The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  To one member of the crew, however, the announcement came with a shock that was sickening. As steward for the four passengers and the ship’s few officers, Nacio Madeira Mendes was alone in the small dining salon when the first mate came in whistling cheerfully, thumbtacked the notice to the bit of plywood that served as bulletin board, studied his handiwork a moment and found it exceeding good, and then went back out on deck. Nacio came forward with natural curiosity to read the fatal words, interrupting his clearing of the breakfast dishes to do so. It took a few seconds for the full extent of the calamity to strike him, but when it did, the blood drained from his thin face, leaving him white and rigid with shock.

  Nacio Madeira Mendes had joined the Santa Eugenia in Lisbon for the sole purpose of reaching his native Rio de Janeiro with the minimum of trouble. His forged passport would almost certainly have caused investigation had he traveled as a passenger by either ocean liner or airplane, since at best it was a poor job. However, it was all that Nacio had been prepared to pay for, and certainly in his opinion ample for the purposes of a dining room steward, since cabin help were always in demand and under such conditions shipping agents paid small attention to papers. And at Rio, Nacio had anticipated no difficulty at all. The crew would be given their normal shore leave, and by simply not returning to the ship he would have been free in his native land with small chance of ever being located. The false passport would have been destroyed, or possibly even sold for a profit—for the name on it was nothing likes Mendes, and the picture might easily have been of almost anyone between the ages of twelve and sixty. His jaw clenched painfully. It had all been so simple up until that moment!

  Nacio Madeira Mendes was a medium-sized man, with a sharp but small beak of a nose, and a widow’s peak that divided his broad forehead the slightest bit off-center. The effect was to give his lean face a rather attractive appearance, heightened somewhat by the smoothness of skin that belied his forty-two years of age. Only the coldness of his eyes, to those few who ever bothered to note them, indicated that not only was the small tense man not as young as he appeared, but that his years had not been spent in careless abandon.

  As he stood swaying to the restless, creaking movement of the ship, bitter anger diffused him, flushing his face; anger at the captain for making his decision, at the storm for influencing the captain, but mostly at himself for being such an idiot. He should have jumped ship in Bahia, safely on Brazilian soil, and managed to reach Rio de Janeiro by pau de arara, or even by omnibus, neither of which was normally scrutinized by the police. But he had been so stupidly sure of arriving with the Santa Eugenia that he had wasted his time there in a ridiculous bar with a couple of even more ridiculous girls and had then staggered back like a docile imbecile to what was now going to be a prison-ship carrying him past his destination. Good God!

  His thin lips pressed themselves together tightly, leaving them bloodless, as he stared at the impartial bulletin board. Sebastian had told him when they had met in Lisbon that the opportunity of a lifetime awaited him; the chance to earn a fantastic sum for a few minutes’ work. And now he was being carried helplessly away from it! He tried to force down his anger and attempt a cold calculation of his position, but it was impossible. With the scheduled detour, the ship would not arrive in Montevideo for at least another four days, and Sebastian had been very clear that he had to be in Rio de Janeiro by the sixth of the month at the latest, or to forget the entire matter. And the sixth was tomorrow! Damn! And again damn! Why in the name of the beloved Saint whose job it was to watch over such fools as himself hadn’t he left the ship in Salvador de Bahia?

  He stood staring bitterly at the scrawled notice but in actuality only seeing the black turmoil of his thoughts. It was not until the hand on his arm had shaken him rather severely several times that he realized he was being addressed.

  “Bad news, Steward?”

  Even in his daze, Nacio recognized the other as being one of the four passengers, a small globular man with a full fat face and a hairline mustache curved under a tiny blob of a nose; a man named Dantas, or Dumas, or Dortas, or something like that; a man whose large black eyes were liquid and fathomless, and whose sparse graying hair seemed to have been painted in place. Nacio stared at him blankly.

  “Senhor?”

  The little man was patience itself. “I said, the notice seems to be somewhat of a shock to you.”

  “The notice?” Nacio forced his mind from the fateful meaning of the scrawled words, automatically assuming the semiservility of a steward. “No, senhor. I was merely a bit surprised. It really makes no difference to me.”

  The smaller man studied Nacio’s features a moment thoughtfully, and then changed his tactics. His voice became conversational. “You’re a Brazilian, are you not?”

  It was impossible to deny this; Nacio’s accent betrayed him in every word, even to this little man who spoke in a Spanish that was marked with the harsh gutturals of the Rio Plate. “A Brazilian? Yes, senhor, I am.”

  “And you aren’t disappointed that we shall not be stopping in Rio?”

  “Disappointed?” For a moment the complete inadequacy of the word almost removed Nacio’s rigid control. He forced back a wave of bitterness and even managed at last to shrug, even to force a deprecating smile. “Naturally, senhor, to a Brazilian our lovely Rio de Janeiro must always be the only city in the world. And not to see it, when one is actually so close …”

  “A pity.” The tiny fathomless eyes looked at him calculatingly. “I admire you, Steward. I admire the calm way in which you accept this—ah, this disappointment.” The small shoulders raised themselves delicately. “I think in your place I should be less brave.”

  Nacio had no choice but to fall back upon a cliché. “Senhor, in this life what one cannot overcome, one must accept.” Even as he said the words, he wished he could believe them.

  “Not always.” The little man dropped his eyes to the worn rug of the salon a moment and then raised them. “A person of ingenuity always seeks alternate routes to his goal. Different avenues. For example,” he continued evenly, “if I were you, I should still manage to get to Rio. Or at least to try.” He paused a moment and then added significantly, “And I should do it today.…”

  “Today?” Nacio studied the expression in the other’s eyes a moment. The deep liquid pools seemed to be trying to give him a message, but without success. Was the little man making fun of him? The thought induced bitterness. “How, senhor? By swimming?”

  “No,” said the little man gently. “By becoming ill.”

  The faint hope that the small passenger might actually have a workable plan disappeared; it was obvious that the man was merely insane. Nor in his present mood did Nacio feel like wasting the time to humor him. “If you will please pardon me, senhor—”

  The tiny hand that shot out to grasp his arm and detain him was far stronger than Nacio would have imagined.

  “Ill!” said the smaller man firmly. “Sick! The captain of this ship is not the type to allow a member of his crew to suffer, and possibly to die, simply because he wishes to avoid some rough weather.”

  Nacio’s eyes narrowed as the words of the other slowly began to germinate. It was, indeed, an idea. Possibly, even, a good idea. “But what kind of illness?”

  “Appendix, I should say.” The smaller man looked at him quite evenly; no trace of expression marked his full, fat face. “Now, tell the truth. You do not feel well, do you?”

  Nacio studied the other carefully. “No, senhor. I do not.”

  “Good! I mean, I’m sorry to hear it. And, of course, you also have a terrible pain in your lower groin.” Nacio’s hand went automatically to his stomach. “Over a bit and a trifle lower,” said the small passenger critically, and moved Nacio’s hand. He studied the effect. “That’s better.”

  “But—”

  “And nausea, of course.” Dorcas—or Dantas, or Dumas, or something like that—considered the frozen face of the steward a moment, and then nodd
ed. “I’ve seen sicker people, but I suppose it will have to do. You’d better get to your bunk. An infected appendix can be a serious affair.”

  “There’s just one thing—”

  “I shall advise the officials.” The small hand came up to grasp Nacio’s arm again, urging him toward the door. Nacio held back. It was quite obvious that this Dantas—or Dumas or Dortas or something like that—had his own reasons for wanting the ship to dock in Rio, and was only using him as a Judas goat. It was true that the scheme might well serve his, Nacio’s, purposes, but still …

  “Just why are you doing this, senhor?”

  “Why?” The little man smiled. “Let us say that I, too, have suffered the pangs of homesickness, and I appreciate them in others. Or, if you prefer, let us say that I have a distorted sense of humor and enjoy practical jokes. Or even, let us say,” he added coldly, his smile disappearing instantly, “that I recognize illness when I see it, and in my estimation you should be lying down in your bunk. Now!”

  His hand propelled Nacio closer to the door. The thin steward allowed himself to be led. Regardless of the other’s motives, the fact remained that this could well be the solution to his own problem. He assumed an expression of pain, grasped his lower groin firmly, and nodded. “If you will pardon me, senhor …”

  “Of course,” said the small passenger pleasantly.

  He looked after the departing figure of the steward a moment thoughtfully, sighed, and then made his way to the deck. The sky had darkened considerably, taking on a weird yellowish cast, eerie at that hour of the morning; the wind had risen, shrilling through the guy ropes of the deck cranes, heavy with the threat of coming rain. He stepped daintily across the rope-falls that snaked their way across the sloping deck, and finally located the mate. He tapped the tall young man on the shoulder a bit imperiously.

  “Your steward is quite ill.” His voice was raised over the wind, but still seemed to be a trifle accusing, as if the affair were somehow the mate’s fault.

  “Ill? The steward?”

  Miguel was rather surprised to hear this particular passenger evoking any great interest in anything, let alone the health of a crew member. This one had kept to himself throughout the voyage, seldom if ever spoke at the dining table, avoided even the slight entertainment the ship offered, and was usually found at night leaning over the bow rail, staring out into the empty blackness.

  “Ill,” said the passenger patiently. “In great pain. It’s rather obvious that the man is suffering from a badly infected appendix.”

  The mate stared at him a moment, shrugged, and then turned back to his work, bawling an order to the deckhands. The small passenger frowned; his voice became icy.

  “Mate! Did you hear what I said? I said—”

  Miguel cast his eyes toward the heavens in supplication; the growing fury there certainly offered no solution. “All right! All right!” he said with irritation. “I’ll have a look at him.”

  He shouted out a string of orders and turned toward the bow, shaking his head in disgust. He stamped up the tilted deck, turned into a passageway, and marched angrily toward the forecastle. Stewards! And passengers! The steward had probably only been sampling the wine; or in even greater probability was only suffering from the increased roll of the ship. And with all the work to be done on deck, he had to waste time going off to hold the man’s hand!

  He ducked his head beneath the low portal of the forecastle and peered downward, allowing his sight to become accustomed to the dimness. A low, tortured moan came to him, intermingled with the snores of several crew members who were off duty, and also punctuated by the creaking of the ship’s beams, louder and more threatening here in the confined space. The mate edged forward, frowning down at the white old-young face on the bunk. Nacio stared back. There was the rattle of a metal basin as the mate’s foot inadvertently came in contact with it; the stench of vomit came to him.

  “I hear you’re sick.…”

  Nacio wet his lips, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine, clearing the dishes, and the next—” His pale face cringed as another spasm shook it.

  Miguel’s irritation drained away in an instant. This man was honestly sick; this was no result of wine-sampling, nor of enjôo. And as a good first mate who someday wanted to be a good master, the welfare of the crew ranked high among his responsibilities. He bent forward solicitously. “Do you have pain?”

  The man in the bunk tried to raise himself on his elbows and then turned his head swiftly aside to avoid vomiting on the mate. He hung over the edge of his bunk a moment, retching violently, and then fell back. “My side …” One hand clutched at his lower groin on the outside of the thin cover; beneath the blanket his other hand tightly cupped the bottle of ipecac he had stolen from the dispensary.” It hurts.…”

  The first mate straightened up, studying the white face in the bunk with deep concern. “You’ll be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll see to it. I’ll be right back.”

  He mounted the forecastle steps thoughtfully, paused a moment to catch his balance as the ship struck an even greater roller, and then made his way through the creaking ship. This could be bad; very bad. The ship’s dispensary was barely adequate for setting broken bones, or settling men’s stomachs after a too-hectic shore leave, and he also knew that none of the passengers was a medical man, or at least none of them carried the title. An infected appendix could be serious trouble.

  Captain Juvenal watched him climb the companionway to the bridge, recognizing in the scowl and the rigid set of the shoulders that something had happened to upset his first mate.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “The steward.” The mate braced himself against the rail. “He’s sick. I think it’s his appendix. And bad.”

  Captain Juvenal frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.” Miguel shook his head. “He has all the symptoms—pain in his side, and he’s throwing up.…” He mentally scolded himself for not having checked to see if the man had a fever, but then dismissed the thought. Any man that sick obviously had to have a fever. He sighed. “He’s not in good shape.”

  Captain Juvenal’s eyes went to the black skies; clouds boiled closer, split in the distance by jagged flashes of lightning. His large hand locked to the rail, balancing himself, as he negated the first thought that had automatically come to him.

  “It’s no good. We still can’t dock at Rio. The reports of the storm are getting worse.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his bearded face wearily, thinking. “And if the man has a bad appendix and it should happen to burst …” He paused.

  “So what do we do?”

  Captain Juvenal sighed. “The only thing we can do, I suppose. We’ll have to advise their coast guard—what they call their Sea Rescue Squad over here. Maybe they can be of help.” He thought a moment more, spat into the ocean, and walked over, rapping sharply on the door of the radio shack. A head popped out almost instantly.

  “Send a radio. To the nearest Sea Rescue Squad station; you’ll find it in your book. Tell them we have a desperately sick man aboard, and we can’t risk docking at Rio. Give them our coordinates and bearing and tell them—”

  The mate interrupted. “It won’t be easy rigging him aboard another ship in this weather.”

  “That’s their problem. They’ll know best.” Captain Juvenal turned back to the waiting radioman. “Tell them we’re logging between eight and ten knots, and that the seas alongside are running”—he made a rapid estimate—“five to eight meters. And tell them to hurry; the storm’s getting worse. Though they should know that.…”

  “Maybe they can send a doctor,” the radioman suggested.

  The captain shook his head decisively. “With the Santa Eugenia pitching like this? It would be a pigsticking. No. Tell them the man must be removed. And soon.” He waited a moment and then glared, expending his feeling of helplessness on the innocent radioman. “Well? Well? What are you waiting
for?”

  The radioman, who had been waiting until he was sure the captain was finally finished, pulled his neck in, turtle-fashion, and closed the door behind him. The captain turned to the mate.

  “Go down and tell the man he’ll be all right. Tell him we’re making arrangements to help him.” His voice became crisp. “And then get back to that deck-cargo. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, sir!” said the mate, and scampered down the companionway.

  The crew and the passengers hung over the heaving rail of the Santa Eugenia, their oilskins small protection against the driving rain, but too engrossed in the drama they were watching to think of seeking shelter. Above their heads, outlined against the black sky like some prehistoric flying monster, a squat helicopter sought to hold its position while a cable snaked itself from its belly. The thin steel rope whipped back and forth, slashing at the ship’s superstructure, threatening to wind itself about the deck crane rigging.

  Three times the craft above was swept out of reach and had to fight itself back again, attempting to hold itself steady over the pitching deck, and also attempting to keep the cable free. Nacio, strapped tightly on a litter beneath the snapping steel cord, bit his lip and wished—not for the first time—that he had never fallen into the scheme in the first place. Cowardice was certainly not one of his vices, but the thought of being snatched from the relative safety of the deck into that terrifying sky was beyond his experience. He swallowed convulsively, fighting down an illness that had nothing to do with the ipecac, and closed his eyes, praying desperately.