G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Allah has only warned you. You are not blind, are you?”

Clean Turban blinked tears and released a shuddering sigh of relief. “Truly,” he said, “you are men of the One God.” He turned and shouted instructions. Moments later a bent old man with scanty white beard was handed over to the Alice along with several prayer rugs and bundles. The boarding party started going back aboard the Felucca. “The imam and I will travel with you,” Clean Turban said, “along with ten men-at-arms.” Which was not exactly what Joe had hoped for, but it was better than being murdered.

“All right,” he shouted, “turn to and remember to keep those hands out of your pockets.”

Gorson started wrapping a long splice into the mainsheet while the others, realizing that even under new management the ship had to be worked, went forward to take in sodden pieces of spinnaker. With patience and a great deal of stitching something might be salvaged.

Something else had been bothering Joe: Raquel was nowhere in sight. He looked around the deck again and his suspicion was confirmed. Not only was the girl missing—so was Howard McGrath.

An hour passed before Gorson rove the mainsheet.

The hindmost of the slavers was nearly abreast. With a little luck, Joe thought, they might dawdle behind until there were only the twelve men aboard to deal with. The prize crew had marveled over blocks tad sheeting winches. The yawl’s wheel was a mystery for men who had known only tillers but a young man, apparently son or nephew to Clean Turban, took it. After, a few spins and one near jibe he steered without difficulty.

Joe and Clean Turban faced each other across the galley table. Dr. Krom sat in a corner and surveyed the aged imam across the gulf of no common language.

They had guided Clean Turban and the imam on tour of the electronic gear and had, with Freedy’s collusion, managed to give the Moors a shock here and there to discourage meddling.

“What’s that?” the Moor wanted to know. He was pointing at the vacuum still. Joe gave some fanciful explanation, only half paying attention to what he was saying. As carefully as possible he had searched for Raquel and McGrath. He wanted to ask if anyone had gone overboard in the melee but that would give them away for sure. Clean Turban and his men had been surprisingly decent so far. Prolonged conversations in English might change their attitude.

He still had the pistol stuck in his belt. He could perforate Clean Turban and the imam point blank, but there weren’t shots enough to take care of all the guards.

Clean Turban was looking thoughtfully at Joe. “Didn’t you say you had no weapons?” he asked.

Joe held his breath. The pistol seemed to swell in his belt until it assumed the proportions of a rocket launcher. “We are peaceable men,” he said. “Pirates are unknown in our waters.”

Clean Turban smiled evilly. “And yet you throw fire?”

Joe gave a cracked laugh. “It’s not a weapon,” he explained. “We use the flares for signaling.” How many left? To hell with them; sacrifice anything to relieve Clean Turban’s mind. He got the flare pistol and explained its workings. Clean Turban was doubtful until Joe explained what a parachute was and why it held the flare up.

The imam said something in Arabic and Joe suddenly wondered if he understood Spanish. If he did Joe might be on thin theological ice. Some kind of miracle which didn’t set well with the Koran could easily get the lot of them axed for sorcery.

“You’re traders,” Clean Turban said, “yet I see no stock. What do you sell?”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave. Seconds passed and still Joe could think of no answer. After this stall it had better be good! “A rare commodity,” he finally said.

“More precious than gold or ivory, worth more than silk or pepper. Our stock weighs nothing and takes no space in our ship. Yet it is worth more than the finest oils of Macassar.”

Clean Turban looked at him with a light, cynical smile. “What can possibly be so precious?” he asked.

Joe smiled back at him and answered, “Knowledge.”

When an avalanche of Infidels swept across the Alice’s deck one quick look was sufficient for Howard McGrath. Joe’s warning about crusades had made the situation woefully clear to Howie—and he wasn’t very interested in dying just at this moment. There was great commotion on deck, footsteps and much shouting in the Devil’s tongue. Below decks, Howie raced about frantically. The chain locker was too open and obvious. Besides, that murdering heretic of a girl had her clothing in there and if he had to touch it Howie knew he could be sick.

He scurried through the ship, searching for a hiding place. Captain’s quarters would be the first place they’d look. Lazarette? Full of rye and there wasn’t room.

Rushing to look for another place, he stumbled on the cabin sole. Rose must have been working on the engine, for the lineoleum covered floorboard was slightly out of place. There was, Howie remembered, barely room to stretch out alongside the engine.

He kicked the floorboard over a little farther and dived. Abe must’ve had a mattress down here while he worked, for the landing was soft. Too dark to see for sure. Then inexplicably, the mattress snarled and sat up to jerk the floorboard back in place over their heads.

Howie’s flesh crawled. His whole being wanted to erupt and run shrieking from this den of iniquity. Not enough to be penned in darkness with a murdering pagan. On top of it all she had to go and be a woman!

What would his mother say? But Howie faced the dreadful choice between should and must, for the footsteps were belowdecks now. Directly over his head someone was shouting in Satan’s tongue. With Death standing over him and Eternal Damnation wedged tightly beside, there was only one thing left: Howie fainted.

The captain of the Alice had no time for such luxuries.

Clean Turban was apparently satisfied with his cock and bull yarn about a Point Four program, but it was chow time. The Moors wouldn’t eat off plates. Cook finally put half the sheep in a dishpan and passed it up on deck with a few loaves of bread. “Fewer dishes to wash,” he philosophized. Joe couldn’t remember whether Tenth Century Arabs drank coffee. After a taste, Clean Turban’s men passed up the burnt rye brew in favor of water. They sat around the dishpan, digging in with right hands, and emitting volcanic belches after each mouthful. “I’ll get some bicarb,” Cookie offered. “When do we jump ‘em?” he added under his breath.

“They like your cooking,” Joe explained. “They’re being polite.” He tried to throw in a mysterious smile in answer to the second question.

The Alice had been built with accommodation for ten. With Krom and Lapham aboard she carried twelve—Raquel made thirteen. Clean Turban and his imam brought it up to fifteen. And then there were ten men-at-arms. But it turned out that the Moors did not care for bunks, so the Alice’s men slept undisturbed. The weather was clearing and with the Moors standing watch it began to look as if the Alice’s crew might get a full night’s sleep for once. Joe took a final turn around the deck and Gorson clutched his sleeve. “What’re we going to do now?” the chief demanded when he had pulled Joe behind the dinghy.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. He was shocked at the sudden realization that he hadn’t been giving much thought to the matter of escape. “Something will turn up,” he said comfortingly. Gorson grunted and disappeared.

Clean Turban’s young relation was still at the wheel.

He steered confidently by the wind, ignoring the binnacle in front of him.

“Do you know what that is?” Joe pointed at the compass. The steersman smiled and shook his head. Joe started to explain about compasses until the young man said something in Arabic and shook his head again. This one, at least, didn’t know Spanish. But he knew where he was going.