Гарри Гаррисон: The QE2 Is Missing

The port side of the QE2 was no different from the starboard. The boats and launches were gone, all entrances sealed. From the deck of the coast guard ship, the metal wall of the hull rose up a hundred feet above them. The sailors, who were now coming out on deck, had to strain their necks back to see the railings above.

“We must get aboard,” Captain Borras said. “Break out the line gun.”

The sailors worked swiftly and efficiently, for this was something they had been well trained to do. There was no need for the Petty Officers to shout their commands; they did so in any case. There was a relief in the familiar voices, something to temper the dark menace of the silent ship beside them. The keg of coiled rope was hauled into position below the mouth of the gun, the steel shaft of the grapple slid down the barrel. The shell, with the charge of explosive that would send it hurtling out, slammed into the breach and locked home.

“Too close,” the Bo’sun said. It was his task to aim and fire the gun. “Can’t raise it high enough.”

The gun was already at maximum elevation and was pointing at the liner’s side. It had been designed to hurl a line across another ship, not a floating island like this one.

“We’ll move away,” the Captain said. “Fire when we roll.”

They waited in expectant silence while the Bo’sun aimed the gun at the stern deck, the lowest accessible part of the ship. Waiting, holding their breath, as they rolled — but not far enough to suit the gunner. He released the handles, spat on his palms, then seized his grip again. This time a large sea surged beneath them, the coast guard ship rolled heavily — and the gun fired with a sudden sharp crack.

Almost leisurely, the tonged grapple soared up and out in an arc, towing the thin strand of rope behind it.

High up and over the rail, to vanish from sight.

“Haul in the line,” the Captain ordered.

The sailors pulled mightly until the line grew suddenly tight.

“Secure, sir,” the Bo’sun said. “Caught firm on something.”

The Captain looked up at the thin arc of line, curving up and away from the deck, almost vanishing from sight above. Presenting a very large problem, he suddenly realized. Normally this light line would be simply used to connect the two ships together, a first simple contact. Then a heavier line, then perhaps a cable would be bent to the end, each one thicker and stronger than the one before, each hauled across in turn. By sailors at the other end. Not this time. No one had appeared on the deck of the other ship. The grapple had anchored itself and that was the end of it. What next?

With the question came the answer. A possible answer; the one man on board who might possibly be able to help. “Basilio,” Captain Borras ordered. “Get him up on deck.”

The message was passed and the Captain waited in silence, looking up at the cliff of a ship that bulked high above them. The Huascaran moved back and forth in the heavy seas under the helmsman’s skilled touch as he worked to keep them from crashing into the liner, or moving away from it so far that the line parted. It took two minutes for Basilio to reach the deck; he was a stoker and labored deep in the engine room. He came out, blinking in the harsh sunlight, gaping up at the liner beside them.

“Can you do it?” Captain Borras asked. “Can you climb up that rope?”

Basilio frowned as he thought about the question; frowned even harder as he followed the arc of line with his eyes. He reached up and seized the thin line and put his weight on it, testing to see if it was thick enough to grasp and climb. It was. He nodded solemnly and flexed his biceps and fingers, the tendons in his arms standing out like cables. He was stupid — but he was strong — the strongest man on the ship. The only who who might possibly climb that thin rope. He reached up over his head, seized it in both hands, waited until a surge of the ship lifted him clear of the deck. Then began to climb.

Hand over hand. He made no attempt to throw his feet over the line to ease the weight on his arms. He simply climbed. Like a machine. Swing, release. Swing, release. Upwards with a steady rhythm. Higher and higher. He appeared to slow, but perhaps that was only a trick of distance. Then he was at the rail, resting for a moment before swinging an arm up to hook his hand over the wooden rail. Then the other hand, a kick of his legs and he was up and over. There was a spontaneous cheer from the men on the deck; silenced instantly by a growled command from the Captain.

“Bend the rope ladder to the line,” he said. “Have him haul it up and secure it.”

While this was being done, Captain Borras went to his cabin and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He hesitated an instant as he passed his desk — then slid the top drawer open and took out the holstered.38 revolver. Why? He asked himself that even as he buckled it onto his belt. There was no simple answer. Fear of the unknown, perhaps. He had no idea of what he might find aboard the liner. Certainly this popgun would be of little avail against any forces that might have caused the liner’s disappearance. He still felt better wearing it.

Basilio was just securing the ladder to the rail above when the Captain came back on deck, waving his arms to show that the job was done. Captain Borras was walking towards the ladder when the loud roar of an engine caused him to stop and look up.

A helicopter with a white star on its side floated overhead, hovering over his ship. An American carrier must have been close enough to hear the sighting radio call.

“Send a radio message at once,” the Captain shouted, jumping for the ladder. “Notify the Americans that this is a matter for the Peruvian Coast Guard. Tell them that I am boarding now and will make a report as soon as I can.” He climbed the ladder, quickly, panting for breath, but not slowing or stopping. He was first aboard; the newspapers would report it that way. First.

“Nobody here, Captain. I can’t see nobody.”

“Shut up… and give me… a hand…,“ Captain Borras gasped.

The sailor reached down and lifted the Captain easily over the rail. Borras pushed the man’s hands away and brushed his jacket straight. “Follow me,” he ordered, and turned and walked across the deck.

It was as empty as the sailor had said. The folding chairs and lounges were neatly stacked and secured in place with tight-knotted lines. Dark windows stared at him and he felt a prickling of fear on his neck. Where were the people? He would never find out standing here. Hitching up his belt so the pistol was close to hand he walked across the deck, somehow reassured by the heavy tread of the sailor close behind him. The door opened easily to his touch and he stepped into the compartment beyond.

The bottles were ranked thickly behind the bar, illuminated by softly glowing lights, ready for service. Glasses were arranged neatly below them. The bar was air conditioned and comfortable; recorded music was playing, the chairs were set expectantly before the tables, ashtrays neatly centered on the tables — the nearest one of them held an empty cigarette packet. Everything was ready.

Except there were no people.

“Nobody here,” Basilio said in a hushed voice. The Captain started to reprimand the sailor for speaking, but he didn’t. The sound of a human voice was unexpectedly reassuring. He led the way towards the door at the far end of the bar. At the last table he noticed a cigarette in the ashtray there. Long, expensive. Just lit, then grubbed out quickly and broken. Dark lipstick on the filter. Did it mean anything? He couldn’t tell.

The lounge beyond was as empty as the bar. Magazines lay on the tables, the chairs were there waiting. But something was wrong.