The 22nd Golden Age of Science Fiction Read online

  “Oh, you wouldn’t do that!” Fright showed on her face.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Craig challenged.

  “Because—oh, because—”

  “What have you got to offer me that is worth a cup of water?” he demanded.

  “What have I got that you want?” she answered. Her eyes were fixed hungrily on Craig’s face.

  “What have you got that I want! Oh, damn it, girl—” The big man twisted uncomfortably. He avoided her gaze, looking instead at the glassy sea.

  “Is it time to wake up?” a new voice asked. It was the voice of Mrs. Miller, who had been lying in the middle of the boat. She raised herself to her knees, looked around at the glassy sea. “I thought—” she whispered. “For a moment I thought I was home again. I guess I must have been—dreaming.” She pressed her hands against her eyes to shut out the sight of the sea.

  “Is it time to have a drink?” she said, looking at Craig.

  “No,” he said.

  “But we always have a drink in the morning,” Mrs. Miller protested.

  “Not this morning,” Craig said.

  “May I ask why? Are we—are we out of water?”

  “We still have water,” Craig answered woodenly.

  “Then why can’t I have some? I—well, I guess I don’t need to tell you why I need a drink.”

  The reason she needed water was obvious. Worse than anyone else in the boat, Mrs. Miller needed a drink.

  “Sorry,” Craig shook his head.

  “Why?”

  “Well, if you must know,” Craig said uncomfortably. “Margy and I have decided to keep all the water for ourselves.”

  “Damn you, Craig!” Margy Sharp said quickly.

  “You two have decided—to keep all the—water?” Mrs. Miller said slowly, as if she was trying to understand the meaning of the words. “But what—what about the rest of us?”

  “It’s too bad for the rest of you,” Craig said. He was aware that Margy Sharp was gazing frantically at him but he ignored her. Picking up a tin cup, he held it under the faucet in the side of the keg. A thin stream of water trickled out. He filled the cup half full, and handed it to Margy Sharp.

  “Drink up,” he said. “Double rations for you and me.”

  * * * *

  The girl took the cup. She looked at Craig, then glanced quickly at Mrs. Miller. Her parched lips were working but no sound came forth. She looked at the water and Craig could see the movement of her throat as she tried to swallow.

  Mrs. Miller said nothing. She stared at Craig and the girl as if she did not understand what she was seeing.

  “Damn you, Craig,” Margy Sharp said.

  “Go on and drink,” the big man answered. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Y—yes.”

  “Then drink!”

  “Oh, damn you—” Tears were in the girl’s eyes. While Craig watched woodenly, she turned and crawled back to where Mrs. Miller was sitting.

  “Craig was only teasing,” she said gently. “He’s a great teaser. He meant for you to have the water all the time. Here, Mrs. Miller, this is for you.”

  “Thank you, dear; thank you ever so much.” Mrs. Miller drank the water slowly, in little sips. Margy Sharp watched her. Craig could see the girl trembling. When the last drop was gone, she brought the cup back to Craig—and flung it in his face.

  “I could kill you!” she gasped.

  “I gave you what you wanted,” he said. His voice was impersonal but the hardness had gone from his eyes.

  Sobbing, Margy Sharp collapsed in the bottom of the boat. She hid her face in her hands.

  “Here,” Craig said.

  She looked up. He had drawn a fourth of a cup of water and was holding it toward her.

  “I—I gave my share to Mrs. Miller,” she whispered.

  “I know you did,” Craig answered. “This is my share.”

  “But—”

  “Water would only rust my stomach,” he said. “Take it.”

  The girl drank. She looked at Craig. There were stars in her eyes.

  He leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll do, Margy,” he said. “You’ll do.”

  * * * *

  The boat floated in the glassy sea. The long ground swell of the Pacific, marching aimlessly toward some unknown shore, lifted it steadily up and down, giving the boat the appearance of moving. An empty tin can, thrown overboard three days previously, floated beside the boat. A school of flying fish, fleeing from some pursuing maw beneath the surface, skipped from wave to wave.

  Besides Craig, Margy Sharp, and Mrs. Miller, there were three other persons in the boat, all men. They were: English, a blond youth; Michaelson, a little bird of a man who seemed not yet to have comprehended what had happened to them, or to care; and Voronoff, whose chief distinguishing characteristic was a pair of furtive eyes. English had been wounded. He sat up and looked over the side of the boat. Pointing, he suddenly cried out:

  “Look! Look! There’s a dragon! A flying dragon!”

  “Easy, old man,” Craig said gently. For two days English had been delirious. The infection that had developed in his wound was quite beyond the curative powers of the simple medicines carried among the emergency stores of the life boat.

  “It’s a dragon!” the youth shouted. “It’s going to get us.”

  He stared at something that he could see coming through the air.

  Craig drew his pistol. “If it comes after us, I’ll shoot it,” he said, displaying the gun. “See this pistol.”

  “That won’t stop this dragon,” English insisted. “Oh—oh—” His eyes widened with fright as he watched something coming through the sky. He ducked down in the bottom of the boat, hid his face in his hands. Men, caught unprotected in the open by a bombing raid, threw themselves to the ground like that, while they waited for the bombs to fall. A few minutes later, English looked up. Relief showed on his face.

  “It’s gone away,” he said. “It flew over and didn’t see us.”

  “There was no danger,” Craig said gently. “It wouldn’t have harmed us. It was a tame dragon.”

  “There aren’t any tame dragons!” the youth said scornfully. He was looking again at the sea. “There’s a snake!” he yelled. “A huge snake! It’s got its head out of the water—”

  “Poor kid,” Margy Sharp whispered. “Can’t we do something for him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Craig answered. “But you might take him some water.” He poured a generous share into the cup, watched the girl take it to the youth, who drank it eagerly.

  * * * *

  Michaelson and Voronoff, awakened by the hysterical cries of the youth, were sitting up. Michaelson stared incuriously around him, like a bird that finds itself in a strange forest and wonders how he got there. Then he pulled a small black notebook out of his pocket and began studying it. Ever since he had been in the life boat he had been studying the contents of the notebook, ignoring everything else.

  “What’s the idea of wasting water on him?” Voronoff said sullenly, nodding his head toward English. Margy Sharp was holding the cup to the youth’s lips.

  “What?” Craig was startled.

  “He’s done for,” Voronoff asserted. He seemed to consider the statement sufficient. He did not attempt to explain it.

  A cold glitter appeared in Craig’s eyes. “So why waste water on him?” he questioned. “Is that what you mean?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Voronoff answered. “Why waste water on a dead man? We don’t have any too much water anyhow.”

  “Go to hell!” Craig said contemptuously.

  “You can say that because you’ve got the gun,” Voronoff said.

  Craig’s face turned gray with anger but he controlled his temper. “If you think you can tau
nt me into throwing the gun away, you are mistaken,” he said. “In the meantime, I have issued water to everyone else and I assume you and Michaelson will want your shares. If you will come aft, one at a time, I will see that you get it.”

  “Water?” said Michaelson vaguely. He had paid no attention to the argument. When he heard his name mentioned, he looked up and smiled. “Water? Oh, yes, I believe I would like some.” He came aft and Craig held the tin cup under the faucet in the keg. The water rilled out very slowly. Craig stared at it in perplexity. The stream dried to a trickle, then stopped running.

  Horror tightened a band around his heart. He lifted the keg, shook it, then set it down.

  Michaelson gazed at the few drops of water in the cup. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Is this all I get?”

  “The keg is almost empty!” Craig choked out the words.

  “Empty?” Michaelson said dazedly. “But yesterday you said it was a quarter full!”

  “That was yesterday,” Craig said. “Today there isn’t over two cups of water left in the keg.”

  Silence settled over the boat as he spoke. He was aware that four sets of eyes were gazing steadily at him. He picked up the keg, examined it to see if it were leaking. It wasn’t. When he set it down, the eyes were still staring at him. There was accusation in them now.

  “You were the self-appointed guardian of the water supply,” Voronoff spat out the words.

  Craig didn’t answer.

  “Last night, when we were asleep, did you help yourself to the water?” Voronoff demanded.

  “I did not!” Craig said hotly. “Damn you—”

  Voronoff kept silent. Craig looked around the boat. “I don’t know what happened to the water,” he said. “I didn’t drink it, that’s certain—”

  “Then what became of it?” Michaelson spoke.

  He seemed to voice the question in the minds of all the others. If Craig had not taken the water, then what had happened to it? It was gone, the keg didn’t leak, and he had been guarding it.

  “And here I thought you were a good guy,” Margy Sharp said, moving aft.

  “Honestly, I didn’t drink the water,” Craig answered.

  “Honestly?” she mocked him. “No wonder you were so generous about giving me your share this morning. You had already had all you wanted to drink.”

  Her voice was bitter and hard.

  “If you want to think that, I can’t stop you,” Craig said.

  “I hope you feel good while you stay alive and watch the rest of us die of thirst,” the girl said.

  “Shut up!”

  “I won’t shut up. I’ll talk all I want to. You won’t stop me either. Do you hear that? You won’t stop me!”

  She was on the verge of hysteria. Craig let her scream. There was nothing he could do to stop her, short of using force. He sat silent and impassive on the seat. Hot fires smouldered behind his eyes. In his mind was a single thought: What had happened to the water?

  * * * *

  The boat drifted on the sullen sea. Michaelson, after trying to comprehend what had happened, and failing in the effort, went back to studying the figures in the notebook. Voronoff furtively watched Craig. English had lapsed into a coma. Mrs. Miller huddled in the middle of the boat. She watched the horizon, seeking a sail, a plume of smoke, the sight of a low-lying shore. Margy Sharp had collapsed at Craig’s feet. She did not move. Now and then her shoulders jerked as a sob shook her body.

  “Well,” thought Craig, “I guess this is it. I guess this is the end of the line. I guess this is where we get off. What happens to you after you’re dead, I wonder?”

  He shrugged. Never in his life had he worried about what would happen after he died and it was too late to begin now.

  He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not hear the plane until it had swooped low over them. The roar of its motor jerked his head to the sky. It was an American naval plane, the markings on its wings revealed.

  The occupants of the boat leaped to their feet and shouted themselves hoarse. The pilot waggled his wings at them and flew off.

  Against the far horizon the superstructure of a warship was visible. It was coming closer. Craig put his fingers to his nose, wiggled them at the sea.

  “Damn you, we beat you,” he said.

  He knew they hadn’t beaten the sea. Luck and nothing else had brought that warship near them. Luck had a way of running good for a time. Then it ran bad.

  CHAPTER II

  When the Sun Jumped

  “The captain wishes to see you, sir,” the sailor said.

  Craig snubbed the cigarette and rose to his feet. He had eaten and drank sparingly, very sparingly indeed. They had tried to take him to the hospital bay with the others, but he had gruffly refused. There was nothing wrong with him that a little food and water wouldn’t cure.

  He followed the sailor to the captain’s quarters. Unconsciously he noted the condition of the ship. She was a battleship, the Idaho, one of the new series. Craig guessed she was part of a task force scouting the south Pacific. She was well kept and well manned, he saw. The men went about their tasks with a dash that was heartwarming.

  The captain was a tall man. He rose to his feet when Craig entered his quarters, smiled, and held out his hand, “I’m Captain Higgins,” he said.

  Craig looked at him, blinked, then grinned. He took the out-stretched hand.

  “Hi, Stinky,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Stinky!” Higgins choked. “Sir—”

  “Don’t get stuffy,” Craig said, laughing.

  Higgins stared at him. Little by little recognition began to dawn on the captain’s face. “Craig!” he whispered. “Winston Craig! This calls for a drink.”

  “It does, indeed,” Craig answered.

  Captain Higgins provided the whiskey. It was Scotch. They drank it straight.

  “Where on earth have you been?” Higgins asked.

  “Gold,” Craig said. “Borneo.” A frown crossed his face. “Our little brown brothers came down from the north.”

  “I know,” said Higgins grimly. “They came to Pearl Harbor too, the little—. They ran you out of Borneo, eh?”

  “I got out,” Craig said.

  “But this life-boat you were in? What happened?”

  “Jap bombers happened. They caught the ship I was on. Luckily we managed to get a few boats away—”

  “I see. Where are the other boats?”

  “Machine-gunned,” Craig said. “A rain squall came along and hid us so they didn’t get around to working on the boat I was in.” He shrugged. “We were ten days in that boat. I was counting the jewels in the Pearly Gates when your task force came along. But enough about me. What about you?”

  Higgins shrugged. “What you can see,” he said.

  Craig nodded. He could see plenty. The boy who had been known as “Stinky” in their days at Annapolis was boss of a battle wagon.

  “I heard you resigned your commission within a year after we had finished at the Academy,” Higgins said.

  “Yes,” Craig answered.

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “Not at all. I just wanted some action and it didn’t look as if I could get it in the Navy. So—”

  * * * *

  It was not so much what Craig said as what he left unsaid that was important. He was a graduate of the Naval Academy at Annapolis. He and Stinky Higgins had finished in the same class. Higgins had stayed with the Navy. Craig had not been able to endure the inactivity of belonging to a fighting organization when there was no fighting to be done. He was born with the wanderlust, with itching feet, with the urge to see what lay beyond the farthermost horizon.

  “So you were prospecting for gold?” Captain Higgins asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you goi
ng to do now, if I may ask?”

  “Well,” Craig said, “I was on my way back to the States, to join up again, if they would take me.”

  Higgins grinned. “If they would take you? They will grab you with open arms. They could use a million like you.”

  “Thanks,” Craig said.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “What is it?” Higgins said to the aide who entered.

  “One of the men we picked up in the life-boat wants to see you, sir.”

  “What about?”

  “He would not say, sir. He insists it is of the utmost importance. His name is Michaelson, sir. Shall I show him to your quarters?”

  “Very well. I’ll see him immediately.”

  The aide saluted smartly and left.

  “Who is this Michaelson?” Higgins said to Craig.

  “I don’t know,” Craig shrugged. “Just one of the passengers in the life-boat. We didn’t ask each other for pedigrees. About all I can say about him is that he is a queer duck.” Craig explained how Michaelson had been constantly studying the contents of the notebook he carried.

  The captain frowned. “There is a Michaelson who is a world-famous scientist,” he said. “I don’t suppose this could be he.”

  “Might be,” Craig said. “This is the south seas. You never know who is going to turn up down here or what is going to happen.” Abruptly he stopped speaking. A new sound was flooding through the ship.

  It had been years since he had heard that sound yet he recognized it instantly. The call to action stations! It could have only one meaning. The Idaho was going into action. Something thrilled through Craig’s blood at the thought. He turned questioning eyes toward the captain.

  Higgins was already on the phone.

  “Flight of Jap bombers approaching,” he said, flinging the phone back on its hook. “Come on.”

  This was probably the first time in naval history that a bare-footed, bare-headed man, whose sole articles of clothing consisted of a pair of dirty duck trousers, joined the commanding officer of a battleship on the captain’s bridge. Captain Higgins didn’t care what Craig was wearing, and his officers, if they cared, were too polite to show it. They didn’t really care anyhow. They had other things on their minds.