track.
Then suddenly, miraculously, all vibration in the deck under his feet
ceased altogether. There was only the calm press of the hull through
the water, no longer the feel of the engine's thrust, a sensation much
more alarming to a mariner than the vibration which had preceded it, and
simultaneously, a fiery rash of red warning lights bloomed on the ship's
main control console, and the strident screech of the full emergency
audio-alarm deafened them all.
Only then did Captain Randle push the engine telegraph to stop'. He
stood staring ahead as the tiny fishing boat disappeared from view,
hidden by the angle from the navigation bridge which was a mile behind
the bows.
One of the officers reached across and hit the cut-out on the
audio-alarm. In the sudden silence every officer stood frozen, waiting
for the impact of collision.
Golden Dawn's Chief Engineer paced slowly along the engine-room control
console, never taking his eyes from the electronic displays which
monitored all the ship's mechanical and electrical functions.
When he reached the alarm aboard, he stopped and frowned at it angrily.
The failure of the single transistor, a few dollars worth of equipment,
had been the cause of such brutal damage to his beloved machinery. He
leaned across and pressed the test button, checking out each alarm
circuit, yet, while he was doing it, recognizing the fact that it was
too late. He was nursing the ship along, with God alone knew what
undiscovered damage to engine and main shaft only kept in check by this
reduced power setting - but there was a hurricane down there below the
southern horizon, and the Chief could only guess at what emergency his
machinery might have to meet in the. next few days.
It made him nervous and edgy to think about it. He searched in his back
pocket, found a sticky mint humbug, carefully picked off the little
pieces of lint and fluff before tucking it into his cheek like a
squirrel with a nut, sucking noisily upon it as he resumed his restless
prowling up and down the control console.
His on-duty stokers and the oilers watched him surreptitiously. When the
old man was in a mood, it was best not to attract attention.
Dickson! the Chief said suddenly. Get your lid on. We are going down
the shaft tunnel again. The oiler sighed, exchanged a resigned glance
with one of his mates and clapped his hard-hat on his head. He and the
Chief had been down the tunnel an hour previously. It was an
uncomfortable, noisy and dirty journey.
The oiler closed the watertight doors into the shaft tunnel behind them,
screwing down the clamps firmly under the Chief's frosty scrutiny, and
then both men stooped in the confined headroom and started off along the
brightly lit pale grey painted tunnel.
The spinning shaft in its deep bed generated a highpitched whine that
seemed to resonate in the steel box of the tunnel, as though it was the
body of a violin. Surprisingly, the noise was more pronounced at this
low speed setting, it seemed to bore into the teeth at the back of the
oiler's jaw like a dentist's drill.
The Chief did not seem to be affected. He paused beside the main
