Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

“I understand already,” Skip said. “Are you retired? Completely?”

The white-bearded man nodded. “I’ve been retired for some years.”

“Rick Johnson shot me when the door of that stateroom opened. Did you shoot at me, too?”

“No. You are wondering whether I might have fired the shot that wounded you. I, in place of poor Rick. I did not. I can’t vouch for your secretary, but I don’t believe she fired. If Chelle and I had been armed we would’ve shot Rick and your secretary before you came. We weren’t.”

Chelle’s left hand found Skip’s knee and tightened around it.

“Before Chelle and I dressed for dinner,” Skip said slowly, “I questioned Susan in the infirmary.”

“She’ll recover, I hope.”

“I’m sure she will. I made one simple statement to her, and she said I had made one mistake already. Would you like to hear the statement?”

Vanessa laid her salad fork aside. “I would. Do you remember?”

“I said that there had been three people in Brice’s stateroom holding Chelle, Mr. Blue.”

“Please call me Charles.”

“Thank you. After that I said you had no gun, proved by your taking Susan’s to shoot Rick. Shortly after I made those statements, Susan told me that I’d made one mistake already.”

“As do I,” the white-bearded man said. “I was only feigning assistance, while I tried to free Chelle. No doubt your secretary observed it.”

Skip shook his head. “I don’t think that was it. For one thing, you’re too good an actor. Chelle says you were trying to free her, and I believe you were; but I don’t believe that was what Susan meant. Didn’t you say a moment ago that you had no gun? That you were unarmed?”

“Indeed I did.”

“If you’d had a gun, you could have shot Rick Johnson without taking Susan’s revolver. But if you had done that, there would be a good chance Susan would shoot you.”

The white bearded-man’s mustache twitched. “Or that I would have had to shoot Susan as well. All this is merely hypothetical, you understand.”

“I do. Here’s another. Let’s say, hypothetically, that you have a gun. You might have to throw it over the side before we reach port. I, hypothetically again, might be able to get it past customs. I would return it to you later, of course. You may wish to consider that.”

“If I had a gun, I certainly would.”

Chelle said, “We’re on your side, Charlie, Skip and me both. You went in there to save my life. It makes you one of the good guys.”

“I’d like to think so, honey. I’m not sure Mr. Grison agrees.”

Vanessa looked up. “Good evening, Captain Kain! Would you care to join us?”

“Only for a moment.” The captain took a chair from an empty table, positioning it at the corner between Chelle and the white-bearded man. “We’ll be taking a pilot aboard tomorrow, if the wind holds.” He cleared his throat. “The forecast says it will, and I’ll be busy. Very busy.”

Vanessa said, “All of us understand that, I’m sure.”

“Good. I wanted to say goodbye. To Mr. Grison here, particularly. We, well—there was a time when he watched my back and I watched his.” The captain held out his hand.

Skip accepted it, and the two men shook hands across the table. Neither smiled.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” the captain continued. “If you don’t feel you can answer, just say so. I’ll understand. If you send me a bill later, I’ll pay it if I can.”

“That will depend on the questions,” Skip told him.

“I’ll start with the worst one. If the answer’s bad, there won’t be any more. You folks are waiting for your food?”

Vanessa said, “Please don’t tell us that was the worst question.”

“No, I … Well, never mind.”

Chelle muttered, “Shut up, Mother.”

“Your firm saved us, Mr. Grison. Mick Tooley is a subordinate of yours? That’s what he says.”

“He’s a junior member of my firm. I’m a partner, the managing partner.”

“He came to save us. He enlisted mercenaries and volunteers, chartered a boat, and so on. The result was another battle. People died, and there was damage to the vessel. It’s conceivable that the line will sue your firm over his actions.”

“For saving you?” The white-bearded man sounded amused.

“Conceivable, I said. The lawyers aren’t seamen, and if they advise it…” The captain shrugged.

“They’d lose,” Skip told him. “I can’t guarantee it, but that’s my professional opinion. I wouldn’t take their case.”

“If they do,” the captain continued, “you’ll certainly counter-sue. Am I right?”

“Probably. I’d want to sleep on it and have my people research similar cases. But we probably would.”

The captain nodded, his long, sun-tanned face worried. “If you accuse me of negligence and make those accusations credible, my career will be effectively over. I hope you realize that.”

“I hadn’t thought that far,” Skip said.

“It will be. A ship’s officer has to get his master’s ticket to make decent money. I got mine six years ago.”

Vanessa said, “You’re contracted, aren’t you? Someone told me that. Children?”

The captain nodded, his face expressionless. “Three.”

“I envy you,” Skip said. “Shall I put this to rest? Now? I believe I can.”

The captain nodded again.

“If your company decides to sue us, you’ll be deposed. At some point, as the case proceeds, we will read your deposition. How hard we are on you will depend, largely though not entirely, on how hard you are on us.”

“I won’t be hard on you at all. I’ll say you saved us, which is the truth.”

“In which case, it’s your company you have to worry about, not us.”

The captain rose. “If they blame me, they can’t go on blaming you. Or not as much.”

“Correct. Furthermore, they will be blaming their own agent. The chance that they’ll do it is minute. They may threaten to fire you, however. Threaten, I said. If they are foolish enough to do it, you’ll have grounds for a suit of your own. Your attorneys would show that your professional reputation has been damaged beyond repair by your company’s negligence and subsequent actions. They would ask compensatory and punitive damages. Twenty or thirty million, I would think.”

Chelle murmured, “I smell blood in the water.”

Skip shook his head. “It probably won’t happen—they’d be fools to do it. If they do, however, almost any attorney would take your case on contingency. Do you know any good lawyers?”

“I know one very good one,” the captain told him, and left as the waiter’s assistant began collecting the salad plates.

“That was my boss,” Vanessa told the white-bearded man. “He’s a bit too straitlaced for his own good, but it’s terribly easy to do much, much worse.” Her tone was merely conversational.

As the waiter himself distributed their entrées, Skip waved to Mick Tooley. “Over here. Were you looking for us?”

“For your beautiful contracta, sir.” Tooley grinned. “For a few days she was giving me daily bulletins on your progress—on your lack of it, far too often. I’m going to miss her.”

Chelle smiled in return, an amazingly warm smile that Skip found he associated with swirling leaves—brown, red, and gold—and young men in sweaters throwing footballs. “I’m not gonna disappear into some dress designer’s salon forever, Mick. I bet there’s a company Christmas party.”

“Until then,” Tooley told her, “and if you’ll come, I’ll bring the doughnuts.”

Skip gestured toward the chair that the captain had vacated. “Sit down. We don’t want to lose you so soon.”