G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Joe decided he was either due east or west of the transmitter. When would that mealy-mouthed commentator shut up long enough for station identification?

He glanced absently at his wrist. Damn those Romans!

Abe Rose came down the after scuttle. “I see we’re home,” he grunted.

“How do you know?”

Rose gave a humorless hah. “I’d know that prevaricating son of an unnatural union between Barry Goldwater and Daddy Warbucks if I heard him in Katmandu. And considering the wattage on which he defiles us Democrats, I’d say we aren’t a hundred miles from San Diego.”

Howard McGrath came below, looking pale and unhappy. He was followed by Dr. Krom, who helped Ma Trimble down the scuttle. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

“All gone but Ruthie,” she sniffled. “We’ll be next.”

Ruthie—that was the blonde who’d shared Villegas’ bunk. Again Joe was reminded of Raquel.

“—and so we come to the end of KLOD’s political powwow for this day, March 2, 1965—”

March 2—why, tomorrow was the day—Commander Cutlott’s crowd would be holding inspection. And oh God, what a mess the Alice was in! Foul-bottomed, topside paint peeling, spear, axe and catapult scars in her deck, half her gear missing and the other half rotten—

“All hands turn to,” he yelled. “We’ve got to get this bucket shipshape.”

He’d have to go over the yawl from stem to stern and get rid of anything the blondes had left. Things were going to be hard enough to explain without getting into that right off! He’d start with the lazarette, which was just about as far as he could get from the chain locker. I won’t think of her.

The lazarette was empty. Joe stared. The last time he’d looked it’d been full of sacked rye. Then he realized what happened. With each jump the Alice’s hold on these extratemporal articles had become more tenuous. Finally, they had gone the way of the girls, the way of— He climbed down into the compartment to see if a dress or sandal had been left behind.

The lazarette was empty, save for Gorson’s and Cookie’s immense foot lockers. Why they needed these empty trunksized boxes aboard ship he would never know unless— No, he’d looked several times and they’d always been empty.

Well, they were nearly back to normal. All the Alice’s original people were aboard. There remained only Ma Trimble and one blond to explain away. Villegas could sneak them ashore before inspection time.

Howard McGrath was looking down into the lazarette.

“Mr. Rate,” he complained, “I can’t hardly pee at all!”

“I’m fresh out of aspirin. Have you tried prayer?”

Joe climbed out of the lazarette and hesitated as he saw how utterly crushed the young god shouter was.

“Oh, keep your shirt on,” he growled. “You’ll be in a naval hospital in twelve hours. When you get out I’ll see if I can’t get you a medal.” He glared into the mist. When could Point Loma loom up through the coastal fog?

Why’m I poking around like this? he wondered. Gorson had enough sense to get anything incriminating out of sight before inspection. He went into his cubicle and opened the “want book” and inventory sheets. How would he ever make them come out? I won’t think of her.

He buried his head in his hands. He should, he supposed, be thankful it had ended this way. After all, how could she have fitted into faculty life in a college town? Like it or not, he was a professor. Subconsciously, he had always known he would never make a career of the navy. He had had his little fling; now he would tuck his tail between his legs and scuttle back quietly into Dr. Battlement’s History Department. He’d be a year behind his contemporary bright young men so far as seniority and tenure went, but… I won’t think of her.

The Alice’s motion had changed. He stripped the makeshift curtain (something else to replace before inspection) from his tiny porthole and saw a tug drift slowly past the Alice. There was a gentle bump as someone fended off. He was ready to go on deck when some instinct made him hesitate. What was Gorson up to? Why hadn’t the bos’n warned him they were sighting someone?

Straining his head against the bulkhead, he caught a walleyed glimpse of a scow piled high with unsmeltable bits of antique aircraft, electronics gear too obsolete to be useful but too secret to be surplused to the unsuspecting public who paid for it. The after part of the scow was nearly awash with cases of shells and small arms ammo. While Joe watched, a small crane lifted two foot lockers from the Alice and strained two identical but much heavier boxes back aboard the yawl.

“Oh fine!” Joe muttered. He’d finally found out what Commander Cutlott wanted to know. His future was assured if he wanted it. What was in the two foot lockers? Something the navy was quite willing to heave overboard but which could land the bos’n and Cook in Mare Island for turning a fast buck at less cost to Uncle than some retired admiral’s perfectly legal lobbying.

How did they intend to get the loot ashore? Didn’t they realize the kind of going-over this poor old bucket would get tomorrow? Commander Cutlott had been awfully nice about finding a boot ensign a job, but Joe didn’t see how he could throw Gorson and Cookie to the wolves after all they’d been through together. He’d have to warn them to jettison the stuff before they reached San Diego.

It was nearly dawn before the coast came into sight.

In spite of the foghorn’s twin-toned blat and the light-house’s glimmer they crisscrossed the entrance several times before picking up the last buoy. The Alice began her slow way up the channel.

When they finally docked at 0900 a schooner twice as large as the Alice was crowded into the slip opposite. Joe gave her a look of fleeting envy. The Baleen had been built specifically for oceanographic work, with a fiberglass hull impervious to rocks, rot or worms. She was furnished with everything to keep forty men in fresh-water showered comfort for six months at a stretch.

Why couldn’t he have had something like that? Joe wondered. He sighed, consoling himself that she was twice as cumbersome and no faster than the weddy-bottomed Alice.

He trotted down the dock to the guard shack and telephoned for a corpsman to haul the god shouter and his gonococci off to the Naval Hospital. Then he stopped at Ship’s Service long enough to buy soap and razor blades for all hands. By the time he got back, he hoped Villegas would have the two women out of the way.

There was still a faint wine-pink tint to the water in spite of the hose from dockside which was now topping up their tanks. A faint hum of blower told him the galley stove was again operating on oil. He guessed Rose had promoted enough hose to make that connection too.

There was still an hour before Commander Cutlott’s inspection party was due. They’d all at least be shaved by then. Coming out of the shower, he twitched his nose unbelievingly. Could that be real coffee? He went to the urn and drew a cup. Wonders of wonders, it was! “Where’d you get stores already?” he asked.

Cookie glanced furtively at the mountain of supplies waiting to be stowed aboard the larger ship. Joe grinned.

The Baleen would never miss a couple of pounds. He hurried into his cubicle and struggled into a dress uniform. It hung sacklike and he realized how much weight he’d lost—how much they’d all lost, come to think of it.

He went on deck and saw Commander Cutlott at the end of the dock. The commander, his adjutant and yeoman were accompanied by a captain and a rear admiral.

Villegas hissed from the lazarette hatch. “Cover it up, sir,” he said.

“You’ll suffocate,” Joe whispered.

“Please sir, cover us up!”