Southtrap

by Geoffrey Jenkins

  He put the jelly-fish back in the bottle and held up his hands like a showman. They were all aglow from handling the creature. Then he bent down and scrawled 'Quest' on the deck with the luminous slime, straightened up again, and grinned at us.

  'D'you see the jelly-fish's trailing tentacles? At the base of each one there's a group of cells which is sensitive to light. If I once start on the mysteries of phosphorescence you'll… you'll…' he was at a loss for words. 'It's what scientists don't know about it that's even more wonderful still. The photophores — those are the light-giving mechanisms on sea creatures — are so engineered, so perfectly planned…'He shook his head like a diver coming up from a deep dive. 'It's a miracle. They've found out that the light's produced by a substance called luciferin plus oxygen reacting in the company of an enzyme named luciferase…'

  He laughed back his own exuberance. 'See why they say we oceanographers are nuts? Why, even the krill are packed with wonders. They're those tiny creatures which are the basic diet of whales. Their sex-life is the most delicate and lovely thing I know — the male has a special very complex little hand complete with minute fingers, and with this he takes a little flask of sperm to the female during courtship…' He turned away, as if he realized he was over-reaching himself, and pitched the jelly-fish carefully into the sea.

  Then he resumed in a much more matter-of-fact voice. 'With conditions like these tonight, we could get a superb display of phosphorescence. But it seems to need a sort of trigger to set the whole sea alight. If you suddenly switch on a ship's radar, for instance, it's enough to do it. No one knows why it does, but it does.'

  Linn said, with a twitch of her lips, 'Why don't you ask the captain to switch it on then?'

  'I wish I could.'

  'He's standing in front of you.'

  'You're kidding!' he replied. 'If I'd known…'

  'Don't panic,' I assured him. 'I don't eat passengers. The radar should start working any time now. We're approaching the tanker lanes and if there's anything that needs watching with radar, human eyes, directionfinders, the lot, it's super-tankers. They'll mow you down without batting an eyelid…'

  Suddenly the sea switched on as if my words had liberated light. The whitecaps of the day's gale became vivid lantern-bearers of the night, rippling, foaming, recurving in fantastic shapes. The churning screw threw up a wide wake of what looked like a billion Bunsen-bumers of blue-green flame. The water which burst from the Quest's sharp cutwater was softer in colour than bursting napalm, harsher than phosphorus. All the waters to the horizon were a welter of living and moving light.

  Toby Trimen's recital of the scientific names of the creatures staging this fabulous display sounded like an incantation: 'Ceratium! Peridinium! Noctiluca!'

  Linn whispered to me, as if speaking louder would destroy the magic, 'John — have you ever seen anything like this before?'

  I found myself whispering back. 'Once. Further South. Not anything as spectacular as this, though.'

  'It's fabulous… it's… there are no words…'

  It was I, however, who was at a loss for words at what followed. As we stood entranced, there was a series of loud clicks: the Quest's masts, derricks, wire stays, the oval of the stack, the extremities of the deckhouses and bridge, the radar and D/F aerials all lighted up, each a flaming point of light. The clicking reverberated like a chorus of ten thousand beetles.

  I wheeled round to face Linn and Toby Trimen. Linn's fine hair was surrounded by the sort of golden halo you see on old frescoes in Italy; the fire crackled off the oceanographer's auburn top-knot and contrasted with the jelly-fish's luminous slime on his hands. Then there.came striding towards us the figure of Miss Auchinleck, who had materialized out of the blackness of the stern. She looked like a devil with a flaming poniard in her mouth: the discharge spat off the end of her cigarillo-holder.

  The sight of her brought me back to earth.

  'John!.. what's happening?' gasped Linn.

  I answered a little unsteadily, as the unburning flames enveloped the ship. 'St Elmo's Fire! I've only heard about it — never seen it. It's caused by the buildup of electricity… it's discharging from every point of the ship…'

  Toby Trimen began to laugh; he looked like a fire-eater breathing out little bursts of blue-green.

  I went on, 'What's happened is that the Quest has become the conductor for a big electrical build-up in the atmosphere — that's why it was so oppressive all evening. It's a natural phenomenon — no need to be scared. It looks bad, but it won't last…'

  'But that noise, John!'

  It sounded like foil being crumpled by a thousand hands.

  That's the sound of the discharge. I believe it's harmless. But I'm worried about the radio and other instruments. It could damage them…'

  Persson came sprinting along the deck, trailing fire like a jet's afterburner.

  'Sir! Sir! What's happening! The radio's gone — it nearly burst my eardrums — everything's blown — '

  I repeated my explanation and added quickly. 'It'll pass. There's nothing to be done until it does.'

  The Quest was a fiery ship slicing through a burning sea; the firmament above our heads was black, except where Orion's belt cut it like a sword. Toby Trimen held up a hand in astonishment — it pulsed flame from the tip of each finger and thumb.

  I told them, 'St Elmo's Fire is believed to bring a ship bad luck. At any rate the U-boat aces of the last war thought so. One of the greatest of them — Kretschmer — found his U-boat enveloped in St Elmo's Fire just before it was sunk.'

  'I think they were wrong, John,' said Linn in a strange, subdued voice. 'Look at that.'

  She gestured astern of the ship. Holding position effortlessly above the jackstaff was a Wandering Albatross. He was the biggest I have ever seen. He must have measured four metres from wing-tip to wing-tip. As. he came into the ship's field of discharge, the individual feathers of his great wings stood out clearly demarcated. Each one became a tiny muzzle of soft flame which he aimed at us.

  Linn took my arm and held me to her, so that I felt the softness of her breast against my upper arm.

  'It looks — holy!' she burst out.

  The great bird lifted slightly as an updraught from the stack eddied in his direction. For a moment he hung there, the silent and luminous ambassador of the Southern Ocean.

  Then everything went black.

  The St Elmo's Fire had shut off as swiftly and dramatically as it had come. My eyes were still dazzled and I couldn't see the length of the Quest's deck.

  Then, as my eyes accustomed themselves to the change, I saw that the sea still flamed — a softer glow, a gentle feminine thing alongside the harshness of St Elmo.

  The Quest drove on into the blue-green ocean with its million lances and bickers of light. After a while this, too, began to fade, not suddenly but slowly, as the ship drew clear of the phosphorescent patch. Then finally we were in the night again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  'It's just a mess, sir,' Persson, the radio operator, handed me the RTT signal. 'I can't make head or tail of it.'

  A mess the radio-teletype slip was. Anything further from a weather report would have been hard to imagine. There was a garbled string of disconnected letters and figures.

  He stabbed the slip with his finger. 'ZRS — that's about all I can make out — that's Marion Island's call-sign.'

  We were on the Quest's bridge the next morning, Saturday. It was shortly after seven o'clock. What I had wanted was Marion's weather report at 6.45 a.m. as well as the first mainland Weather Bureau forecast at seven. The previous night I had ordered all the ship's clocks to be switched to GMT. This was because the buoy launch was scheduled for 10h00 GMT on Monday.

  'Looks like an ionospheric storm to me,' I remarked. 'That means a radio black-out, if it's bad.'

  'I've never sailed this way before, sir,' replied Persson. 'I haven't any experience of them. But after last night…'

  'The St Elmo's Fire was purely
a local phenomenon,' I assured him. 'An ionospheric storm is something very different. Sunspots. This is a year of maximum sunspot activity. We must expect trouble.'

  'It was bad enough last night, sir. All the instruments went for a burton. I worked halfway through the night getting 'em right again.'

  They're all okay, then?'

  'The radar's still flukey — I've nothing to test it out on. No ships or land.'

  That's the way it is in these waters, Persson, no ships, no land.'

  We had run clear of the Agulhas Bank during the night. The Quest's jerky motion in the short, savage seas of the Bank had given way to a long see-sawing up-and-under motion as she felt Antarctica's first great swells under her. Judging from the deserted decks and empty corridors of the ship, the members of the cruise found little to choose between the two types of motion.

  'No signals coming direct from the mainland?' I asked Persson.

  'No, sir,' he replied gloomily. They're more confused than Marion's signals — if that's possible.'

  'What's this grouping — ZRP?'

  'That's the SANAE station on Dronning Maud Land, on the mainland of Antarctica itself,' he answered. I was fiddling around trying to raise something or someone.

  'There's sometimes a relay via Mawson, the Australian ice station.'

  I made a mental note to check the Quest's magnetic compass. A magnetic storm can affect a compass to the extent of a couple of degrees. I would also have to check her gyro. She was equipped with the old type of gravity-controlled instrument which is inclined to wander when a ship is far South, and I didn't want any inaccuracies due to gyro error at the buoy's launch-point, still less in the vicinity of Prince Edward's dangerous approaches.

  There's nothing we can do but hope,' I told Persson. 'When's the next signal scheduled from Marion?'

  'At half-past nine, sir.'

  'My bet is that it will still be just as bad, Persson. Keep trying, though.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Even as I gave the order I knew I was kidding myself. I was well aware that what the weather might or might not be doing at Marion, over a thousand kilometres to the east, was as immaterial to the state of the Quest's immediate weather as would be a forecast from Gough Island, a thousand kilometres in the opposite direction, to the west. The Quest was completely on her own. It might be snowing on Prince Edward now, while the Quest swung through blue seas, a clear blue sky and a cool breeze.

  Suddenly I became aware of a commotion at the rear of the bridge. MacFie, the chief engineer, rushed up. His face was angry and flushed and for a moment I suspected he might have been having a liquid breakfast.

  'What the hell…?'

  'You'd better come below,' he snapped at me. He shredded a piece of oily waste between his powerful fingers. 'You've got a mutiny on your hands.'

  'What the devil are you talking about, Chief?'

  He glanced round the bridge. All eyes were on him. He had the sense not to blurt out anything further. He jerked his head. I followed. We had got only as far as the bridge companionway when he started again.

  'It's that bluidy ghost. And they're Irish. Bluidy Irish. They say they won't go on watch and the Norwegians are with 'em…'

  'Pull yourself together, man! Talk sense!'

  MacFie halted suddenly on the steel steps so that I was almost on top of him before I could stop myself. Close contact with MacFie meant the smell of oil, grease and an overlay of sweat.

  'It began with O'Byrne,' he growled. Then Reilly came into the act. He's a sea-lawyer, a trouble-maker, if ever there was one, blast him! Now the two Irish greasers have been joined by two Norwegian motor-men. They're all great pals. They're saying they won't stand watch. How the hell am I supposed to run the ship…'

  'What happened, Chief?'

  'You'd better read 'em the riot act. Or lay the bluidy ghost.'

  'MacFie!' I called. The note brought him up short. 'Come back here. I want an explanation, a proper one. Make it official.'

  'Goddamned Irish greasers!' he muttered to himself. Then he said, It was like this, sir. O'Byrne and Reilly were on the stint after midnight. O'Byrne went to his locker…'

  I broke in sharply. 'How much Tullamore Dew did O'Byrne bring aboard, Chief?'

  MacFie said drily, with a cynical, smile, 'I haven't run an engine-room all these years without learning a few tricks. If O'Byrne had any booze left, it wasn't much. I searched the place myself when we sailed. No, he'd stashed away some supper and was wanting a bite in the early hours.'

  'And so?'

  'His locker had been broken open. His plate of chow was gone.'

  This sounds to me like a storm in a teacup. Or in a dinner-plate. Surely you're capable of settling a little thing like this yourself, Chief.'

  He bridled under my tone. 'I've settled better men than O'Byrne and Reilly before now. But they're all in, and standing together. The whole ruddy watch. Even the electrician.'

  'Go on.'

  'O'Byrne wasn't too upset, I might say, when he missed his food. He went and told his chum Reilly. Reilly handed over his duties for a moment to O'Byrne and went to look. He came back and said he'd seen a ghost between the deep tank and the shaft tunnel. It's dark down there.'

  'Carrying O'Byrne's supper?'

  MacFie eyed me grimly. 'No. A sub-machine gun.'

  'Rubbish, Chief.'

  That's what I said. But he spread it around among the rest of 'em and now they're on his side.'

  I thought quickly. 'I'll have this out with Reilly myself. Chief, what have you heard about Captain Prestrud?'

  He appeared surprised. 'He's in hospital. Got hurt. That's why you've taken over.'

  'You didn't hear anything more on the engine-room grapevine?'

  'Is there more?'

  'Yes, but keep your mouth shut. I thought Reilly might have heard something and his Celtic temperament had embroidered it into a ghost story. Captain Prestrud died yesterday morning.'

  I'm truly sorry.' MacFie replied slowly. 'He was a great gentleman.'

  'The passengers don't know this either,' I added. 'Miss Prestrud and I decided to go ahead with the cruise as if nothing had happened.'

  'I'm certain Reilly and O'Byrne don't know,' MacFie said. 'If it had been Captain Prestrud's ghost, it wouldn't have acted that way anyhow.'

  'What d'you mean, Chief?'

  'Reilly said the ghost held the gun on him, down there next to the shaft tunnel. It backed away and vanished, he said.'

  'Anything else.'

  'Reilly keeps saying what big hands it had. The automatic was half-hidden in them.'

  Reilly stuck to his story when I confronted him in the engine-room. The little group of sullen strikers were gathered in a corner like guilty schoolboys. Except that they were frightened. Reilly was scared and his fear had infected the others.

  'Listen, Reilly,' I told him. 'If I search the ship myself, will that satisfy you?'

  Fear also made him truculent and impertinent. 'I know what that means. In half an hour you'll come back and feed us a load of crap that you didn't find a thing. You'll never have moved out of your cabin.'

  I wanted to take a swing at him, ugly little runt though he was.

  'You'll come along with me, Reilly. If you want to piss yourself, do it before we start.'

  It was the sort of talk the others understood. They laughed jeeringly. Reilly realized he was losing his grip. MacFie grunted satisfaction.

  'I'll come — but only if you have a gun,' answered Reilly. 'He had a gun. One of those automatics with a skeleton butt. I've seen 'em back home.'

  'Belfast, I'll bet,' I retorted. 'You didn't by any chance have to get out quick to save your skin, did you, Reilly?'

  The others were siding with me now. O'Byrne said mockingly, 'Go along with you now, Paddy boy. Show the big man you aren't scared.'

  Reilly turned on him angrily. 'It was your friggin' grub he pinched. Now I've got to friggin' well go and hunt him down.'

  My mind was busy while
I kept the exchange going. The only gun I knew of in the ship was Wegger's Luger. Wegger had the dogwatch; he'd be asleep now. I had no intention of going cap in hand to wake him and beg his gun just because a sea-lawyer of a greaser had claimed to have seen a ghost.

  I said to MacFie, 'Give me a spanner, Chief. A hefty one.' I addressed Reilly. 'If that's not enough for you, you can stay. Coming?'

  The tool MacFie handed me was big enough to drive a hole through the Quest's plating.

  Reilly asked, 'Now?'

  'Yes. Now.'

  He said in a whining tone, 'Ghosts don't walk around in daylight. And he had a gun.'

  I laughed derisively. 'Come on, Chief. Get back to work you others. Reilly can have a break until I come back and report to him on the incidence of the supernatural.'

  They didn't know what that meant, nor did I intend them to. They started to grin and break up. Reilly hung back undecidedly.

  I started my search with the shaft tunnel. It was dark and dank in the bilges, and noisy from the engines and the propeller shaft. MacFie held a torch. Bent double, we worked our way along the tunnel in the direction of the stern. My foot slipped on something. I thought it was a dead rat. MacFie directed his light beam on it.

  I eyed the pulped thing under my shoe and called above the noise to MacFie, This is the first ghost I know that eats cold boiled potato.'

  MacFie replied thoughtfully, 'So Reilly did see someone, after all.'

  I gripped the spanner tighter. 'Let's get on.'

  We completed our search of the shaft tunnel. There was nothing.

  Number 3 and 4 holds, abaft the stack, were likewise empty.

  We went for'ard and cased the forecastle, where the crew lived.

  Nothing.

  Number One hold was nearest to the foc's'le. When we had been through it without result, only Number 2 hold and the 'tween decks were still unaccounted for.

  We found ourselves in Number 2 hold among cases, packages, and all the miscellaneous things which go to make up a ship's cargo.