The Deirdre

by Michael Schulkins

  “How long is that?” asked Bemis.

  “Fifteen minutes, if the sand is falling on Earth,” I said.

  “I’m after the hens then,“ Chalk added. “I ‘spect the cap’n’ll not object too strenuous once he sees they’s already stowed.”

  I helped Bemis collect the wayward cylinders, batteries, spare hoses and the like that had deserted his hammock, saying as I did so, “In any case, Calvin, Merriwether refused the Beast when he was given the opportunity, and I for one say he has missed his chance.”

  “True enough,” Bemis said. “But if he can’t be persuaded to part with enough water, we’ll have no choice but to go with him.”

  “There’s time enough to fetch one last load from the galley,” I said. “We’ll inform the others of our intentions at the muster.”

  The first thing I saw upon entering the galley—I had purloined a fresh battery out of the Christmas heap, thinking it my due for the labor of transporting it—was a hen soaring majestically over the cookstove, with the cacophonous rooster in hot pursuit, and Chalk not far behind, none of them within six feet of the deck. As I watched, several more hens joined in the fun.

  Back home, the chicken, in all the varieties I am familiar with, is considered a flying creature only as a matter of courtesy, but once established in the Moon, your typical hen is suddenly the equal of an eagle or an albatross in the matter of flight, or believes she is anyway, and is often rather full of herself over the fact.

  Chalk was handicapped in his pursuit of the hens by being encased in a bulbous pressure suit, but at least he had tolerable air to breathe. The birds were far more nimble in their aerial acrobatics (although Chalk was not half bad), but were clearly starting to feel the effects of the foul atmosphere, which I expect by then consisted mostly of useless nitrogen, the deadly carbons monoxide and dioxide, smoke and dust particles for body, and a smattering of exotic poisonous gases for flavor.

  Mister Kent, fortunately still inside his suit, stood surrounded by the remaining supplies, waving his arms and offering encouragement, if no real assistance, to Chalk in his game with the hens.

  “Chalk,” I said, “you’re simply entertaining them with those antics, you know.”

  “And how would you go about catching them then, Samuel?” he said, lunging at a hen.

  “I wouldn’t try,” I insisted.

  Chalk managed to grab one of the hens by her feet, but it was only a moment before she slipped through his sausage-link fingers and soared free, cackling wildly, whether out of spite or in triumph over her escape I am not expert enough to say.

  “So you’ll be leavin’ them ta expire then, I suppose,” said Chalk as he fell back to the ground. “And it bein’ your wondrous idea ta begin with.” Then he clucked his disapproval, sounding uncannily like a hen.

  “I suggest you place yon haggis on the deck, then toss in a handful of their preferred grub.”

  “And what’s a haggis then?”

  I reached out and lifted the captain’s spare pressure suit off the floor.

  “I expect they’re a mite sharp-set by now,” I continued, “not to mention intoxicated by the noxious air. Once the cock crosses the neck ring in pursuit of his supper, the hens will follow.”

  My scheme was so obviously enlightened that he did not even comment upon it, but went straight away in search of chicken feed. A minute later, I had positioned the haggis, Chalk applied the bait, and the rooster, whom I had looked forward to dining upon, even as vacuum jerky, led his charges through the neck ring and into the trap.

  Easing the last of the six hens inside—by then they were staggering about like drunken sailors, thanks to the bad air—Chalk secured the helmet, inflated the suit, and, accompanied by copious if muffled cackling, said, “A clever ruse, Samuel, if I do say so. You’d best not advertise yer skills so boldly, though, else you’ll find yerself Jimmy Ducks by ‘n’ by, an’ that’s a fact.”

  “Who is Jimmy Ducks?” I said.

  Chalk chuckled as he raised the bloated, squirming, crowing haggis onto its empty boots. “Like I says, you are, mate, ‘less I miss my guess. Jimmy Ducks is what we calls the man minds the poultry aboard ship. Now, you an’ Mister Kent take up the rest a the kit, if ya will, whilst I escort these beauties ta the airlock.” He grasped the suit and slung it over his shoulder.

  “It sounds like easy duty to me,” I said, filling Mister Kent’s outstretched arms with a large bundle full of cans and dried food. “But I expect these birds will be taking up residence in Lucky Strike before long. Eggs were going for two dollars apiece last time I was there.”

  “And what about you, then?” asked Chalk.

  “Well, I’d hope to fetch at least a sawbuck for any egg I might lay,” I said.

  “You’re not goin’ back then? Is that what yer sayin’?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean yes, that’s what I’m saying. I came up here for the prospecting, and that is what I aim to do, given half a chance.” I picked up the remaining bundles, shoved the heavily-laden Mister Kent gently into the tunnel’s mouth, and left the dark, emptied galley behind.

  There was barely room enough to stand once the last of us got into the airlock’s antechamber, so great was the wealth of swag piled there, and in fact several of the men had perched upon the heaps to leave room for the rest of us. Headlamps were off, ostensibly to save the batteries, and a single electric lantern illuminated the chamber from atop a mound of spare parts.

  Chalk was the last to arrive, and he immediately captured Captain Merriwether’s attention.

  “Chalk,” Merriwether called, radio crackling, “what are you doing with my extra suit?”

  “Which it’s housin’ the poultry, Cap’n.”

  “The chickens, in my suit? Chalk, you chuckleheaded imbecile, what—”

  “It were Samuel’s idea, Cap’n.”

  “I don’t care if—” Merriwether began.

  “Actually, it was my idea, sir,” said Mister Lang. “Waste not want not was my thinking.” It was my thinking, technically speaking, but at that moment Lang was welcome to it.

  Captain Merriwether’s sigh was loud over the radio. “Very well, Mister Lang. You will be responsible for the suit’s salvage, should we ever need to put a man inside it. Now, everyone is present, I see, so we shall—”

  “Oh dear,” said a voice, likely that of Watkins, “not everyone, Captain. What’s to become of poor Puss. Have any of you seen—”

  “Good God!” the captain exploded. “Mister Lang is shot and grievously wounded, the resonance engine is destroyed, the very Deirdre itself must be abandoned, and all you men concern yourselves with is the welfare of a brood of hens and the damnable ship’s cat.”

  “Fear not, Cap’n,” said Chalk then. “Puss is berthin’ with me.”

  “I don’t care if she’s—What? Where?” said the captain. “Not in with the chickens, surely.”

  “No, sir,” said Chalk. “Like I says, she’s bunkin’ with me. Toe the line fer muster now, Puss.” Chalk put a glove to his chest and a moment later a tiny, complacent, black and white feline face with two shining green eyes stared out of Chalk’s faceplate alongside the whaler’s unshaven chin.

  “Booger all,” said Perkins, “How—”

  “I don’t mind, Mister Perkins. She ain’t no bother.”

  “I expect not,” said Perkins. “It’s how Puss can stand it worries me.” He was rewarded with laughter all around, even from Chalk, I believe.

  For my part I had never taken on a passenger anywhere near as substantial and importunate as a full-grown cat. In fact, the only passengers I had entertained aboard my haggis were fleas. These were un-ticketed customers of course, stowaways if you will, yet I found that I did not object to their custom overly much. And upon reflection, I will say that one can do worse in the matter of passengers than a circus of fleas. They invariably travel light, with nary a steamer trunk among them, they consume very little in the way of ship’s stores, cheerfully drink whatever is
to hand, and are exceedingly versatile in their choice of accommodations, rarely occupying any particular berth for above two seconds at a stretch—and unlike barflies, they make no noise to keep the pilot awake.

  The captain returned to business then, saying, “Now we have two diggers outside, both with working resonance engines, as well as the traction engine that powers the dust boat. The diggers can haul the kit, and the steam tractor can pull its usual platform with a tent on board.”

  “Thank God,” said the tremulous voice of Mister Kent.

  “The diggers belong to the men, Captain,” said Mister Lang then.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Merriwether said. Then, “How are you holding up, Percy?”

  “I’ll be fine, sir,” he replied. “But the wound will need re-dressing before very long. I’m smelling fresh blood.”

  Then Bemis said, “Captain Merriwether, Sam and I don’t wish to return to Lucky Strike. We came out to find our fortunes in ice, and—” Here Bemis ran out of steam, but the gauntlet was on the ground for all to see nonetheless.

  “I see,” said Merriwether. “It’s not my place to deny you what is rightfully yours, and you have performed well and earned your way. Still—” he paused, then said, “Mister Lovelace, can the resonance engine in the digger belonging to Garrett and Watkins produce enough oxygen for—” He took a moment to count the sausages that encased his fingers. “For nine men?”

  There was no immediate response to his enquiry. I looked to where Lovelace’s spotless haggis slumped against the chamber’s rough-hewn wall.

  The captain said, “Mister Lovelace, are you unwell?” There was still no response. “Someone check to see if his radio’s working.”

  “I am with you, Captain,” said the engineer at last, in a tone reminiscent of Black Johnny’s when sunk into a trough of despair. “It’s only the work and sweat of half a lifetime that’s gone.”

  “I am heartily sorry for it, Mister Lovelace,” said the captain.

  “Gone in an instant,” the engineer mourned. “Years of careful, even pioneering engineering, reduced to scrap and ashes in a moment. And for what? For nothing. Simply the whim of a madman.” He stopped speaking then, and a sound I had never before heard from inside a pressure suit came over the radio. Lovelace was weeping for his lost machine.

  Merriwether said, “Let us leave Mister Lovelace to compose himself. Mister Perkins, what is your opinion? Can the one resonance engine support the needs of nine men for the, say, four days it will take us to reach Lucky Strike?”

  Perkins was also slow to respond. Finally, he said, “I expect it might, sir, given enough water, but then that may not be strictly necessary.” He paused, and for some reason no one else spoke to fill the silence. “It may only have to accommodate eight men,” he said at last. “I’d like to go with Clemens and Bemis, if they’ll have me.”

  “Mister Perkins—” the captain began.

  “The Deirdre is lost, Captain. ‘Twas played out even before John Jones and the men of the Hammer ‘n’ Tongs came calling. You’ve told us as much yourself. My commission with the Deirdre is up, as I see it, and still I’ve not struck it big in the Moon, as they say, not big enough for my liking anyway. But of course it’s up to the two of them if they’ll have me.”

  Perkins was probably the most knowledgeable, and certainly the most enterprising, of the Deirdres, as I weighed them, whether it be with a stick of dynamite or a six-gun. He would be worth two of Calvin Bemis, I suspected, and a round half-dozen of myself, particularly in the matter of prospecting and operating a mine.

  “I for one would be honored to have Mister Perkins aboard,” said I.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Calvin. ”Most definitely welcome.”

  “Thank you, men,” Perkins said. “I’ll do my best for you.”

  “I’ll sign on as well then, if I might.” It was Chalk who’d said this, of all people.

  “Chalk?” I said. “Why should you want to—”

  “Ever since I saved yer life that time in the D line—ya remembers that, don’cha, Samuel?”

  “Oh yes. Vividly,” I assured him.

  “Ever since that day, I’s felt kinda responsible for ya, shipmate. I couldn’t rest on me gold—what little there is of it, mind ya—back in Gloucester, with you an’ Calvin still diggin’ in the Moon. T’wouldn’t be right, ya see.”

  “Oh, to the devil with you then,” Merriwether barked. “Is there anyone else wants to desert me? If so, let’s hear it now.”

  I said, “This means we take on Puss as well, I suppose.”

  “We’ll need a tent then, since only two can fit into the cabin,” said Bemis—and I knew the deed was done.

  “Anyone else?” Merriwether repeated. “Don’t forget that there’s gold waiting for all of you men back on Earth. Even Bemis and Clemens have a share.”

  There was silence for a moment, then someone said, “What’s that noise?”

  I held my breath and listened. I heard a faint rhythmical squeaking which at first meant nothing to me, but after a few seconds Perkins identified it.

  “Booger me,” he whispered. “That’s someone opening the airlock.”

  Chapter Twelve

  For a moment I heard only the faint squeak of the airlock’s outer hatch wheel turning and the sound of eleven men breathing softly in their suits. Then Perkins said, “Where’re the pistols? Who has the pistols?”

  “Who is it?” someone said.

  “That’ll be the men of the Hammer ‘n’ Tongs, no doubt come to rob us of what they can,” said Captain Merriwether wearily. “Will we never stop paying for my heedless cupidity?”

  Tossing supplies in all directions, Perkins barked, “I ask you again. Have any of you seen the boogerin’ pistols?”

  “My apologies, Mister Perkins,” said Merriwether. “I’ve stowed them with my personal kit.” He rummaged in a hammock-shrouded bundle and drew out the two weapons.

  Next there came a distant rattling, and the slowly dying hiss of escaping air.

  “They’ve opened the ‘lock,” said Mister Lang from where he lay supine upon the vacuum jerky.

  The captain handed both of the pistols to Perkins. Perkins kept one for himself and passed the other to Bemis, who took it in his gloves, saying as he did so, “Will you pass over the ammunition please, Captain.”

  Merriwether did not reach for his kit. Instead he said, “There is none, Mister Bemis. We have only those shells that are left in the chambers.”

  “Can they hear us, do you suppose?” came a warning from someone more perspicacious than I.

  Calvin cracked open his pistol, exposing its six chambers. All were empty. Perkins held up the second reputed weapon a moment later, and dashed our hopes by showing us that it was as innocent of bullets as the first. He muttered, “And there I was, blazing away like there was no tomorrow.”

  The faster squeak of the outer hatch being dogged shut could only be heard as vibrations coming through metal, since the air had been let out of the ‘lock; still, I recognized the sound.

  “The pistols are fully loaded,” said Lang quite distinctly.

  “Thank you, Mister Lang,” intoned the captain.

  A valve screeched open, and again there came the sound of moving air. This time it was a portion of our own deeply perverted atmosphere rushing in to fill the ‘lock.

  “They’ll have a rude surprise if they expect to breathe for long in here,” said Mister Kent.

  The hissing of air subsided, and the wheel attached to the big sheet of aluminum that was the inner hatch began to turn. All eleven remaining Deirdres stood, lay, or crouched where they were, staring silently at the airlock.

  “Should we block the hatch?” someone said at last.

  “No,” whispered the captain. “That would be fruitless. We need to get away more urgently than they need to get in.”

  Ten or so seconds later the hatch swung toward us, pushing some of our Christmas presents aside as it came. Four helmet lamps
shone out of the airlock, their combined light thoroughly blinding us for a moment. They had plenty of charged batteries, then, I thought. Either that or they were fools. Or perhaps they thought to intimidate the Deirdres with such a spectacle. Was there another phalanx of miners waiting beyond the outer hatch, I wondered, or were these men the whole of the invasion force? After I got used to staring into those lamps, I saw that one of the men held a pistol out in front of his haggis. The weapon was aimed at no one in particular, but it was nevertheless prominently displayed.

  “What are you men doing here?” Captain Merriwether said. “This is Deirdre territory.”

  “Not no more,” said one of the invaders.

  “How’d they get out of the D line?” said a Deirdre.

  “Weren’t much of a cave-in,” said another of the interlopers. “So we dug ‘er out. Use more sticks next time,” he added, working in the barb.

  Perkins aimed his empty pistol at the nearest haggis in the ‘lock and hollered, “You men have no business here. Get out now or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” Bemis likewise held his empty pistol at the ready. It was a well played bluff on their part, but a bluff through and through nevertheless.

  “Not if I shoots you first,” said the man with the pistol.

  “Look around,” said Lang. “You’re outgunned, mate.“

  Having looked around, the first man said, “We expected most a ya’d be dead, thanks ta Johnny.” Then, “What’s goin’ on here?” He swept an arm over the piles of supplies, then exclaimed, “Lord, what’s the matter with him?” He pointed at the pressure suit playing host to the chickens. It lay uneasily alongside of Mister Lang, writhing and jerking as if whoever or whatever was inside of it was caught in the throes of an epileptic fit. I was about to say that the man had the bubonic plague, or some other notorious pestilence, just to see what effect the news might bring, but Captain Merriwether spoke first.

  “Chickens,” he said, with a rich disdain.

  “They’s all suited up,” said another of the invaders. “Why’re they—”