Sometimes, it seems, the greatest possibilities for drama are disguised beneath the most unexpected exteriors, and one never knows when circumstance is going to lift some apparently inferior person to almost heroic stature. After all, courage and cowardice are so much a matter of conditions and circumstances, and no man is to be blamed or congratulated because of them. In the last analysis, I suppose humor is the most civilized of all our traits—and sometimes the most barbaric.
I’m glad my children will grow up with Tom and Hazel. Tom has such a grand sense of humor, and so much quiet tolerance. The kids will get from them the one thing I want them to have more than anything else—the quiet satisfaction in seeing a good job well done. Not to think only of the monetary reward, but to do something worthwhile in the best possible manner.
Thinking of jobs well done, there is a curious example aboard ship. With him, however, it has passed the sensible boundary and become an obsession. I refer to Con O’Brien, the second engineer. Unquestionably the man is a fanatic on the subject of his engine room. He is a tall, rawboned man with cold eyes and a jaw like a clamp. His hair is coarse and black, worn in a stiff pompadour, coming to a pronounced widow’s peak over his forehead. O’Brien speaks hesitantly and tends to glare intently during his pauses, turning what might be taken as insecurity in another man into something more intimidating…at least if one is not used to it. I haven’t heard the entire story, but his face is a network of faint scars from a horrible motoring accident. He must have been sewn back together by a master, but in the right light you can see them, a jigsaw puzzle, a Frankenstein’s monster.
His engine room is spotless. He works over it like a miser counting his gold, and rises to pitches of fury over carelessness or unnecessary dirt. I suspect all the men below of being secretly afraid of him as he prowls about, wiping brightwork, or listening for a single flaw in the sound of any of that purring machinery he loves so much. Off-duty, he is a surly, uncommunicative man, yet occasionally he will let down his guard.
A week ago I stopped at his cabin with a message from the Old Man, and found a worn and stained copy of Butler’s Erewhon on his bunk. I suspect the chief engineer would have rid himself of O’Brien long ago but for his genius in the engine room. He can make anything work, and in a breakdown he is amazing, accomplishing the work of three men, moving about among the grease and metal like an enchanter working a spell.
The other day we came off watch and were eating lunch in the saloon. It was just the two of us, and we drifted into talking of the future of The Machine. For once he was in a conversational mood. In all my life I never learned so much of science and of mechanical developments. Finally, we got around to Butler, and Erewhon.
“I like it,” I told him. “I like novels of fantasy, or prophetic novels. But as for a time coming when machines rule the world, well, that’s preposterous!”
He looked up, a queer light in his eyes. Then he smiled, and his face was almost pleasant. “Preposterous?” he said. “It took m-millions of years for Man to reach his present state. Consider the development of The Machine in comparison.”
“But a machine doesn’t have consciousness!” I protested.
“Consciousness—it’s just a name for something we w-wish to have. Think of a potato in a dark cellar. We think vegetables, they don’t have consciousness. But the sprouts will grow over and under all obstructions to find the light. Call it what you want but I w-wonder if what we have isn’t the same thing, just a million cells growing toward different kinds of light.
“You could say that The M-Machine is dependent on Man. But Man, in many cases, is dependent on machines. How long would our civilization function without them? We now have machines that make other machines, and we have machines that have created unemployment. If war comes it will be guns and bombs and aircraft that do most of the killing. Machines!” As he became more adamant, his hesitancy disappeared and the intensity shone in his eyes.
“Machines guided by men,” I suggested.
He shrugged. “For how long? A generation while humans grow softer? A century? Then a time will come when all machines are created by machines and fueled by machines. They will not have to contend with passion or sentiment. Think of what we already have—machines that speak and hear, read and write, machines that calculate, machines that match colors. What of the photoelectric cell? Who can guess all its possibilities?
“Even in the time when Butler wrote Erewhon there were machines that could store and reconfigure information, like a Jacquard loom. There were men who designed mechanical engines that could do complex calculations. Every machine has its own nature, its own personality. This ship we are on is an example. If it was designed well and treated well it performs accordingly. Abused, it is like a man—it may heal, but it carries the memory of its wounds or abuse to the grave.”
We talked on and on, and after a bit, I left him. Insane? Not so much, perhaps. His ideas are thought-provoking, to say the least. And we must remember: The Machine is new, with at best a half-century of real development. What will another hundred years bring? Or two or three?
Yesterday afternoon I was talking a little with Davy Jones, one of our ordinary seamen. He is a nice lad, quiet-mannered and friendly. He was showing me a picture of his girlfriend, and she reminded me of Helen when I first met her, the same eyes and hair. I asked Jones if he was going back and he looked odd, and finally said no, he was not. McGuire has sort of taken him in hand, and the boy is developing well. Pete Brouwer had him helping on a splicing job, too, and there couldn’t be a better place to learn. Those two will protect him, if they can, from the sort of bullying that so often goes on. It’s an unfortunate part of the world in which we must live.
There is some difficulty back aft (the crew’s quarters are aft on this ship). We aren’t sure what the trouble is, but it seems to have started back in San Pedro. Seamen are closemouthed about such things. There has been no open strife so far, but there will be if I know that bunch. Mahoney, I suspect, is at the bottom of it. There was trouble just before we left between him and McGuire.
Mahoney is a surly, brooding sort. Both violent and manipulative, he is the perfect example of the bad apple that can spoil the whole lot. Unfortunately Jacobs is a fit second for anything he might start. Neither of them are the type you’d want to meet in an alley. Jacobs is a brute, not quite a moron but easily influenced.
A light breeze is picking up, and eight bells draws near. So far the voyage has been a marvel of smooth seas and easy watches. I hope it lasts.
Until tomorrow, then…
CONNOR O’BRIEN
Second Engineer
When he was safely away from the dock he paused long enough to light a cigarette. It was a relief to strike a match without fear. Even in dry dock a tanker was dangerous; until the ship was thoroughly cleaned it remained a giant tin can full of fumes. The properties of chemistry and metallurgy, form and function demanded respect. A ship allowed men to sail her for a time, but only if they returned the proper amount of care.
All across the globe tankers sailed, sliding in and out of ports, their tanks brimful of explosive power. That power could feed a mechanical world, but it also held the potential for death. So many things could happen. The flow of the salt water through a hose could generate static. A flash. The end of it all. Strange, how one became accustomed even to that. Nothing remained fearsome or thrilling for long. Man is so constituted that anything becomes a bore after enough time. Con O’Brien shrugged. He’d seen that sort of fire and twisted metal firsthand. He’d had a powerful machine torn from under him. What did it matter, after all? A few years more or less?
At the Wilmington-San Pedro Road, O’Brien paused again. It was a long hike to the Pacific Electric station, or he could wait and take a bus. He started off, walking rapidly. His blue serge suit was rumpled, and his shoes were worn and down-at-the-heel. He still wore his white-topped officer’s cap,
emblazoned with his insignia as second engineer.
A car streaked past, doing an easy sixty. O’Brien stared after it. They were fast these days; even cars straight from the showroom were mighty fast. Funny, he’d never cared about driving since the day he’d lost control on the Indianapolis Speedway. Twenty-two then, and racing among the fastest company in the world: Johnny Aitken, Dawson, and DePalma. Now he was almost twenty years older, and hadn’t driven a car in all that time. It wasn’t a case of losing his nerve—he had simply lost all interest. The car he had lovingly cared for had failed him…or had he failed it?
It had been during those three months in the hospital after the crack-up that he had decided to be a marine engineer. He started studying while he was trapped in bed: reading, planning, thinking about it day and night. Mechanical parts so heavy they never failed. A machine so big he could live inside it. An engine where he could see into its hidden depths, reach into it as it turned to take its temperature or oil its bearings.
Doc Weber always joked that a piece of metal must have got into his head in the wreck, and that it had affected him in some way. “You’ve got cylinder oil on the brain and a crankcase for a heart,” Doc used to say. “Next time you crack up they’ll need a machinist, not a doctor!” Of course, it was true—there was metal in his head, not embedded during the wreck but placed there afterward. He was a miracle of modern medicine, burned, broken, and torn, but still alive.
Turning from the highway, he followed a path through the lumberyard along the docks. The passing of the cars bothered him. He liked the quiet machines now, and never went near the roaring dromes of the big auto tracks. He liked the calm efficiency of the engine room on the Lichenfield, or the immaculate, metallic beauty of a municipal power station.
He wondered if those big hydroelectric plants impressed others as they did him. It was like walking into a huge cathedral, the organ hum of the dynamos serving as the hymn of his religion. There was no confusion, no hurry. No clangor of tools or roar of escaping steam. Those plants were the most finished products of the machine age, for all was smooth metal and cold cleanliness, guided by a few men doing orderly, quiet work.
A big red interurban was heading into the station, delivering people from Los Angeles or Long Beach. He walked up the path alongside the old trestle, passing a bunch of men gathered around some dice. Once he reached the platform he found a seat in one of the smaller local streetcars and relaxed into it. Even after all this time his back and knee would start to hurt if he walked for too long. On a ship there was never very far to go.
It was the end of his ninth trip on the Lichenfield. Before that he had been chief engineer on a steam schooner, and before that on a coastwise run as an oiler. Several times since he had earned his engineer’s ticket, he had shipped as an oiler, fireman, or even wiper. Anything to be away and at sea. It was always better to be at sea.
Now, however, they were going to be in dry dock for weeks. The officers would be retained, the rest of the crew paid off. He’d considered looking for a position with another ship, but he liked the Lichenfield. He was used to it and it was used to him—it…needed him; no one else cared for it like he did. But that meant time at home, more time than he might be able to stand. Home was one thing when a man was far away; it was another when he had to live there.
* * *
—
Clara was on the divan when he opened the door. She was lying there in a faded negligee, reading a magazine. A box of crackers stood open on the table close by, and there were two cups still mottled with the grounds of coffee. She sat up, a large woman with rust-colored hair and a heavy, sullen face. Con looked at her a moment, looked at the stuffy, untidy room of which she was the living expression.
“Hello, Con,” she said. “When did you get in?”
“Last night,” he said briefly. “H-How are the kids?”
“Okay,” she said, brushing the crumbs to the floor. “Jane is around somewhere. Junior’s playing next door.”
Con turned and walked into the bedroom, taking off his coat. The room was dark, sunlight glowing around pulled-down curtains. He let them up one by one. The bed was unmade, a heavy tumble of blankets and sheets, and Clara’s dress lay across a chair. He opened a drawer and looked at the jumble of clothes. For a moment his eyes narrowed, then he swallowed and carefully felt among them for his shaving kit. When he had found it, he walked to the bathroom. He was wearing a dark brown shirt and a white striped tie, and he removed them carefully, lathered his face, and began to shave. He would have to clean the apartment, and Clara would reproach him for it. She assumed that it was mute criticism for being a bad wife and mother. In fact she wasn’t good at either, but he also couldn’t stop himself. Things had to be right. Had to be right or, eventually, he couldn’t get his breath or think straight.
She came to the door and watched him. “When you leavin’?” she said finally.
“Coup-Couple of weeks,” he said.
“Well…” she said. He didn’t know what she meant and figured she didn’t either.
Con shaved methodically.
“I wish they’d make up their minds.” Clara leaned against the wall. “Sometimes it’s two days, then it’s two weeks. You never know what to expect. The kids, they don’t know what to expect. I wish you had a job like Carl Winters or Mrs. Hendrick’s husband.”
His eyes sought hers in the mirror, objections stuttering out of him. “I’m lucky. I’m lucky to—to have any kind of job these days. And…I-I make more than either one of those—them.”
“A lot of difference that makes! We never know how long you’ll be home!”
He took a breath and focused on the neat swath cut by the razor. The ship’s schedule wasn’t all that erratic, she was just complaining. He began silently compiling a list of everything that would have to be done to prepare the Lichenfield for dry dock. That was really the mate’s and the chief engineer’s job, but he still thought about it. He couldn’t stop himself.
Carefully, Con rinsed and dried his razor, working quietly. He wondered why women were constantly marrying men and then wishing they did something else or made more money. Usually, they knew what to expect when they got married, but that didn’t seem to help much.
Jane came in, stopping in the doorway. “Hey, Daddy. When’d you get back?”
“Just a short—a little while ago. How’s—how are—?”
“All right. School’s almost out and I’ve been up to Ray’s house. They always have a lot of fun.”
Con straightened up. “Ray’s? I told you not to g-go there anymore.” The kid was bad enough, but he was also the son of a saloon owner. It was one of the places in ’Pedro that the Navy men still patronized. The family’s apartment was on the second floor.
She examined a fingernail. “Well, Mother said it was all right.”
Con looked down at Jane gloomily. Ray’s father spent his time either serving booze or drinking it. His mother was no better. With a sharp pang he saw Jane as she really was, the boldness of too much knowledge in her eyes. His heart sinking, he recalled the kids who had lived in the alleyway back of the house when he was a boy. Jane looked just like that girl, the girl who had entertained the neighborhood boys.
Slowly, he gathered his things together and walked into the other room. He stared at it, suddenly feeling sick and empty. The slovenly appearance of the place, the memory of Clara’s heavy body on the divan. Con sat down slowly, running his hand over his face. He felt like crying. He adjusted the dirty cups on the coffee table, searching for some sort of order.
Jane followed him into the living room, picking up the confession magazine her mother had been reading. She had put on lipstick, and her clothes…well, he wasn’t sure. They were the sort of clothes a young girl like Jane—only thirteen and without much of a figure—might wear. But she had somehow found a way of wearing the skirt and blouse in a manner th
at mimicked the provocative styles of older girls. It made him uncomfortable trying to figure it out.
It was easy to talk about staying home, but what could he do? He had tried that, tried it twice. Each time Clara had filled his ears with complaints about money, and sulked when he did the dishes. He had returned night after night to the hot, unkempt apartment, to the half-cooked food, to a daughter who thought of him as a stranger. If he couldn’t make friends with the men on his own ship, how in the world could he hope to influence an adolescent girl? He took a deep breath and went to finish dressing.
Junior came in while he was knotting his tie. He was bigger, and his face broke into a wide grin when he saw his father. “Dad! I told Mother you’d be home. I was watching the ship news every day! You goin’ back to China?”
“After they fix—fix her up. I’ll be here—around home for a while.” Con stared into the boy’s eyes. “How you getting along, son? How’s school?”
“It’s okay. I’m learning to play basketball. Mr. Campbell—he’s our coach—he said I was big enough. And we could finish that motor, right? The one where you were going to taper the cylinder?”
No Traveller Returns (Lost Treasures) Page 10