Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

He stood before Josep, fists clenched, angry and hoping the other man would try something. Josep just turned and left. The others followed and Hank looked at their retreating backs and regretted the day he had ever become involved.

From the bridge of the QE2, the view of the Pacific Ocean forward was anything but pacific. Mountainous waves rolled in ponderously from starboard in continuous succession, slamming into the side of the great liner, breaking over her bows. Green water rushed across the foredeck and piled up against the rails, pouring through the scuppers back into the sea. Tropical rain lashed down and mixed with the sea water, while the force eight winds blew the tops from the waves and sent them whistling away in sprays of scud. As each wave passed along the hull, the ship rose up to meet it, rolled, shuddered then sank down again. The stabilizers fought an unequal battle but were overwhelmed.

Captain Rapley looked out at the savage spectacle and took no cheer from the sight. The coffee in his cup was ice cold, but he took no notice of this as he sipped it. Up here, on the uppermost deck of the ship, all of the pitching and rolling was more pronounced. He never noticed this either. He was one of the few sailors who, after a lifetime at sea, could truthfully say that he had never been seasick. Intellectually he sympathized with people who suffered this malady, but he had no real understanding of the torture they went through. No, the storm didn’t bother him, nor did it threaten his ship in any way. Some pots might be carried away in the galley, dishes and glasses would be broken, but the storm, no matter how menacing it looked, posed no physical problem at all for this vessel. It had weathered worse.

But it was the passengers who would be suffering. The Captain had been out of the Navy and in the Merchant Marines long enough to know that some of his traditional values had to be turned on their heads. In the Navy, the complex fighting machine that he had commanded always came first and foremost. All of her technical facilities were always at peak performance. The engines, electronic gear, guns, torpedoes, mines, all must function faultlessly. Unhappily, they were serviced by imperfect humans who got sick, got drunk, overstayed leave and committed other indecencies that interfered with the perfect functioning of his command. That was the way it had been and he had adjusted to it.

Now, on the QE2, his accepted values had been stood on their head. Yes, his crew still followed his commands and could be counted upon to do their part in the successful operation of the ship. But his mission now was not to fight battles and win wars — but to make some one thousand six hundred passengers happy. Perhaps not as noble a cause as the destruction of the enemy, but one just as important to his success in his chosen profession. Nor could he blame his charges. They had paid out a lot of folding green banknotes for the pleasure of a world luxury cruise. Well, they were still cruising — but there was very little luxury ill the voyage until this storm blew itself out.

Below decks, the unhappiness was so thick that you could almost detect it in the air. The restaurants were almost empty at breakfast time, with only a few hearty and healthy trenchermen digging into the rich and nourishing full breakfast so bountifully supplied. Most of the passengers remained in their cabins and, if they cared for any breakfast at all, the stewards brought around trays of tea and dry toast.

Hank and Frances were the only diners in the Queen’s Grill, alone at their table by the window. Hank drank his orange juice in a gulp, then sipped his coffee. And wondered just what to say. It had been a silent morning so far. Neither of them had slept well because of the motion of the ship, and when the first light had filtered around the drapes over the windows they had found themselves awake and unable to sleep anymore. Without saying a word about it, they were both painfully aware of the Tupamaros in the adjoining room of the suite. Frances had finally kicked off the covers in disgust, then had pulled clothing from the drawers and closet with far more banging than was needed. With her arms filled with clothing she had stamped into the bathroom and had slammed the door. When she emerged, dressed in slacks and a light sweater, her hair bound in place by a scarf, she had nothing to say to Hank, in fact had acted as though he didn’t exist. He had gone to the bathroom himself and had enjoyed the luxury of a hot shower — followed by a bracing cold one — but when he had emerged she was gone.

He had dressed quickly and followed her. In the adjoining sitting room, three of the Tupamaros were asleep, one snoring loudly. But the fourth one was wide awake, sitting on the couch and watching him. A large pistol ready on his lap. Hank said nothing, just opened the door and slipped out.

The QE2 was a big ship, but not big enough to get lost on, and he had found her right away, at their table in the dining room. Making a breakfast of a large glass of Citrocarbonate.

His cheerful good morning had produced no response other than a twitch of her nostrils, as though she had suddenly detected the smell of something very rotten and decayed. Knowing he was never at his best before breakfast, he had enough sense not to make any attempts at conversation until he had eaten something. A knot of hunger had growled in his stomach and only then had he realized how many meals he had missed the previous day. The waiter had scribbled the order, then hurried away.

After that, they had sat in a cold silence that was broken only by the rattling of dishes and cutlery as the ship heaved beneath them. He was glad when his food arrived and he tucked with pleasure into the fried eggs, double rashers of bacon, a small breakfast steak, hominy grits, toast and hot rolls. Frances drained the dregs of her Citrocarbonate, glanced at his plate and turned pale. Hank shovelled and munched happily. It was too much for her and it fractured even her iron reserve not to say a word to him ever again.

“My God — how can you do it? The ship is sinking, all those about you are collapsed on their deathbeds or heaving their cookies into the lavatory pan. While you, ignorant and unfeeling, are eating enough food to feed a Vietnamese family for a year. How is that possible?”

“I was hungry,” Hank said, very seriously.

Her jaw dropped — and her anger evaporated as she burst out laughing. She reached and held his hand in hers. The free one; he kept shovelling food seriously with the other.

“I really feel terrible,” she said. “And I’ve not been nice to you.”

“You should eat something.”

“Yes. And die instantly. I’ll have another large Citrocarbonate on the rocks. It’s not the sea, really. I’ve been messing around with boats since as long as I can remember and I’m not bothered. It was those sodding Brandy Alexanders, if you must know. Never chat with a Swede who buys you Brandy Alexanders. He can have only one thing in mind. He is a big wheel in publishing, or at least he said so, but what he wanted to really be was a big wheel in the sack with me. This he suggested with a light pinch on my bottom, but he had claws like a lobster or didn’t know his own strength or something because that one grab left black and blue marks. Sobered me up instantly, though. That’s when I staggered back to our cabin and made the grand entrance. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right to feel as you do. And I want you to point out your Scandinavian masher so I can beat him to a pulp, then push him over the rail.”

“My hero! No, it was my fault for letting him buy me the drinks. I was trying to get away from this whole thing. And I really know that I can’t. I’m sorry — no, we’re going to have to stop telling each other how sorry we are. You’re sorry you got me involved, I’m sorry we are involved. End of sorry time. Did anything important happen?”