Arthur Clarke: Cradle

“Greta,” said Captain Homer, when she looked at him after her first glance at Carol, “this is Miss Carol Dawson. She may be our charter for this afternoon.”

Greta did not smile or say anything. She wiped the sweat off her brow, took a couple of deep breaths, and put the towel behind her neck and over her shoulders. She squared herself off to face Carol and Captain Homer. Then with her shoulders back and her hands on her hips, she flexed her chest muscles. With each flexure her abundant breasts seemed to stretch up toward her neck. Throughout this routine her incredibly clear eyes evaluated Carol, checking out her body and clothing in minute detail. Carol squirmed involuntarily.

“Well, hello, Greta,” she said, her usual aplomb strangely absent in this awkward moment, “nice to meet you.” Jesus, Carol thought, as Greta just looked at Carol’s outstretched hand for several seconds, let me out of here. I must be on a strange planet or having a nightmare.

“Greta sometimes likes to have fun with our customers,” Captain Homer said to Carol, “but don’t let it put you off.” Was he irritated with Greta? Carol thought she detected some unspoken communication between Greta and Captain Homer, for at length Greta smiled. But it was an artificial smile.

“Velcome to the Ambrosia,” Greta said, mimicking Captain Homer’s first remarks to Carol. “Our pleasure avaits you.” Greta lifted her arms over her head, watching Carol again, and began to stretch. “Come vit us to paradise,” Greta said.

Carol felt Captain Homer’s burly hand on her elbow, turning her around. She also thought she saw an angry glance from Homer to Greta. “The Ambrosia is the finest charter vessel in Key West,” he said, guiding her back toward the stem and resuming his sales pitch. “It has every possible convenience and luxury. Giant screen cable television, compact disc player with quad speakers, automatic chef programmed with over a hundred gourmet dishes, robot massage. And nobody knows the Keys like Captain Homer. I’ve been diving and fishing these waters for fifty years.”

They had stopped at the entrance to the cabin area in the middle of the yacht. Through the glass door Carol could see stairs descending to another level. “Would you like to come down and see the galley and the bedroom?” Captain Homer said, without a trace of the earlier suggestiveness. He was a clever chameleon, there was no doubt about that. Carol revised her earlier judgment of him as a buffoon. But what was this business with muscle-bound Greta, whoever she is, Carol wondered. And just what is going on here? Why are they so strange?

“No, thank you, Captain Ashford.” Carol saw her opportunity to exit gracefully. She handed him what was left of the unfinished Coke. “I’ve seen enough. It’s a magnificent yacht but I can tell it’s much too expensive for a single woman wanting to spend a relaxing afternoon. But thanks a lot for your time and the brief tour.”

She started to walk toward the gangplank to the jetty. Captain Homer’s eyes narrowed, “But we haven’t even discussed price, Miss Dawson. I’m certain that for someone like you we could make a special deal…”

Carol could tell that he was not going to let her go without some additional discussion. As she started to leave the yacht, Greta came up beside Captain Homer. “It vould give you sometink to write about for your paper,” Greta said with a bizarre smile. “Sometink unusual.”

Carol turned, startled. “So you recognized me?” she said, stating the obvious. The strange pair grinned back at her. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Captain Homer simply shrugged his huge shoulders. “We thought maybe you were traveling incognito, or were looking for some special fun, or maybe even were working on a story…” His voice trailed off Carol smiled and shook her head. Then she waved good-bye, mounted the gangplank, and turned on the jetty toward the distant marina headquarters. Who are those people? she asked herself again. Now I’m certain that I have seen them before. But where?

Twice Carol looked over her shoulder to see if Captain Homer and Greta were still watching her. The second time, when she was almost a hundred yards away, they were no longer in sight. She sighed with relief. The experience had definitely unnerved her.

Carol walked on slowly. She pulled the computer listing that Julianne had given her from a small purple beach bag. Before she could look at it, she heard a telephone ring on her left and her eyes lifted naturally to follow the sound. The telephone was ringing on a boat just in front of her. A husky man in his early thirties was sitting in a folding chair on the same boat. Wearing only a red baseball cap, a pair of swim trunks, dark sunglasses and some thongs, the man was intently watching a small television propped up on a flimsy tray of some kind. He held a sandwich in one hand (Carol could see the white mayonnaise oozing out between the slices of bread even from her distance of ten yards or so) and a can of beer in the other. There was no sign that the man in the red cap even heard the telephone.

Carol moved closer, a little curious. A basketball game was in progress on the television. On about the sixth ring of the phone, the man gave a small cheer (with his mouth full of sandwich) in the direction of the six-inch picture tube, took a swig from his beer, and abruptly jumped up to answer the call. The telephone was underneath a canopy in the center of the boat, on a wooden paneled wall behind the steering wheel and next to some built-in counters that appeared to contain the navigation and radio equipment for the boat. The man fiddled with the steering wheel unconsciously during the brief conversation and never took his eyes off the television. He hung up, issued another short cheer, and returned to his folding chair.

Carol was now standing on the jetty, just inches away from the front of the boat and no more than ten feet away from where the man was sitting. But he was oblivious to her, totally absorbed in his basketball game. “All right,” he shouted all at once, reacting to something pleasing in the game. He jumped up. The sudden movement caused the boat to rock and the jerrybuilt tray underneath the television gave way. The man reached out quickly and grabbed the TV before it hit the ground, but in so doing he lost his balance and fell forward on his elbows.

“Shit,” he said to himself, wincing from the pain. He was lying on the deck, his sunglasses cocked sideways on his head, the game still continuing on the little set in his hands. Carol could not suppress her laughter. Now aware that he was not alone for the first time, Nick Williams, the owner and operator of the Florida Queen, turned in the direction of the feminine laugh.

“Excuse me,” Carol began in a friendly way, “I just happened to be walking by and I saw you fall…” She stopped. Nick was not amused.

“What do you want?” Nick fixed her with a truculent glare. He stood up, still holding (and watching) the television and now trying as well to put the tray back together. He didn’t have enough hands to do everything at once.

“You know,” Carol said, still smiling, “I could help you with that, if it wouldn’t injure your masculine pride.” Uh oh, Nick thought in a flash, Another pushy, assertive broad.

Nick put the television down on the deck of the boat and began to reassemble the tray. “No thank you,” he said. “I can manage.” Obviously ignoring Carol, he set the TV back on the tray, returned to his folding chair, and picked up his sandwich and beer.

Carol was amused by what Nick had clearly intended as a putdown. She looked around the boat. Neatness was not one of the strengths of the proprietor. Little odds and ends, including masks, snorkels, regulators, towels, and even old lunches from fast-food restaurants were scattered all over the front of the boat. In one of the corners someone had obviously taken apart a piece of electronic equipment, perhaps for repair, and left the entire works a jumbled mess. Mounted on the top of the blue canopy were two signs, each with a different type of print, one giving the name of the boat and the other saying THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.