G. Edmondson: The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Finally, Krom asked, “How soon should we reach the Azores?”

“If the wind holds we might be there in three weeks.”

The old man was silent for a moment. “I can’t get over it,” he said, “that such a thing should happen to us!”

“What makes you think we’re the only ones?”

Dr. Krom looked up sharply.

“You’re an oceanographer, Doctor—surely you know how many ships disappear each year.”

“Never to see America again,” the old man muttered.

He caught up Joe’s argument. “I disagree most emphatically,” he said in his lecture room voice. “They’ve never showed up again in the wrong time.”

“Are you sure?” What alterations have we made on history? One load of Vikings gone without trace, one merchant ship set upon by pirates. What are we? A lot of outlandish foreigners who practice witchcraft. History’s filled with birds of that feather. Besides,” Joe continued, “have we any reason to believe everyone is displaced into the past?”

Jack Lapham came down the ladder, a shade less green than usual. “How’s the wind charger going?” Joe asked.

“I started a sketch and before I was half done your engineman had figured out three improvements.”

“There is nothing like working with one’s hands to instill a sense of practicality,” Dr. Krom observed. He was back worrying at Joe’s theorizing. “If they came from the past into the future wouldn’t we have anach-ronisms in our time?”

“Possibly,” Joe conceded.

“Then why haven’t they been found?” the old man triumphed.

“Perhaps they’re doing the same thing we are.”

The old man grew thoughtful. Any sailor who found himself in a strange place, surrounded by ships and people he didn’t understand, would have done the same; lay low and hope for the best.

“But you’re implying that the process is reversible,” Lapham said.

“Conservation of energy and all that jazz,” Joe said.

“Doesn’t your modern physics make all processes reversible?”

“Then we can get back!”

“I think so.”

“Ah, the confidence of youth,” Dr. Krom said heavily.

“Weren’t you ever young?” Joe asked.

“A very long time ago,” the oceanographer said, and Joe noticed his accent had grown perceptibly thicker.

He regarded the old man speculatively for a moment.

“I read somewhere that you grew up in a very small village,” Joe said.

Krom nodded.

“Well, my engineman’s busy rigging a charger so we can use the lights and refrigerator. I was wondering if you and Jack could figure a way to get those millstones turning. Sooner or later we’ll need flour.”

“Rye bread!” Krom exclaimed, and in a welling up of half-remembered smells he was suddenly young.

Joe went on deck, leaving the two civilians sketching excitedly on bits of paper towel. The sun still shone and the wind seemed to be holding steady. In spite of the chill Guilbeau was stripped to the waist as he struggled with the yawl’s wheel. “All hands set the spinnaker,” Joe shouted.

As soon as it was dark he took a sight and worked out their latitude. Then he went back on deck arid shot the North Star again. Then he went below and told Freedy to fire up the fathometer.

“Sixty fathoms,” Freedy reported a moment later.

“God!” Rate muttered.

“Something wrong, sir?”

“Not exactly,” Joe explained. “Just better time than I’d expected. We’re nearly down to Ireland already, so we’d better head west until we drop off the hundred fathom curve. That’s the penalty for not knowing the date: no way to figure longitude except by feeling your way along the bottom.”

He went back on deck and settled the Alice on her new course. “Take a sounding every ten minutes and wake me,” he said, “if she shoals out to twenty fathoms or less.”

“Right, sir,” the bos’n grunted.

Joe went into his cabin and collapsed. Twenty minutes later he swung his feet out onto the cold linoleum and sat, chin in hands, on the edge of his bunk. What had he forgotten? They had food; they had water. Everything was going according to plan.

Slowly, he worked back over the last two days. Today was, or would have been, Saturday. He wondered what the Old Man and his visiting brass from the Bureau of Ships would have to say when the Alice was not in her proper slip with polished brightwork. The one good thing about time travel, Joe decided, was that he didn’t have to worry about some admiral stumbling across Cookie’s still. And there was that other business too.

When Ensign Joe Rate had shown up unexpectedly with a brand new commission in his hand, there had not been a single activity in the whole navy which actually needed a brand new ROTC ensign. Just when he had seemed doomed to a lifetime of awaiting orders, someone had remembered the Alice.

Commander Cutlott had been explicit. “Those two pirates”—he referred to Gorson and Cook—“are prime contenders for the all-navy cumshaw and looting title.”

“Haven’t they ever been caught?” Joe had asked in his innocence.

Commander Cutlott passed a weary hand over his bald spot. “We’re not dealing with amateurs,” he grunted. He leaned forward confidentially. “Things were bad enough when they confined themselves to supplies. How often do you find a team capable of stealing a whole ship?”

Joe’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” Commander Cutlott sighed. “Using a navy ship for their drunken parties—women aboard, no less!”

“Really, sir—” Joe began.

“Drunken, naked screaming women!” Commander Cutlott’s voice was rising. “Those god damned pirates have somehow managed to get the Alice asea with a full complement of whores. She’s been sighted dozens of times. And yet, whenever I get down to the dock there she lies with those two freebooters scraping and painting, looking for all the world like Captain Mahan might have, if he’d managed to be born without Original Sin!” The commander’s voice had risen a full octave and he was beginning to chant. “Catch those two filibusters and I’ll see that you get another stripe.”

Even in an atomic navy promotion is neither immediate nor easy. Joe had left the commander’s office with a foreboding of what he might get if he didn’t catch them.

The linoleum in the Alice’s cramped captain’s cabin had numbed his bare feet. Disgustedly, he thrust himself back in bed and tried to sleep. He had nearly succeeded when abruptly he sat up, cracking his head on the bottom of the locker above. The bow!

Holy Appropriation! The Alice had rammed another ship two days ago and still no one had crawled into the bow to see if any planking was sprung. He swung out of bed and grabbed a flashlight.

Galley and forecastle were dark. He picked his way through them without turning on lights, orienting himself by the gentle swish of water and not-so-gentle snores.

The crawl hole between forecastle and chain locker was barely large enough to squeeze through. He stuffed the unlit flashlight into the waistband of his skivvy drawers and pushed himself through. After a moment’s squirming over the jumbled anchor rope his hand touched warm flesh. He flinched backward.

The sleeper lashed out blindly. Something sharp grazed Joe’s forehead. He cowered back, hands before his face to ward off another blow. There was a smack like a cleanly caught ball as a wrist slapped squarely into his palm. Joe caught it instinctively and jerked.

He threw a right cross into the darkness. It missed and they wrestled in silent ferocity. He twisted the wrist until he sensed that the knife had fallen. He was scrabbling meanwhile with his free hand for a firmer grip.

His forearm struck teeth which promptly bit him. He jabbed an elbow at them and eventually caught the other hand which still flailed.