G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Spreadeagled figures strained in a silent, horizontal waltz while he worked his knee between kicking legs and forced his weight onto the other. Though Joe had never regarded himself as an athlete, he was overpowering his assailant with surprising ease. The heels stopped kicking at his back, and he brought the spreadeagled arms cautiously together until he could rest his elbow on one and grip the other with the same hand. He felt about for the fallen flashlight and turned it on.

His attacker was Raquel.

He wondered momentarily why she chose to sleep in the nude, but even in mid-surprise his first impression was of the perfect round firmness of her breasts. She glared up at him and Joe became acutely aware that his skivvy drawers were not designed for modesty. Why did he have to be caught in these ungainly garments?

Better to be honestly naked. He dropped the flash; its soft reflected light bathed her profile in a boudoir-like glow. She saw Joe’s face for the first time.

The glare left her eyes, fading slowly into another emotion. Her lips were beginning to pout where he had elbowed. There were teethmarks in his forearm and a trickle of blood soaked his eyebrow.

Raquel no longer struggled. Joe realized abruptly what was expected of him. The sight of her was playing hob with his glandular system, but while he hesitated he sensed that the moment had passed.

Neither of them moved. Over their heads a sheep stamped and baa’d irrelevantly. Joe took his gaze from her and saw the knife. Stretching across her to reach for it, he was conscious of flesh sliding over flesh, but then Raquel had wormed her way out from under him and was scrambling into one of the dresses she had used to floor the compartment.

He realized with sudden horror that someone could awaken at any minute. Or the deck watch could come below. This situation was bound to contribute little toward his dignity as master of the Alice. Still, there would be something definitely chicken-hearted about retreat.

He put on his most severe face and pointed down at the rope and chain which floored the compartment, then up at the eye where it threaded through the deck. “If someone dropped anchor,” he said, “you’d come up through that hole one shred at a time.”

Raquel did not understand the Twentieth Century word.

“Ancla?” she asked.

“Ancora,” Joe hissed. He hoped the Latin would get through to her. “It goes down; you go up!” He made slicing motions and pointed at the chain. Suddenly Raquel understood and her eyes grew larger.

Joe remembered why he’d crawled into this hole. He shined the light around, looking for sprung seams. Tomorrow he’d have the chain tailed out so he could check the lower half of the locker. Meanwhile, he’d explored enough for honor’s sake. Any moment now someone would wake up and peer through the open crawl hole.

“Don’t let me catch you in here again,” he said severely, “or I’ll turn you into a pumpkin.” He tossed the knife into her lap and backed through the hole. He’d been in bed several minutes before he realized that he’d locked his door. He got up and unlocked with silent thanks that no one had come to wake him. Things like locked doors got men to shaking their heads whenever the Old Man’s back was turned. He went back to bed again and, naturally, couldn’t sleep.

He realized he’d been taking a lot about the girl for granted. With a knife and a disposition like that perhaps even the Vikings had respected her privacy. But if she was such a scrapper, what had been going on up in the bow last night?

Light glowed down the crack of his door. Joe looked out and saw Freedy at the fathometer. “Sixty fathoms,” the radioman said. “Cut yourself?”

“Bumped a stanchion,” Joe said. He touched the scab on his forehead and went on deck. McGrath was at the wheel.

“Day, Mr. Rate,” he asked, “are you sure this’s only nine hundred and something?”

Joe shrugged and admitted to himself that he’d only half believed it up till now. Holy Neptune, what a thesis I could write on the Vikings! “I’m afraid it’s true,” he said.

McGrath muttered something about God. Joe looked at him. “I don’t believe He would let it happen,” McGrath said.

Joe didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

After a minute or two McGrath said, “Funny—if it were true I’d be the only Christian in the world.”

“It’s only a thousand A.D.,” Joe protested. “Not B.C.”

“I know,” Howie sighed. “But Martin Luther wouldn’t be born yet.”

Joe turned to hide his grin from the faint glow of the binnacle lamp. The grin threatened to become a belly laugh so he went below.

The sun was an hour high when Gorson woke him.

“Bottom’s shoaled out to eighteen fathoms,” the chief said. “Are we going to pile into Ireland?”

Joe stuffed an arm into his oilskins and rushed up the ladder. Bucking steep seas under shortened sail, the Alice was making as much lee as headway. Freedy stuck his head out of the after scuttle. “Ten fathoms,” he yelled.

A half hour passed, then suddenly a gray-green band was visible as they topped each swell. Joe studied the Alice’s wake and knew they’d never weather it. “Steady as she goes,” he said, and ducked below. As near as he could guess from the Alice’s meager charts, the land must be Erris Head. 10° W longitude ran straight through this northwest corner of Ireland, but if the wind held the Alice would have to run through it too.

They had hoped to make for uninhabited land but this weather was going to change their plans. Why, Joe wondered for the thousandth time, couldn’t the U.S.

Government afford a full suit of sails? He would have to put the men to sewing in reef points at the first opportunity. Oh well, he philosophized, if it weren’t for some parsimonious clerk I might not be seeing Ireland.

Funny, he thought, but we know more about Greece in 1500 B.C. than we do about Ireland even three thousand years later.

Gorson was studying the coastline. “Nothing,” he said, passing the glasses to Joe.

Joe took his own look. “There,” he said. “Not much of a harbor but at least they aren’t breaking. It’s the only hole downwind so we haven’t much choice.” He tried to remember what he knew about Ireland. The Norse controlled the east coast, he was sure, but western Ireland had managed to remain fairly free from Norse colonization, he thought.

Then he saw the ships.

There were four of them—Viking ships, rowing straight into the wind. Joe guessed they intended to round Erris Head under oars, then drive down the Galway coast on a raid. At least, that had been their original intention. Now, as they sighted the Alice driving straight toward them, the Norse rested their oars and waited.

Joe looked around for the engineman. Rose was on deck, along with everybody else. “Better light her off,” Joe said. Rose nodded and took a fresh bite on his cigar as he ducked down the scuttle.

The Vikings were less than three miles away. Men stood by the Alice, ready to take in sail the instant the engine started. “What in hell’s keeping Rose?” Joe asked.

Gorson came back a moment later. “That fertilizing stove!” he explained. “When he cut it off the other day he got the valves crossed up and cut off the engine too.”

“Great!” Joe moaned. “Better get out the rifle.” There was no hope of turning the Alice to tack out of the bay.

“He’s working,” Gorson consoled. “It’ll be ready any minute now.”

Minutes passed and still no engine. He could lower sail but if he did the Vikings would only start rowing again and the Alice would be dead in the water. Better keep canvas on and try to crowd through them.