He peered into the engine rooms and said: “Ah, fine.”
He stared at the generators that were turning over and nodded when I explained we needed them for power for lights and everything and said: “Ah, of course.”
He opened a couple of stateroom doors at random and said: “Ah, nice.”
And he went up on the flying bridge with me and such of his officers as still could walk and said: “Ah.”
Then he said in a totally different tone: “What the devil’s the matter over there?”
He was staring east through the muggy haze. I saw right away what it was that was bothering him—easy, because I knew where to look. The power plant way over on the East Side was billowing smoke.
“Where’s Vern Engdahl? That gadget of his isn’t working right!”
“You mean Arthur?”
“I mean that brain in a bottle. It’s Engdahl’s responsibility, you know!”
Vern came up out of the wheelhouse and cleared his throat. “Major,” he said earnestly, “I think there’s some trouble over there. Maybe you ought to go look for yourself.”
“Trouble?”
“I, uh, hear there’ve been power failures,” Vern said lamely. “Don’t you think you ought to inspect it? I mean just in case there’s something serious?”
The Major stared at him frostily, and then his mood changed. He took a drink from the glass in his hand, quickly finishing it off.
“Ah,” he said, “hell with it. Why spoil a good party? If there are going to be power failures, why, let them be. That’s my motto!”
Vern and I looked at each other. He shrugged slightly, meaning, well, we tried. And I shrugged slightly, meaning, what did you expect? And then he glanced upward, meaning, take a look at what’s there.
But I didn’t really have to look because I heard what it was. In fact, I’d been hearing it for some time. It was the Major’s entire air force—two helicopters, swirling around us at an average altitude of a hundred feet or so. They showed up bright against the gathering clouds overhead, and I looked at them with considerable interest—partly because I considered it an even-money bet that one of them would be playing crumple-fender with our stacks, partly because I had an idea that they were not there solely for show.
I said to the Major: “Chief, aren’t they coming a little close? I mean it’s your ship and all, but what if one of them takes a spill into the bridge while you’re here?”
He grinned. “They know better,” he bragged. “Ah, besides, I want them close. I mean if anything went wrong.”
I said, in a tone that showed as much deep hurt as I could manage: “Sir, what could go wrong?”
“Oh, you know.” He patted my shoulder limply. “Ah, no offense?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Well,” I said, “let’s go below.”
All of it was done carefully, carefully as could be. The only thing was, we forgot about the typewriters. We got everybody, or as near as we could, into the Grand Salon where the food was, and right there on a table at the end of the hall was one of the typewriters clacking away. Vern had rigged them up with rolls of paper instead of sheets, and maybe that was ingenious, but it was also a headache just then. Because the typewriter was banging out:
Left four thirteen fourteen and twentyone boilers with a full head of steam and the safety valves locked Boy I tell you when those things let go youre going to hear a noise thatll knock your hat off
The Major inquired politely: “Something to do with the ship?”
“Oh, that,” said Vern. “Yeah. Just a little, uh, something to do with the ship. Say, Major, here’s the bar. Real scotch, see? Look at the label!”
The Major glanced at him with faint contempt—well, he’d had the pick of the greatest collection of high-priced liquor stores in the world for ten years, so no wonder. But he allowed Vern to press a drink on him.
And the typewriter kept rattling:
Looks like rain any minute now Hoo boy Im glad I wont be in those whirlybirds when the storm starts Say Vern why dont you ever answer me Q Q Isnt it about time to take off XXX I mean get under weigh Q Q
Some of the “clerks, typists, domestic personnel and others”—that was the way they were listed on the T.O.; it was only coincidence that the Major had married them all—were staring at the typewriter.
“Drinks!” Vern called nervously. “Come on, girls! Drinks!”
The Major poured himself a stiff shot and asked: “What is that thing? A teletype or something?”
“That’s right,” Vern said, trailing after him as the Major wandered over to inspect it.
I give those boilers about ten more minutes Sam Well what about it Q Q Ready to shove off Q Q
The Major said, frowning faintly: “Ah, that reminds me of something. Now what is it?”
“More scotch?” Vern cried. “Major, a little more scotch?”
The Major ignored him, scowling. One of the “clerks, typists” said: “Honey, you know what it is? It’s like that pross you had, remember? It was on our wedding night, and you’d just got it, and you kept asking it to tell you limericks.”
The Major snapped his fingers. “Knew I’d get it,” he glowed. Then abruptly he scowled again and turned to face Vern and me. “Say—” he began.
I said weakly: “The boilers.”
The Major stared at me, then glanced out the window. “What boilers?” he demanded. “It’s just a thunderstorm. Been building up all day. Now what about this? Is that thing—”
But Vern was paying him no attention. “Thunderstorm?” he yelled. “Arthur, you listening? Are the helicopters gone?”
YesYesYes
“Then shove off, Arthur! Shove off!”
The typewriter rattled and slammed madly.
The Major yelled angrily: “Now listen to me, you! I’m asking you a question!”
But we didn’t have to answer, because there was a thrumming and a throbbing underfoot, and then one of the “clerks, typists” screamed:
