by Nevil Shute
“I’d say perhaps you might. Drink up that whisky while I telephone Daddy.”
“What for?”
“To meet us with the buggy at the station. I told them we’d walk up the hill, but I’m not going to have you doing that. You might die on my hands, and then I’d have a job explaining to the coroner. It might even make a diplomatic incident.”
“Who with, honey?”
“The United States. It’s not so good to kill the Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces.”
He said wearily, “I guess the United States is me, right now. I’m thinking of running for President.”
“Well, think about it while I go and telephone Mummy.”
In the little telephone booth, she said, “I think he’s got flu, Mummy. He’s frightfully tired, for one thing. He’ll have to go to bed directly we get home. Could you light a fire in his room, and put a hot-water bag in the bed? And, Mummy, ring up Dr. Fletcher and ask if he could possibly come round this evening. I shouldn’t think it’s anything but flu, but he has been in the radioactive area for over a month, and he hasn’t seen a doctor since he got back. Tell Dr. Fletcher who he is. He’s rather an important person now, you know.”
“What train will you be catching, dear?”
She glanced at her wrist. “We’ll catch the four-forty. Look, Mummy, it’s going to be perishing cold in the buggy. Ask Daddy to bring down a couple of rugs.”
She went back to the bar.
“Drink up and come along,” she said. “We’ve got to catch the four-forty.”
He went with her obediently. A couple of hours later he was in a bedroom with a blazing log fire, creeping into a warm bed as he shook with a light fever. He lay there infinitely grateful while the shakes subsided, glad to relax and lie staring at the ceiling, listening to the patter of the rain outside. Presently his grazier host brought him a hot whisky and lemon and asked what he wanted to eat, which was nothing.
At about eight o’clock there was the sound of a horse outside, and voices in the rain. Presently the doctor came to him; he had discarded his wet coat, but his jodhpurs and riding boots were dark with rain and steamed a little as he stood by the fire. He was a man of about thirty-five or forty, cheerful and competent.
“Say, Doctor,” said the patient, “I’m really sorry they brought you out here on a night like this. There’s not a thing wrong with me that a day or two in bed won’t cure.”
The doctor smiled. “I’m glad to come out to meet you,” he said. He took the American’s wrist and felt the pulse. “I understand you’ve been up in the radioactive area.”
“Why, yes. But we didn’t get exposed.”
“You were inside the hull of the submarine all the time?”
“All the time. We had a guy from the C.S.I.R.O. poking Geiger counters at us every day. It’s not that, doctor.”
“Have you had any vomiting, or diarrhoea?”
“None at all. Nor did any of the ship’s company.”
The doctor put a thermometer into his mouth, and stood feeling his pulse. Presently he withdrew the thermometer. “A hundred and two,” he said. “You’d better stay in bed for a bit. How long were you at sea?”
“Fifty-three days.”
“And how long submerged?”
“More than half of it.”
“Are you very tired?”
The captain thought for a moment. “I might be,” he admitted.
“I should say you might. You’d better stay in bed till that temperature goes down, and one full day after that. I’ll look in and see you again in a couple of days’ time. I think you’ve only got a dose of flu — there’s quite a lot of it about. You’d better not go back to work for at least a week after you get up, and then you ought to take some leave. Can you do that?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
They talked a little of the cruise and of conditions at Seattle and in Queensland. Finally the doctor said, “I’ll probably look in tomorrow afternoon with one or two things you’d better take. I’ve got to go to Dandenong; my partner’s operating at the hospital and I’m giving the anaesthetic for him. I’ll pick up the stuff there and look in on my way home.”
“Is it a serious operation?”
“Not too bad. Woman with a growth upon the stomach. She’ll be better with it out. Give her a few more years of useful life, anyway.”
He went away, and outside the window Dwight heard the backing and curvetting of the horse as the rider got into the saddle, and heard the doctor swear. Then he listened to the diminuendo of the hoofs as they trotted away down the drive in the heavy rain. Presently his door opened, and the girl came in.
“Well,” she said, “you’ve got to stay in bed tomorrow, anyway.” She moved to the fire and threw a couple of logs on. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”
“He’s nuts,” said the commander.
“Why? Because he’s making you stay in bed?”
“Not that. He’s operating on a woman at the hospital tomorrow so that she’ll have some years of useful life ahead of her.”
She laughed. “He would. I’ve never met anyone so conscientious.” She paused. “Daddy’s going to make another dam next summer. He’s been talking about it for some time, but now he says he’s really going to do it. He rang up a chap who has a bulldozer today and booked him to come in as soon as the ground gets hard.”
“When will that be?”
“About Christmas time. It really hurts him to see all this rain running away to waste. This place gets pretty dry in the summer.”
She took his empty glass from the table by his bed. “Like another hot drink?”
He shook his head. “Not now, honey. I’m fine.”
“Like anything to eat?”
He shook his head.
“Like another hot-water bag?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
She went away, but in a few minutes she was back again, and this time she carried a long paper parcel in her hand, a parcel with a bulge at the bottom. “I’ll leave this with you, and you can look at it all night.”
She put it in a corner of the room, but he raised himself on one elbow. “What’s that?” he asked.
She laughed. “I’ll give you three guesses and you can see which one’s right in the morning.”
“I want to see now.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No — now.”
She took the parcel and brought it to him in the bed, and stood watching as he tore off the paper. The Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces was really just a little boy, she thought.
The Pogo stick lay on the bedclothes in his hands, shining and new. The wooden handle was brightly varnished, the metal step gleaming in red enamel. On the wooden handle was painted in neat red lettering the words HELEN TOWERS.
“Say,” he said huskily, “that’s a dandy. I never saw one with the name on it and all. She’s going to love that.” He raised his eyes. “Where did you get it, honey?”
“I found the place that makes them, out at Elsternwick,” she said. “They aren’t making any more, but they made one for me.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “Now I’ve got something for everyone.”
She gathered up the torn brown paper. “That’s all right,” she said casually. “It was fun finding it. Shall I put it in the corner?”
He shook his head. “Leave it right here.”
She nodded, and moved towards the door. “I’ll turn this top light out. Don’t stay up too long. Sure you’ve got everything you want?”
“Sure, honey,” he said. “I’ve got everything now.”
“Good night,” she said.
She closed the door behind her. He lay for some time in the firelight thinking of Sharon and of Helen, of bright summer days and tall ships at Mystic, of Helen leaping on the Pogo stick on the swept sidewalk with the piles of snow on either hand, of this girl and her kindness. Presently he drifted into sleep, one hand upon the Pogo stic
k beside him.
Peter Holmes lunched with John Osborne at the United Services Club next day. “I rang the ship this morning,” said the scientist. “I wanted to get hold of Dwight to show him the draft report before I get it typed. They told me that he’s staying out at Harkaway with Moira’s people.”
Peter nodded. “He’s got flu. Moira rang me up last night to tell me that I wouldn’t see him for a week, or longer if she’d got anything to do with it.”
The scientist was concerned. “I can’t hold it so long as that. Jorgensen’s got wind of our findings already, and he’s saying that we can’t have done our job properly. I’ll have to get it to the typist by tomorrow at the latest.”
“I’ll look it over if you like, and we might be able to get hold of the exec, though he’s away on leave. But Dwight ought to see it before it goes out. Why don’t you give Moira a ring and take it out to him at Harkaway?”
“Would she be there? I thought she was in Melbourne every day, doing shorthand and typing.”
“Don’t be so daft. Of course she’s there.”
The scientist brightened. “I might run it out to him this afternoon in the Ferrari.”
“Your juice won’t last out if you’re going to use it for trips like that. There’s a perfectly good train.”
“This is official business, naval business,” said John Osborne. “One’s entitled to draw on naval stores.” He bent towards Peter and lowered his voice. “You know that aircraft carrier, the Sydney? She’s got about three thousand gallons of my ether-alcohol mixture in one of her tanks. They used it for getting reluctant piston-engined aircraft off the deck at full boost.”
“You can’t touch that!” said Peter, shocked.
“Can’t I? This is naval business, and there’s going to be a whole lot more.”
“Well, don’t tell me about it. Would a Morris Minor run on it?”
“You’d have to experiment a bit with the carburetion, and you’d have to raise the compression. Take the gasket out and fit a bit of thin sheet copper, with cement. It’s worth trying.”
“Can you run that thing of yours upon the road, safely?”
“Oh, yes,” said the scientist. “There’s not much else upon the road to hit, except a tram. And people, of course. I always carry a spare set of plugs because she oils up if you run her under about three thousand.”
“What’s she doing at three thousand revs?”
“Oh well, you wouldn’t put her in top gear. She’d be doing about a hundred, or a bit more than that. She does about forty-five in first at those revs. She gets away with a bit of a rush, of course; you want a couple of hundred yards of empty road ahead of you. I generally push her out of the mews into Elizabeth Street and wait till there’s a gap between the trams.”
He did so that afternoon directly after lunch, with Peter Holmes helping him to push. He wedged the attaché case containing the draft report down beside the seat and climbed in, fastened the safety belt and adjusted his crash helmet before an admiring crowd. Peter said quietly, “For God’s sake don’t go and kill anybody.”
“They’re all going to be dead in a couple of months’ time anyway,” said the scientist. “So am I, and so are you. I’m going to have a bit of fun with this thing first.”
A tram passed and he tried the cold engine with the self-starter, but it failed to catch. Another tram came by; when that was gone a dozen willing helpers pushed the racing car until the engine caught and she shot out of their hands like a rocket with an ear-splitting crash from the exhaust, a screech of tires, a smell of burnt rubber, and a cloud of smoke. The Ferrari had no horn and no need for one because she could be heard coming a couple of miles away; more important to John Osborne was the fact that she had no lights at all, and it was dark by five o’clock. If he was to get out to Harkaway, do his business, and be back in daylight he must step on it.
He weaved around the tram at fifty, skidded round into Lonsdale Street, and settled in his seat as he shot through the city at about seventy miles an hour. Cars on the road at that time were a rarity and he had little trouble in the city streets but for the trams; the crowds parted to let him through. In the suburbs it was different; children had grown accustomed to playing in the empty roads and had no notion of getting out of the way; he had to brake hard on a number of occasions and go by with engine roaring as he slipped the clutch, agonizing over the possibility of damage, consoling himself with the thought that the clutch was built to take it in a race.
He got to Harkaway in twenty-three minutes having averaged seventy-two miles an hour over the course without once getting into top. He drew up at the homestead in a roaring skid around the flowerbeds and killed the motor; the grazier with his wife and daughter came out suddenly and watched him as he unbuttoned his crash hat and got out stiffly. “I came to see Dwight Towers,” he said. “They told me he was here.”
“He’s trying to get some sleep,” Moira said severely. “That’s a loathsome car, John. What does she do?”
“About two hundred, I think. I want to see him — on business. I’ve got a thing here that he’s got to look over before it gets typed. It’s got to be typed tomorrow, at the latest.”
“Oh well, I don’t suppose he’s sleeping now.”
She led the way into the spare bedroom. Dwight was awake and sitting up in bed. “I guessed it must be you,” he said. “Killed anybody yet?”
“Not yet,” said the scientist. “I’m hoping to be the first. I’d hate to spend the last days of my life in prison. I’ve had enough of that in the last two months.” He undid his attaché case and explained his errand.
Dwight took the report and read it through, asking a question now and then. “I kind of wish we’d left that radio station operational, the way it was,” he said once. “Maybe we’d have heard a little more from Yeoman Swain.”
“It was a good long way away from him.”
“He had his outboard motorboat. He might have stopped off one day when he was tired of fishing, and sent a message.”
“I don’t think he’d have lasted long enough for that, sir. I’d have given him three days, at the very outside.”
The captain nodded. “I don’t suppose he’d have wanted to be bothered with it, anyway. I wouldn’t, if the fish were taking well, and it was my last day.” He read on, asking a question now and then. At the end he said, “That’s okay. You’d better take out that last paragraph, about me and the ship.”
“I’d prefer to leave it in, sir.”
“And I’d prefer you take it out. I don’t like things like that said about what was just a normal operation in the line of duty.”
The scientist put his pencil through it. “As you like.”
“You got that Ferrari here?”
“I came out in it.”
“Sure. I heard you. Can I see it from the window?”
“Yes. It’s just outside.”
The captain got out of bed and stood in his pyjamas at the window. “That’s the hell of a car,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Race it. There’s not much time left so they’re starting the racing season earlier than usual. They don’t usually begin before about October, because of the wet roads. They’re having little races all the winter, though. As a matter of fact I raced it twice before I went away.”
The captain got back into bed. “So you said. I never raced a car like that. I never even drove one. What’s it like in a race?”
“You get scared stiff. Then directly it’s over you want to go on and do it again.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
The scientist shook his head. “I’ve never had the money, or the time. It’s what I’ve wanted to do all my life.”
“Is that the way you’re going to make it, in the end?”
There was a pause. “It’s what I’d like to do,” John Osborne said. “Rather than die in a sick muck, or take those pills. The only thing is, I’d hate to smash up the Ferrari. She’s such
a lovely bit of work. I don’t think I could bring myself to do that, willingly.”
Dwight grinned. “Maybe you won’t have to do it willingly, not if you go racing at two hundred per on wet roads.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking, too. I don’t know that I’d mind that happening, any time from now on.”
The captain nodded. Then he said, “There’s no chance now of it slowing up and giving us a break, is there?”
John Osborne shook his head. “Absolutely none. There’s not the slightest indication — if anything it seems to be coming a little faster. That’s probably associated with the reduced area of the earth’s surface as it moves down from the equator; it seems to be accelerating a little now in terms of latitude. The end of August seems to be the time.”
The captain nodded. “Well, it’s nice to know. It can’t be too soon for me.”
“Will you be taking Scorpion to sea again?”
“I’ve got no orders. She’ll be operational again at the beginning of July. I’m planning to keep her under the Australian command up till the end. Whether I’ll have a crew to make her operational — well, that’s another thing again. Most of the boys have got girl friends in Melbourne here, about a quarter of them married. Whether they’ll feel allergic to another cruise is anybody’s guess. I’d say they will.”
There was a pause. “I kind of envy you having that Ferrari,” he said quietly. “I’ll be worrying and working right up till the end.”
“I don’t see that there’s any need for you to do that,” the scientist said. “You ought to take some leave. See a bit of Australia.”
The American grinned. “There’s not much left of it to see.”
“That’s true. There’s the mountain parts, of course. They’re all skiing like mad up at Mount Buller and at Hotham. Do you ski?”
“I used to, but not for ten years or so. I wouldn’t like to break a leg and get stuck in bed up till the end.” He paused. “Say,” he said. “Don’t people go trout fishing up in those mountains?”
John Osborne nodded. “The fishing’s quite good.”
“Do they have a season, or can you fish all year round?”