by Nevil Shute
The captain dismissed him to get dressed, and turned to his executive. “We’ll stay right here tonight,” he said. “It’s seven o’clock, and dark before we reach the minefields.” With no lights he could depend upon he did not dare to risk the navigation through the minefields of the Juan de Fuca Strait during the hours of darkness. “We’re out of the tide here. Sunrise is around zero-four-fifteen—that’s twelve noon, Greenwich. We’ll get under way then.”
They stayed that night in the calm waters of the harbour just off Santa Maria Island, watching the shore lights through the periscope. At dawn they got under way on a reverse course, and immediately ran aground upon a mud-bank. The tide was ebbing and within a couple of hours of low water; even so there should have been a fathom of water underneath their keel according to the chart. They blew tanks to surface, and got off with ears tingling from the pressure reduction in the hull, reviling the Survey, and tried again to get away, twice, with the same result. Finally they settled down to wait irritably for the tide, and at about nine o’clock in the morning they got out into the main channel and set course northwards for the open sea.
At twenty minutes past ten Lieutenant Hirsch at the periscope said suddenly, “Boat ahead, under way.” The executive jumped to the eyepieces, looked for a moment, and said, “Go call the captain.” When Dwight came he said, “Outboard motor boat ahead, sir. About three miles. One person in it.”
“Alive?”
“I guess so. The boat’s under way.”
Dwight took the periscope and stood looking for a long time. Then he stood back from it. “I’d say that’s Yeoman Swain,” he said quietly. “Whoever it is, he’s fishing. I’d say he’s got an outboard motor boat, and gas for it, and he’s gone fishing.”
The executive stared at him. “Well, what do you know!”
The captain stood in thought for a moment. “Go on and close the boat, and lie close up,” he said. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
There was silence in the submarine, broken only by the orders from the executive. Presently he stopped engines and reported that the boat was close aboard. Dwight took the long lead of the microphone and went to the periscope. He said, “This is the captain speaking. Good morning, Ralphie. How are you doing?”
From the speaker they all heard the response. “I’m doing fine, Cap.”
“Got any fish yet?”
In the boat the Yeoman held up a salmon to the periscope. “I got one.” And then he said, “Hold on a minute, Cap—you’re getting across my line.” In the submarine Dwight grinned, and said, “He’s reeling in.”
Lieutenant-Commander Farrell asked, “Shall I give her a touch ahead?”
“No—hold everything. He’s getting it clear now.”
They waited while the fisherman secured his tackle. Then he said, “Say, Cap, I guess you think me a heel, jumping ship like that.”
Dwight said, “That’s all right, fella. I know how it was. I’m not going to take you on board again, though. I’ve got the rest of the ship’s company to think about.”
“Sure, Cap, I know that. I’m hot and getting hotter every minute, I suppose.”
“How do you feel right now?”
“Okay so far. Would you ask Mr. Osborne for me how long I’ll go on that way?”
“He thinks you’ll go for a day or so, and then you’ll get sick.”
From the boat the fisherman said, “Well, it’s a mighty nice day to have for the last one. Wouldn’t it be hell if it was raining?”
Dwight laughed. “That’s the way to take it. Tell me, what are things like on shore?”
“Everybody’s dead here, Cap—but I guess you know that. I went home. Dad and Mom were dead in bed—I’d say they took something. I went round to see the girl, and she was dead. It was a mistake, going there. No dogs or cats or birds, or anything alive—I guess they’re all dead, too. Apart from that, everything is pretty much the way it always was. I’m sorry about jumping ship, Cap, but I’m glad to be home.” He paused. “I got my own car and gas for it, and I got my own boat and my own outboard motor and my own fishing gear. And it’s a fine, sunny day. I’d rather have it this way, in my own home town, than have it in September in Australia.”
“Sure, fella. I know how you feel. Is there anything you want right now, that we can put out on the deck for you? We’re on our way, and we shan’t be coming back.”
“You got any of those knockout pills on board, that you take when it gets bad? The cyanide?”
“I haven’t got those, Ralphie. I’ll put an automatic out on deck if you want it.”
The fisherman shook his head. “I got my own gun. I’ll take a look around the pharmacy when I get on shore—maybe there’s something there. But I guess the gun would be the best.”
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Thanks, Cap, but I got everything I want on shore. Without a dime to pay, either. Just tell the boys on board hullo for me.”
“I’ll do that, fella. We’ll be going on now. Good fishing.”
“Thanks, Cap. It’s been pretty good under you, and I’m sorry I jumped ship.”
“Okay. Now just watch the suck of the propellers as I go ahead.”
He turned to the executive. “Take the con, Commander. Go ahead, and then on course, ten knots.”
That evening Mary Holmes rang Moira at her home. It was a pouring wet evening in late autumn, the wind whistling around the house at Harkaway. “Darling,” she said, “there’s been a wireless signal from them. They’re all well.”
The girl gasped, for this was totally unexpected. “However did they get a signal through?”
“Commander Peterson just rang me up. It came through on the mystery station that they went to find out about. Lieutenant Sunderstrom was sending and he said they were all well. Isn’t it splendid?”
The relief was so intense that for a moment the girl felt faint. “It’s marvellous,” she whispered. “Tell me, can they get a message back to them?”
“I don’t think so. Sunderstrom said that he was closing down the station, and there wasn’t anyone alive there.”
“Oh …” The girl was silent. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to be patient.”
“Was there something you particularly wanted to send?”
“Not really. Just something I wanted to tell Dwight. But it’ll have to wait.”
“Darling! You don’t mean …”
“No, I don’t.”
“Are you feeling all right, dear?”
“I’m feeling much better than I was five minutes ago.” She paused. “How are you getting on, and how’s Jennifer?”
“She’s fine. We’re all right, except it’s raining all the time. Can’t you come over some time? It’s an age since we met.”
The girl said, “I could come down one evening after work, and go up again next day.”
“Darling! That would be wonderful!”
She arrived at Falmouth station two nights later, and set herself to walk two miles up the hill in a misty drizzle. In the little flat Mary was waiting to welcome her with a bright fire in the lounge. She changed her shoes, helped Mary bath the baby and put her down, and then they got the supper. Later they sat together on the floor before the fire.
The girl asked, “When do you think they’ll be back?”
“Peter said that they’d be back about the fourteenth of June.” She reached out for a calendar upon the desk behind her. “Three more weeks-just over. I’ve been crossing off the days.”
“Do you think they’re up to time at this place—wherever they sent the wireless signal from?”
“I don’t know. I ought to have asked Commander Peterson that. I wonder if it would be all right to ring him up tomorrow and ask?”
“I shouldn’t think he’d mind.”
“I think I’ll do that. Peter says this is his last job for the Navy, he’ll be unemployed after they come back. I was wondering if we couldn’t get away in June or July and have a holiday. It’s
so piggy here in the winter—nothing but rain and gales.”
The girl lit a cigarette. “Where would you go to?”
“Somewhere where it’s warm. Queensland or somewhere. It’s such an awful bore not having the car. We’d have to take Jennifer by train, I suppose.”
Moira blew a long cloud of smoke. “I shouldn’t think Queensland would be very easy.”
“Because of the sickness? It’s so far away.”
“They’ve got it at Maryborough,” the girl said. “That’s only just north of Brisbane.”
“But there are plenty of warm places to go to without going right up there, aren’t there?”
“I should think there would be. But it’s coming down south pretty steadily.”
Mary twisted round and glanced at her. “Tell me, do you really think it’s going to come here?”
“I think I do.”
“You mean, we’re all going to die of it? Like the men say?”
“I suppose so.”
Mary twisted round and pulled a catalogue of garden flowers down from a muddle of papers on the settee. “I went to Wilson’s today and bought a hundred daffodils,” she said. “Bulbs. King Alfreds—these ones.” She showed the picture. “I’m going to put them in in that corner by the wall, where Peter took out the tree. It’s sheltered there. But I suppose if we’re all going to die that’s silly.”
“No sillier than me starting in to learn shorthand and typing,” the girl said drily. “I think we’re all going a bit mad, if you ask me. When do daffodils come up?”
“They should be flowering by the end of August,” Mary said. “Of course, they won’t be much this year, but they should be lovely next year and the year after. They sort of multiply, you know.”
“Well, of course it’s sensible to put them in. You’ll see them anyway, and you’ll sort of feel you’ve done something.”
Mary looked at her gratefully. “Well, that’s what I think. I mean, I couldn’t bear to—to just stop doing things and do nothing. You might as well die now and get it over.”
Moira nodded. “If what they say is right, we’re none of us going to have time to do all that we planned to do. But we can keep on doing it as long as we can.”
They sat on the hearthrug, Mary playing with the poker and the wood fire. Presently she said, “I forgot to ask you if you’d like a brandy or something. There’s a bottle in the cupboard, and I think there’s some soda.”
The girl shook her head. “Not for me. I’m quite happy.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Have you reformed, or something?”
“Or something,” said the girl. “I never tip it up at home. Only when I’m out at parties, or with men. With men particularly. Matter of fact, I’m even getting tired of that, now.”
“It’s not men, is it, dear? Not now. It’s Dwight Towers.”
“Yes,” the girl said. “It’s Dwight Towers.”
“Don’t you ever want to get married? I mean, even if we are all dying next September.”
The girl stared into the fire. “I wanted to get married,” she said quietly. “I wanted to have everything you’ve got. But I shan’t have it now.”
“Couldn’t you marry Dwight?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m sure he likes you.”
“Yes.” she said. “He likes me all right.”
“Has he ever kissed you?”
“Yes,” she said again. “He kissed me once.”
“I’m sure he’d marry you.”
The girl shook her head again. “He wouldn’t ever do that. You see, he’s married already. He’s got a wife and two children in America.”
Mary stared at her. “Darling, he can’t have. They must be dead.”
“He doesn’t think so,” she said wearily. “He thinks he’s going home to meet them, next September. In his own home town, at Mystic.” She paused. “We’re all going a bit mad in our own way,” she said. “That’s his way.”
“You mean, he really thinks his wife is still alive?”
“I don’t know if he thinks that or not. No, I don’t think he does. He thinks he’s going to be dead next September, but he thinks he’s going home to them, to Sharon and Dwight junior and Helen. He’s been buying presents for them.”
Mary sat trying to understand. “But if he thinks like that, why did he kiss you?”
“Because I said I’d help him with the presents.”
Mary got to her feet. “I’m going to have a drink,” she said firmly. “I think you’d better have one, too.” And when that was adjusted and they were sitting with glasses in their hands, she asked curiously, “It must be funny, being jealous of someone that’s dead?”
The girl took a drink from her glass and sat staring at the fire. “I’m not jealous of her,” she said at last. “I don’t think so. Her name is Sharon, like in the Bible. I want to meet her. She must be a very wonderful person, I think. You see, he’s such a practical man.”
“Don’t you want to marry him?”
The girl sat for a long time in silence. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I don’t know if I do or not. If it wasn’t for all this … I’d play every dirty trick in the book to get him away from her. I don’t think I’ll ever be happy with anyone else. But then, there’s not much time left now to be happy with anyone.”
“There’s three or four months, anyway,” said Mary. “I saw a motto once, one of those things you hang on the wall to inspire you. It said, ‘Don’t worry—it may never happen.’”
“I think this is going to happen all right,” Moira remarked. She picked up the poker and began playing with it. “If it was for a lifetime it’ld be different,” she said. “It’ld be worth doing her dirt if it meant having Dwight for good, and children, and a home, and a full life. I’d go through anything if I could see a chance of that. But to do her dirt just for three months’ pleasure and nothing at the end of it—well, that’s another thing. I may be a loose woman, but I don’t know that I’m all that loose.” She looked up, smiling. “Anyway, I don’t believe that I could do it in the time. I think he’d take a lot of prising away from her.”
“Oh dear,” said Mary. “Things are difficult, aren’t they!”
“Couldn’t be worse,” Moira agreed. “I think I’ll probably die an old maid.”
“It doesn’t make sense. But nothing does seem to make sense, these days. Peter …” She stopped.
“What about Peter?” the girl asked curiously.
“I don’t know. It was just horrible, and crazy.” She shifted restlessly.
“What was? Tell me.”
“Did you ever murder anybody?”
“Me? Not yet. I’ve often wanted to. Country telephone girls, mostly.”
“This was serious. It’s a frightful sin to murder anybody, isn’t it? I mean, you’d go to Hell.”
“I don’t know. I suppose you would. Who do you want to murder?”
The mother said dully, “Peter told me I might have to murder Jennifer.” A tear formed and trickled down her cheek.
The girl leaned forward impulsively and touched her hand. “Darling, that can’t be right! You must have got it wrong.”
She shook her head. “It’s not wrong,” she sobbed. “It’s right enough. He told me I might have to do it, and he showed me how.” She burst into a torrent of tears.
Moira took her in her arms and soothed her, and gradually the story came out. At first the girl could not believe the words she heard, but later she was not so sure. Finally they went together to the bathroom and looked at the red boxes in the cabinet. “I’ve heard something about all this,” she said seriously. “I never knew that it had got so far …” One craziness was piled on to another.
“I couldn’t do it alone,” the mother whispered. “However bad she was, I couldn’t do it. If Peter isn’t here … if anything happens to Scorpion … will you come and help me, Moira? Please?”
“Of course I will,” the girl said gently. “Of course I’ll come and help. But Peter will be here. They’re coming back all right. Dwight’s that kind of a man.” She produced a little screwed up ball of handkerchief, and gave it to Mary. “Dry up, and let’s make a cup of tea. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
They had a cup of tea before the dying fire.
Eighteen days later U.S.S. Scorpion surfaced in clean air in Latitude Thirty-one degrees South, near Norfolk Island. At the entrance to the Tasman Sea in winter the weather was bleak and the sea rough, the low deck swept by every wave. It was only possible to allow the crew up to the bridge deck eight at a time; they crept up, white faced and trembling, to huddle in oilskins in the driving rain and spray. Dwight kept the submarine hove-to head into wind for most of the day till everyone had had his allotted half hour in the fresh air, but few of the men stayed on the bridge so long.
Their resistance to the cold and wet conditions on the bridge was low, but at least he had brought them all back alive, with the exception of Yeoman Swain. All were white faced and anæmic after thirty-one days’ confinement within the hull, and he had three cases of intense depression rendering those men unreliable for duty. He had had one bad fright when Lieutenant Brody had developed all the symptoms of acute appendicitis; with John Osborne helping him he had read up all the procedure for the operation and prepared to do it on the wardroom table. However, the symptoms had subsided and the patient was now resting comfortably in his berth; Peter Holmes had taken over all his duties and the captain now hoped that he might last out until they docked at Williamstown in five days’ time. Peter Holmes was as normal as anyone on board. John Osborne was nervous and irritable, though still efficient; he talked incessantly of his Ferrari.
They had disproved the Jorgensen effect. They had ventured slowly into the Gulf of Alaska, using their underwater mine detector as a defence against floating icebergs, till they had reached Latitude Fifty-eight North in the vicinity of Kodiak. The ice was thicker near the land and they had not approached it; up there the radiation level was still lethal and little different from that they had experienced in the Seattle district. There seemed to be no point in risking the vessel in those waters any longer than was necessary; they took their readings and set course a little to the east of south till they found warmer water and less chance of ice, and then south-west towards Hawaii and Pearl Harbor.