

  Conversation tended to lag thereafter.

  Jane went back into Barrett's cabin. Barrett turned to Pamela, but she made a wordless gesture that said, as plainly as speech, Not now, you fool.

  Barrett thought of moving into the officer's room, then remembered that it was now occupied by Ryan, who was acting as Maloney's junior.

  He went into the smoking room and stretched himself out on the settee. He remembered that it had last been occupied by the dead man from the burning fishing boat off Cape Baily.

  He told himself it didn't matter, and this time, to his surprise, he did go to sleep.

  Pamela called Barrett late in the afternoon, bringing him a tray with tea and sandwiches. She said briskly, "I've fed all the other animals. Now it's your turn."

  He thanked her. "I suppose the situation is more than somewhat sticky."

  "It is," she agreed. "Uncle Peter's completely lost. He borrowed somebody's sextant and tried to get a position line, but his sums wouldn't come out at all. And he can't get any joy out of your radar. And Ryan and your Mr. Maloney are still sweating and slaving in the radio office and getting no place."

  Barrett said, "I didn't mean that"

  "There's more yet. Everybody's whining about the fresh water rationing. I had a few words with Mr. Ferris and got it organized."

  "And I didn't mean that."

  She grinned ruefully. "I know damn well you didn't. Anyhow, your so charming wife will have to face facts. The world, the secure (fission and fusion bombs notwithstanding) familiar world that we all knew, has come to an end. We have to start afresh, if we can, and make up a new set of rules as we go along."

  "Even so," muttered Barrett.

  "Even so," she stated flatly. "Now drink up your tea like a good boy and then go and find out where we are."

  He said, "You make a good mate."

  "Given the chance," she told him, "I'll make a good mate in the other meaning of the word."

  She left him then, and Barrett watched her as she passed through the doorway. She had changed from her bedraggled dress into khaki shirt and shorts that had belonged to the second officer, and she was one of those women whose femininity is accentuated by male attire. Even so, thought Barrett ruefully, there are loyalties. He sipped his tea and nibbled a sandwich. He thought, There can't be much bread left. I suppose somebody on board is capable of doing some baking. While the flour lasts.

  He got up from the settee and went through to the bathroom, splashed water from the salt tap over his face. It refreshed him after a fashion. He walked to his cabin. The door was shut, but not locked. Jane was in the bunk, her face turned to the bulkhead. She might have been asleep, but he did not think so. He pulled out a drawer, took from it a clean shirt, clean shorts and clean socks. He transferred the shoulder boards from the dirty shirt to the clean one. He dressed quietly. Then, on his way to the door, he paused.

  "Jane..." he said softly.

  There was no reply.

  He put out his hand, touched her shoulder gently. She squirmed violently away from his hand. He muttered a curse, left his cabin and went up to the bridge.

  The sun was setting as Barrett got out his sextant and tables and work book, busying himself with the preparations for his evening-star nights. The admiral watched with interest. He said, "One gets rusty, Barrett."

  Barrett said, "You have to keep in practice, sir."

  The admiral said, "You're right. And all of us who have been lucky enough to survive will have to learn to be more flexible. In more ways than one." He seemed embarrassed. "Yes, in more ways than one. There must be clear thinking, on all matters."

  "Too right," agreed Barrett absently. He went out to the wing of the bridge with his sextant, brought the true and reflected images of the hard horizon into exact line, read the scale. There was no Index error. He should be able to obtain a good fix.

  "On all matters," repeated the admiral.

  "Such as?" asked Barrett.

  "I'm very fond of my niece," said the admiral. "And now, of course, I stand in loco parentis to her. Normally, I should be horrified if I learned that she was contemplating a liaison with a married man. But these are not normal times."

  "You can say that again," said Barrett.

  "If," went on the admiral, "it turns out that we are the only survivors, then you, so far as I am concerned—and so far as she is concerned—are the only eligible male in this little community. And I—" Barrett caught his eye, and he corrected himself hastily, although not very convincingly. "And we shall be making our own laws."

  "In other words," said Barrett, "the king can do no wrong, and the crown prince by marriage can have as many wives as he likes."

  "Crudely put, Barrett," growled the admiral. "But essentially correct. I would add, however, that the kin
g will have something to say on the subject of divorce." He paused, paced up and down the wing of the bridge for a few moments. "Of course, if any sort of civilization has survived, that will put an entirely different complexion on matters."

  "Maybe yes," said Barrett. "Maybe no."

  "Why, you—"

  "Sir," said Barrett, "it's a bloody pity that I—that we —have this private and personal mess to contend with as well as the real one, the big one. But I guess history is full of such cases: Cleopatra interfering with the smooth running of the Roman Empire, Henry VIII breaking with the Church because the Pope wouldn't let him divorce his wives, and so on. Meanwhile, survival is the main item on the agenda. And getting a good position will be a step in that direction."

  He looked up and around. Jupiter had been visible since just before sunset, but it would have given him only a single position line. But now the twinkling yellow point of light that was Alpha Centauri was showing to the south'ard, and there was Canopus, and there were the bright stars of Orion with Sirius, the faithful dog of the heavenly hunter, to bear them company.

  Quickly, efficiently, Barrett took his sights, taking his own time from the chartroom chronometer, jotting down altitudes, G.M.T. and log reading. He worked without haste, using the Alt-Azimuth tables, plotting his position lines directly on the chart. They intersected with only a small "cocked hat." The ship was a little to the south of the dead reckoning position, a little to the east, but no major alteration of course would be necessary.

  Barrett measured off the distance to go, divided it by the vessel's speed.

  "E.T.A. is 0700 hours," he told the admiral.

  CHAPTER 9

  They divided the night into three watches—Barrett standing from 8:00 p.m. until midnight, Pamela from midnight until 4:00 a.m., and the admiral from 4:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m.