I knew I had enough strength for one attempt, no more. It would have to be good. I heard their voices from up in the bows, raised angrily, shouting at each other, but I ignored them and gathered all my reserve.
I heaved upwards, with both legs and the one good arm. My vision starred with the effort, and my chest was a numbed mass, but I came clear of the water and fell half across the stern rail, hanging there like an empty sack on a barbed-wire fence.
For seconds I lay there, while my vision cleared and I felt the slick warm outpouring of blood along my flank and belly. The flow of blood galvanized me. I realized how little time I had before the loss of it sent me plunging into blackness. I kicked wildly and tumbled headlong on to the cockpit floor, striking my head on the edge of the fighting chair, and grunting with the new pain of it.
I lay on my side and glanced down at my body. What I saw terrified me, I was streaming great gouts of thick blood, it was forming a puddle under me.
I clawed at the deck, dragging myself towards the cabin, and reached the combing beside the entrance. With another wild effort I pulled myself upright, hanging on one arm, supported by legs already weak and rubbery.
I glanced quickly around the angle of the cabin, down along the foredeck to where the three men were still grouped in the bows.
Jimmy North was struggling to strap his compressed air bottles on to his back again, his face was a mask of horror and outrage and his voice was strident as he screamed at Materson.
“You filthy bloody murderers. I’m-going down to find him. I’m going to get his body - and, so help me Christ, I’ll see you both hanged,” Even in my own distress I felt a sudden flare of admiration for the kid’s courage. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that he was also on the list. “It was murder, cold-blooded murder,” he shouted, and turned to the rail, settling the faceplate over his eyes and nose.
Materson looked across at Guthrie, the kid’s back was turned to them, and Materson nodded.
I tried to shout a warning, but it croaked hollowly in my throat, and Guthrie stepped up behind Jimmy. This time he made no mistake. He touched the muzzle of the big .45 to the base of Jimmy’s skull, and the shot was muffled by the neoprene rubber hood of the diving-suit.
Jimmy’s skull collapsed, shattered by the passage of the heavy bullet. It came out through the glass plate of the diving mask in a cloud of glass fragments. The force of it clubbed him over the side, and his body splashed alongside. Then there was silence in which the memory of gunfire seemed to echo with the sound of wind and water.
“He’ll sink,” said Materson. calmly. “He had on a weight belt - but we had better try and find Fletcher. We don’t want him washed up with that bullet hole in his chest.”
“He ducked - the bastard ducked - I didn’t hit him squarely-“
Guthrie protested, and I heard no more. My legs collapsed and I sprawled on the deck of the cockpit. I was sick with shock and horror and the quick flooding flow of my blood.
I have seen violent death in many guises, but Jimmy’s had moved me as never before. Suddenly there was only one thing I wanted to do before my own violent death overwhelmed me.
I began to crawl towards the engine-room hatch. The white deck seemed to stretch before me like the Sahara desert, and I was beginning to feel the leaden hand of a great weariness upon my shoulder.
I heard their footsteps on the deck above me, and the murmur of their voices. They were coming back to the cockpit.
“Ten seconds, please God,” I whispered. “That’s all I need,” but I knew it was futile. They would be into the cabin long before I reached the hatch - but I dragged myself desperately towards it.
“Then suddenly their footsteps paused, but the voices continued.
They had stopped to talk out on the deck, and I felt a lift of relief for I had reached the engine hatch.
Now I struggled with the toggles. They seemed to have jammed immovably, and I realized how weak I was, but I felt the revitalizing stir of anger through the weariness.
I wriggled around and kicked at the toggles and they flew back. I fought my weakness aside and got on to my knees. As I leaned over the hatch a fresh splattering of bright blood fell on the white deck.
“Eat your liver, Chubby,” I thought irrelevantly, and prised up the hatch. It came up achingly slowly, heavy as all the earth, and now I felt the first lances of pain in my chest as bruised tissue tore.
The hatch fell back with a heavy thump, and instantly the voices on deck were silent, and I could imagine them listening.
I fell on my belly and groped desperately under the decking and my right hand closed on the stock of the carbine.
“Come on!” There was a loud exclamation, and I recognized Materson’s voice, and immediately the pounding of running footsteps along the deck towards the cockpit.
I tugged wearily at the carbine, but it seemed to be caught in the slings and resisted my efforts..
“Christ! There’s blood all over the deck,” Materson shouted.
“It’s Fletcher,” Guthrie yelled. “He came in over the stern.”
just then the carbine came free and I almost dropped it down into the engine-room, but managed to hold it long enough to roll clear.
I sat up with the carbine in my lap, and pushed the safety catch across with my thumb, sweat and salt water streamed into my eyes blurring my vision as I peered up at the entrance to the cabin.
Materson ran into the cabin three paces before he saw me, then he stopped and gaped at me. His face was red with effort and agitation and he lifted his hands, spreading them in a protective gesture before him as I brought up the carbine. The diamond on his little finger winked merrily at me.
I lifted the carbine onehanded from my lap, and its immense weight appalled me. When the muzzle was pointed at Materson’s knees I pressed the trigger.
With a continuous shattering roar the carbine spewed out a solid blast of bullets, and the recoil flung the barrel upwards, riding the stream of fire from Materson’s crotch up across his belly and chest. It flung him backwards against the cabin bulkhead, and split him like the knife-stroke that guts a fish while he danced a grotesque and jerky little death jig.
I knew that I should not empty the carbine, there was still Mike Guthrie to deal with, but somehow I seemed unable to release my grip on the trigger and the bullets tore through Materson’s body, smashing and splintering the woodwork of the bulkhead.
Then suddenly I lifted my finger. The torrent of bullets ceased and Materson fell heavily forward.
The cabin stank with burned cordite and the sweet heavy smell of blood.
Guthrie ducked into the companionway of the cabin, crouching with right arm outflung and he snapped off a single shot at me as I sat in the centre of the cabin.
He had all the time he needed for a clean shot at me, but he hurried it, panicky and off-balance. The blast slapped against my ear drums, and the heavy bullet disrupted the air against my cheek as it flew wide. The recoil kicked the pistol high, and as it dropped for his next shot I fell sideways and pulled up the carbine.
There must have been a single round left in the breech, but it was a lucky one. I did not aim it, but merely jerked at the trigger as the barrel came up.
It hit Guthrie in the crook of his right elbow, shattering the joint and the Pistol flew backwards over his shoulder, skidded across the deck and thudded into the stern scuppers.
Guthrie spun aside, the arm twisting grotesquely and hanging from the broken joint and at the same instant the firing pin of the carbine fell on an empty chamber.
We stared at each other, both of us badly hit, but the old antagonism was still there between us. It gave me strength to come up on my knees and start towards him, the empty carbine falling from my hand.
Guthrie grunted and turned away, gripping the shattered arm with his good hand. He staggered towaids the .45 lying in the scuppers.
I saw there was no way I could stop him. He was not mortally hit, and I knew he could shoot probably as well with his good left hand. Still I made my last try and dragged myself over Materson’s body and out into the cockpit, reaching it just as Guthrie stooped to pick the pistol out of the scuppers.
Then Dancer came to my aid, and she reared like a wild horse as a freak swell hit her. She threw Guthrie off balance, and the pistol went skidding away across the deck. He turned to chase it, his feet slipped in the blood which I had splashed across the cockpit and he went down.
He fell heavily, pinning his shattered arm under him. He cried out, and rolled on to his knees and began
