G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

It was dead calm now, without a sniff of wind. The late afternoon sun was an immense flaming ball, as if no protective atmosphere separated it from the Alice.

The sea had a sluggish, oily look and the Alice’s sails slatted gently as she rocked in an old swell which came from the southwest. In the direction of the swell the horizon was different—as if some gigantic hand had pried sky and sea apart and was now driving a thin black wedge in between.

Joe glanced absently at his wrist. Damn those watch-stealing Romans! How much time had he? He went below and after one unbelieving glance at the barometer yelled for Gorson and Cookie. “Set up the still—make it quick!”

Gorson and Cookie stared dumbly, with eyes like catatonic spaniels. The rest of the crew was mute and worried. Ma Trimble was solemn. “Well, what’s wrong?”

Joe snapped. “Everybody got a dose?”

Ma Trimble shook her head and her chins quivered.

She dabbed at her eyes with an oversized man’s handkerchief. Gorson cleared his throat and swallowed a couple of times. “Three girls gone,” he said. “No sign of them anywhere. Abishag, Miriam—”

“Abishag—she the one who was unraveling a jersey?”

Rose nodded unhappily and held out a ball of yarn.

Joe remembered how the girl had disappeared at the moment of the jump. He thought she’d gone on deck.

Why hadn’t all the girls gravitated back to their own time, just as Howie had been snatched back to his?

The bell jar and coil must set up a field. Close to it, you’re safe, but get so far away … The girl had been leaning against the chain locker bulkhead—almost in the Alice’s bows. Abruptly, Joe stopped, realizing what news they were trying to break to him. He drew a deep breath and looked for a place to sit.

Gorson nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Raquel too.”

“You’re sure?” he finally asked, and knew they were.

Damn it, why did she have to go now? Up on deck awhile ago he’d been—well, what? It wasn’t— He sighed. Well, it just wasn’t fair. He could see it all now.

She hung out in the chain locker. Whenever things went wrong she crawled into her hole just as he crawled into his cubicle. Why hadn’t he guessed earlier why she flaunted that gamy stink? More important, he should have realized what those intervals of cleanliness meant.

If he had said the right things she wouldn’t have run off to the chain locker. Why had he put it off?

He felt his insides tense at the anticipation of pain.

It was going to hurt, he knew. Each day the aching would grow and swell. The emptiness inside him would grow until one day the thin shell would crumple and there would be nothing left of Joe. He wondered what the crew of the Alice would do if he were to tear his hair and scream quadrilingual blasphemies.

“Sir,” Gorson was saying, “the barometer—”

Holy hell, the typhoon!

Someday he would have time to mourn. Someday her name would be graven with letters of fire in some dark and secret corner of his duodenum. But for the time being he was captain of the Alice.

“Guilbeau, Rose, Schwartz, and Villegas, on deck!

Take in all sail. Dog everything down ready to jump.

Gorson and Cook, rig the still. Freedy, you know what to do.”

He went on deck. The giant was prying horizon and sea farther apart. The black wedge could not be more than minutes away from the Alice. “Step lively with that sail!” he yelled, and began lashing the wheel.

Instructions were unnecessary. The Alice’s people knew the weather and their captain were both ready to break. “I won’t think about it,” Joe muttered, and helped punch the tattered mains’l into a neat furl.

There isn’t time to think. He took a final look at that widening black wedge before following his people down the after scuttle.

The deck was secured, the hatches dogged. Gorson and Cookie were at the still. Freedy’s hands poised over the fathometer. “Everything set where it was last jump?” Joe asked. Freedy nodded. “All right, let’s try it.”

The switch clicked and all hands waited for the warm-up. Joe reviewed all the countless possibilities for disaster. I won’t think about her. So far the Alice had always fetched up afloat. Did their time machine have a special fondness for salt water or was each jump straining the law of averages? Five continents and seven seas; you pays yer money and you takes yer choice.

I won’t think about her.

Nothing was happening.

“Move back to zero,” Joe said, “and start ranging out again.”

“Right,” Freedy grunted. The instant his hand touched the knob Joe felt that now familiar twisting. Past, present, future? At least they were at sea. The Alice was rocking violently. He’d better get on deck and set a little canvas to steady her.

Two jumps away from her now. Did she land safely or spend her final hour treading water lonely leagues from land? I won’t think— His head emerged from the scuttle and he found himself staring at a blank gray wall. He glanced up straight into horrified faces which stared down at him from the deck of a destroyer. The destroyer was at flank speed, passing the Alice’s portside with barely four feet to spare. He glanced about and realized even this horror could be magnified.

Six destroyers had been steaming two abreast. Now they were peeling off at impossible angles as radar or bow lookouts sighted the Alice. The last destroyer in the starboard column had apparently not gotten the word; her knifelike bow pointed unerringly at the Alice’s mizzen mast. She was a length and a half away, making all of twenty-two knots!

Joe dived down the after scuttle, scattering the blondes who headed up it. Thank Neptune the bell jar was still set up. The red pilot light glowed on the fathometer. Brushing Freedy aside, he spun the range selector. All hands poured on deck to see what had spooked him.

Cringing against the crash to come, Joe spun the dial frantically. Agonizing seconds passed before he again felt that shimmering flicker which meant they had jumped. Was he getting used to time travel or was the sensation getting weaker? Three jumps away from her.

He stuck his head out of the scuttle, wondering what new disaster would present itself. The Alice’s crew stood and sat in various attitudes of numbed stupefaction. Gorson struggled to his feet when he saw Joe.

“That tin can,” he croaked. “I know those guys!” The chiefs eyes were showing too much white. “Jesus!” he muttered, and began wilting. Joe caught him and lowered the bos’n gently. So he knows them. Had he known them a month ago or twenty years ago? The tin cans had looked fairly recent but— Abruptly Joe remembered the telltale bulge of a piece of super-secret electronic gear. That gadget hadn’t been operational six months ago.

The sun had an early morning look and, after a glance at the compass, he decided they were still in the northern hemisphere. Freedy still mumbled and counted his fingers. Joe gave him a despairing glance and went below. After turning off the fathometer and letting air in the bell jar he turned on the radio. Is she alive somewhere?

This time the air was full—not just short and long wave, but all the UHF and VHF channels which had not existed twenty years ago. Down in one corner someone was single sidebanding. These return jumps were apparently a logarithmic progression. Or was that it?

Each one, at any rate, grew shorter as they approached their own time. He wondered if he were days or weeks away. Chances were that lessened twisting sensation meant this last jump away from the destroyer had only covered a week or two.

He found a news broadcast and began swinging the direction finder. Mellifluous, pear-shaped tones revealed territorial encroachments on five continents. Fine Italian hands penned notes in Cyrillic to the Secretary-General.