G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

“Yes,” Howie said, “I’m Howard. Anaknoo Leilat’?”

Soon he knew the words for eye, nose, mouth, arm, hand. Lillith fanned her bodice again and taught him the word for button. She ballooned out the heavy wool and blew into it. This damned tent was suffocating her! She fanned the skirt up and down.

He learned words for toe, foot, and ankle. Breathing rapidly, he progressed to knee. Howie had not realized learning a language could be so interesting. It was getting ungodly hot in this little hole between the oak’s roots. He began to sympathize with Leilat’ in that heavy woolen thing. She taught him the word for dress. Pointing at his belt, she said the word for buckle.

Howie was sure he’d never remember the words but she gave him no time to stop and review. Leilat’ caught his hand and drew him toward her. She had another lesson in mind for him—and since it was Howie’s first, it went very quickly.

In spite of Ma Trimble’s change in plans, Lillith had no interest at all in visiting some outlandish country no one had ever heard of. She wanted to go to Rome. Obviously so did this timid young soul. Therefore …

Lessons progressed. Howie became obsessed with the magnificence of his plan: they would take the Alice to Rome and after he’d settled P. Pilate’s hash there would be time to swing around by the Holy Land and give John the Baptist a briefing on his mission in life.

Mr. Rate had been a history professor. He would be handy for taking care of details. Mr. Rate would go along with the plan, and the Alice’s men would do whatever Mr. Rate told them. Mr. Rate wouldn’t balk at a chance for Salvation. But some obscure instinct made Howie decide perhaps he’d better get hold of the gun first.

Joe felt neither shock nor amazement as Howie unfolded his magnificent project, only a bored sense of corroboration. It was so magnificently logical. His only wonder was how in hell he was going to get the pistol away from this addled god shouter.

“It’s a big decision,” he finally said. “When it comes to salvation each man should choose for himself. You wouldn’t want me responsible for sending a man’s soul to hell, would you?”

Howie shook his head.

“Well, let’s call them in one at a time and tell them your plan. Those that don’t want to go can stay on the island.”

Howie thought a moment. It sounded fair.

With his eye on the revolver which wobbled in Howie’s sweaty hand, Joe opened the door a crack and called Gorson. The chief crowded into the tiny compartment. “What the hell—?” Abruptly he shut up, wondering if Joe’s kick had shattered his ankle.

“Go ahead Howie; I’m sure the chiefs interested.”

Howie told his story more smoothly this time, dwelling long on the glories of Salvation. Gorson listened noncommittally. When Howie was through and his blazing eyes awaited a decision for God or Satan the chief glanced at Joe for a hint. “Well,” Joe said rapidly, “it looks like you have two of us with you. Who should we call next?”

“Cook, by all means,” the chief said.

The pistol had not left McGrath’s hand. They were already jammed in like boots in a chow line. He opened the door a crack and called.

Cookie tried but there wasn’t room in the tiny compartment. He had seen the pistol so Howie could not let him retreat. They faced each other for a tense moment.

“Tell you what,” Joe said. “Howie, why don’t you put the pistol in your pocket and follow us up on deck where we can get a breath of air?”

Howie was uncomfortable by now. He appreciated Mr. Rate’s thoughtfulness. Up on deck they could reach some agreement. He had to be on his way soon. Suddenly he remembered— “Just to show God you’re on his side, we’ll smash the still on the way up.”

Gorson gasped.

“Don’t you want to?”

The bos’n looked imploringly at Joe. “It’s not the booze, Howie,” he finally said. Then he remembered the god shouter had no particular interest in returning to the Twentieth Century. He opened his mouth a couple of times but nothing came out.

“Ain’t another piece of copper tubing like that in the whole world,” Cookie protested.

“We can talk it over later,” Joe suggested. Sooner or later this madman would fall asleep. How much damage would he do beforehand? In the back of Joe’s mind lurked the uncomfortable thought that they might have to kill Howie. “Why do you want to destroy the still?” he temporized.

Howie was shocked. “Why Mr. Rate, you know it’s against regulations. Whiskey is the Devil’s Drink!”

“Well yes,” Joe hedged, “but that still’s made out of government property. You know, I’d be so busy filling out forms and writing reports, I don’t know how I’d ever find time to help you with this Roman business.”

“Sure, kid,” Gorson contributed, “you know how it is with those reports and paperwork. Why, old Commander Cutlott would have a hemorrhage.”

Howie was not buying it. His eyes twitched from Gorson to Cookie to Joe. Joe wondered why he had never before noticed how much white they showed.

“No,” Howie said firmly. “The still has got to go.”

“But can’t we—?”

“Now!”

Joe opened the door and slowly stepped out. Dr.

Krom crowded in front of him and waved test tubes.

“Later,” Joe said, and kept walking.

Dr. Krom wouldn’t be brushed off. “Urgent,” he was saying. “Must act immediately.”

“What do you know about urgency?” Joe muttered.

Another step and there was Krom again, clutching at his sleeve. The old man was in a real flap; his English had dwindled away into pure Hungarian.

“Nyet, nyista, whatever the hell it is in Magyar—no, damn it!” Joe said. “Later.”

There was a tinkling crash behind them. There goes the still. But all was not yet lost—they’d replaced one broken bell jar. But if that copper coil ever went over the side … Slowly, Joe turned.

The god shouter was backed up against the bulkhead, describing wild wavering arcs with a handful of pistol. “Don’t Howie,” Joe said. “You’re here to save souls, not send them to hell before they can choose.”

“I’ve got to get to Rome.”

“All right, all right. Has anyone said no? Look at all these poor souls seeking the light. Give them your message. I’ll interpret.”

Howie frowned an instant, then began repeating his private evangel. After a moment Joe interrupted. “Esta loco,” he said, “Procuren no hacerle dano. Non compos mentis. Non respondit actas suas.” He tried again in Greek, urging them not to kill the Salvation-addled Bible belter.

Howie had the heavenly reward bit down pat by now.

Oh well, as long as he keeps talking, Joe philosophized.

But that thrice accursed pistol still wobbled around, describing in great flamboyant arcs the riches of heaven.

Howie raised both hands in a gesture of benediction and the pistol pointed momentarily upward. Joe caught movement from the corner of his eye—a whistling hiss as Raquel’s knife removed the thinnest slice from Howie’s already mangled ear. The pistol went off!

Ma Trimble screamed. Immediately the blondes made it an a capella choir. Howie stared at the pistol, wondering if he had caused all that noise. Something heavy struck him in the forehead. The imam hefted another cup. “Takes one to catch one,” he said with a wolfish grin at Joe.

Fragments of heavy, handleless navy cup lay about the shattered savior. His forehead bulged as if a third eye were ready to open. Raquel stepped over the crushed crusader and retrieved her knife. That’s the second time she’s saved my life, Joe thought.

Schwartz crowded up. “Mr. Rate, what’re we gonna do?”

“Can’t let him run around loose. Get some merthiolate and cotton.”