G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Raquel shrugged. “Your language is like the Viking tongue but I think it is worse. I still know only a few words.”

Villegas must have filled her in about the meeting, Joe guessed. Like every Latin gentleman, he preferred blondes and had set up bunkkeeping with one. Still, Joe felt an obscure discomfort and wished the great lover would keep away from Raquel. Not that Joe had any intentions, honorable or otherwise, but … He couldn’t make up his mind just what he was butting.

The day wore on and no sight of land. Where were they? He was sure he’d passed Cape Malea by this time. How could he have managed that without sighting land? They’d be passing across the Ionian Sea’s lower end soon, maybe already. He wondered how it would be for pirates, remembering that Julius Caesar had been taken and held for ransom here.

They had roast goat that afternoon. Surprisingly like venison, Joe decided. They had been horribly short of fats and the rye bread dipped in hot tallow was delectable. The Alice was still well fixed for rye and meat but the island had contributed little or nothing in the way of greens, thanks to the same goats they were now eating. Joe ran his tongue over his teeth and wondered if it was imagination that made them feel slightly loose. How long before someone blossomed out with a genuine case of scurvy?

The still was ready. Radio and fathometer were still complete, if only because the Romans hadn’t been able to imagine the cost of a power transistor. Joe turned in and threshed about in his bunk. Chances were when he got everything set up and threw the switch, nothing would happen. If something did there were about eighteen thousand things that could go wrong. The first jump had taken them from the Pacific to the Atlantic; the second had landed them in the Aegean. The reverse should take them back home—maybe.

He flipped on the light for a look at his watch. Damn it, would he never remember it was gone? He climbed wearily into his pants and hoped there would be some burnt rye in the coffee pot. If the fire hadn’t died down in the range it might even be warm.

Lights were on and all hands sat waiting in the galley.

“What time is it? Why’s everybody up?”

“Homesick, sonny,” Ma Trimble said. “Everybody’s waiting for you to get off the pot.”

Joe stumbled toward the coffee pot which, thank Mahan, was full. Somewhere in the back of his mind had lurked the hope that with warm bunks and carnal satisfactions the Alice’s crew would not be in such a hurry to get home. As the only historian aboard he had, he realized now, been indulging in wishful thinking.

“Hasn’t anyone any objections?” he asked.

Silence.

“Well,” he continued, “the first jump took us from off California to somewhere between Norway and Iceland. The next one dumped us in the Aegean. Why?

Maybe we hang in limbo while the Earth revolves beneath us.” He shrugged. “Anyway, each jump has moved us east. Now take a look at the map. If this next jump proves true to form the Alice is going to have one damn rough time sailing down Mt. Ararat.”

Shocked silence.

“But we got everything all ready to go,” Cookie finally protested.

“Okay,” Joe said, “if everybody’s willing, so am I. But remember, the biggest deserts on Earth lie due east. The Golden Horde of Fu Manchu couldn’t dig a canal across the Gobi.”

There was silence for another moment; then Dr. Krom protested, “But do you know?”

“Of course not,” Joe snapped. “I’m guessing like everyone else. What time is it, anyway?”

“About dawn,” Gorson said. “Guilbeau, relieve Schwartz.”

The Cajun nodded and climbed into his peacoat.

“Batteries at full charge,” Rose suggested.

A faint hint of daylight glimmered through the porthole. Joe didn’t want to jump. He was haunted by the suspicion that he was forgetting something very important. He needed more time to think. Maybe he could get Freedy to check over the electronics gear again.

He was trying to think up a reason to stall when Schwartz’s raucous voice yelled. “Land!”

Ten seconds later all hands stared at a rocky promontory off the starboard bow. Where in blazes were they?

Joe was willing to bet his commission they’d passed Cape Malea. This couldn’t possibly be Sicily. He studied the point and wondered how far out that rocky spine would shoal. If the Alice headed any farther south she’d be sailing by the lee. Nothing for it but to haul everything in close and jibe.

“Want a sounding?” Freedy asked. “I can turn on the fathometer.”

“With everything set up for a jump? Hell, no.”

They hauled in the mainsheet and were wrestling with the spinnaker pole when Joe first saw it come streaking from behind the point. The ship was light and carried a single bank of oars. “Liburnian,” he grunted. Caesar used them for dispatch boats. A second galley came from behind the point and shot toward the Alice.

“Dammit,” Gorson moaned, “The s.o.b.‘s must crawl from under every flat rock.”

Freedy stuck his head up through the companionway.

“You sure it’s deep enough here?” he asked.

Joe gauged the wind against the quickstroking Liburnians. “We’re in deep enough,” he said. “Turn on the fathometer.”

Howard McGrath had not been having it easy. The night before the Alice had been taken by the Roman ship, he and Lillith had escaped in the caique, but right now, with the wind abeam, the little vessel was about as stable as a bicycle. Out of bits of cordage they had finally rigged a couple of slings which permitted him and Lillith to dangle rapidly varicosing buttocks outboard of the windward gunwale while steering with the sheet rather than the lashed sweep.

After several eternities they reached Piraeus and brailed up sail. There being no proper thwarts, Howie had been at something of a loss until Lillith stood facing forward with her pair of oars and taught him how to row. In the hour and a half it took them to make land he felt circulation returning little by little to his cinctured lower extremities.

Instinct guided Lillith away from the moles where customs men swarmed over the large ships. They rowed slowly, toward a more ancient section of the harbor where small boats reeked of ancient fish while their occupants mended nets and addressed each other in equally pungent koine.

Howie had acquired a minimum of Aramaic in the last week but this was his first contact with the language of the New Testament. How, he wondered, would they get by here?

Lillith, using the few Aramaic words Howie understood, managed with much arm waving to explain that she would do the talking and that he had best pretend to be her slave.

Howie saw the wisdom of this: slaves were not expected to fight and these bruisers looked as if they’d like nothing better. They inched along the mole to a vacant space large enough for the caique’s bow. Howie scrambled over the slimy stones and tied up. By the time he had helped Lillith up onto the dock an immense crowd had gathered.

Howie glanced embarrassedly at his ragged dungarees. He must be wearing the only pants in town. He ran a hand over his sunburned chin and wondered when he’d find a razor to take off the half dozen bristles which sprouted there.

Lillith addressed the gawkers shrilly. Had Howie known more of the language he would have known her Greek was almost as atrocious as his Aramaic. But she got the idea across. Soon fishermen bid briskly against each other. One dumped a few staters and a large handful of copper oboloi into the pockets she made of her tattered skirt. She handed him the caique’s painter.

The crowd dispersed. Howie studied Lillith’s legs and desire rose in him for the first time since they’d sailed. But there were too many people. Glancing about at the few women’s long skirts, he saw Lillith was conspicuous, brazen, or both. He pointed at the money and at a pocket in his dungarees. Lillith gave him a swift glance and surrendered the coins.