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writing I am master of this little rustbucket. Master under God, as Lloyd s puts it. This ship is my
responsibility and you should be able to appreciate that. This evening I was writing just as relaxation,
one hand on the keyboard, the other ready to pick up the telephone ...
Grimes said, You take yourself too bloody seriously. This is only a small ship with a small crew on
an unimportant trade.
Nonetheless, the shipmaster told him, this is my ship. And the crew is my crew. The trade? That s
the Company s worry; but, as Master, it s up to me to see that the ship shows a profit.
And I m your responsibility too, Grimes pointed out .. Are you? As I ve already said,
Commodore, you ve proven yourself able to go your own sweet way in any story that I ve written. But if
I am responsible just bear in mind that I could kill you off as easily as I could swat a fly. More easily.
How do you want it? Act of God, the King s enemies, or pirates? Nuclear blast or a knife between the
ribs?
You re joking, surely.
Am I? Has it never occurred to you, Commodore, that a writer gets rather tired of his own pet
characters? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle killed off Sherlock Holmes, but had to drag him back to life to
please his public. Ian Fleming was becoming more than somewhat browned off with James Bond when
he, himself, kicked the bucket ...
Grimes looked toward the photograph over the desk. But you like Sonya, he said.
I do. She s too good for you.
Be that as it may. She s part of my world, my time ...
So?
Well, I thought ...
The telephone buzzed. The shipmaster picked up the handset. Yes?
The wind s freshening, sir, and it s veered to west
Put her back on full speed, Mr. Tallent. The captain got up from his chair, went to the aneroid
barometer mounted on the bulkhead. He tapped it. The needle jerked in a counterclockwise direction.
Just what I need, he said. A bloody secondary.
What does that mean, Captain?
It means, Commodore, that those Final Gale Warnings aren t worth the paper that Sparks typed
them on. Very often, too often, in these waters the secondary depression is more vicious than the
so-called primary.
What can you do?
Stand out. Make offing. Get the hell off this bloody lee shore.
Again the telephone buzzed. Master here.
Sir, we ve lifted Cape Sorell again ...
Tell the engineers to give her all they ve got. IT! be right up.
The ship was lurching, was rolling heavily as she fell away from the wind. She was pounding as her
fore part lifted and then slammed back down into the trough. Her screw was racing each time that her
stern came clear of the water, and as the propeller lost purchase, so did the rudder. Sir, complained the
helmsman, the wheel s hard over, but she s not coming back ...
Keep it hard over until she answers, ordered the Master. He was looking into the radar screen. It
was not a very good picture. There was spoking, and there was too much clutter. But there, right astern,
was the faint outline of the rocky coast, a ragged luminosity. And there were the range circles and
slowly, slowly, the coastline was drifting from the 24 mile to the 20 mile ring. Even Grimes, peering over
the other man s shoulder, could appreciate what was happening.
Mr. Tallent!
Sir?
Call the Chief Officer. Tell him to flood the afterhold.
Flood the afterhold, sir?
You heard me. We have to get the arse down somehow, to give the screw and the rudder some
sort of grip on the water.
Very good, sir.
She s logging three knots, whispered the Master. But she s making one knot astern. And that
coast is nothing but rocks ...
And flooding the hold will help? asked Grimes.
It d better. It s all I can do.
They went back out to the wing of the bridge, struggling to retain their balance as the wind hit them.
Cape Sorell light was brightly visible again, right astern, and even to the naked eye it had lifted well clear
of the sea horizon. A shadowy figure joined them there the Chief Officer, decided Grimes.
I ve got two fire hoses running into the hold, sir. What depth of water do you wont?
I want 100 tons. Go below and work it out roughly.
What if the ceiling lifts?
Let it lift. Put in your hundred tons.
Very good, sir.
Another officer came onto the bridge big, burly, bearded. This must be, realized Grimes, the
midnight change of watch. Keep her as she s going, sir? he asked.
Yes. Keep her as she s going, Mr. Mackenzie. She ll be steering better once we get some weight in
aft, and racing less. But you might tell the engineers to put on the second steering motor ...
Will do, sir.
The shipmaster made his way back into the wheelhouse, staggering a little as the vessel lurched in the
heavy swell. He went to the radar unit, looked down into the screen with Grimes peering over his
shoulder. Right astern, the ragged outline of Cape Sorell was touching the twenty mile ring. Slowly the
range decreased slowly, but inexorably.
The Chief Officer was back. About two foot six should do it, sir.
Make it that ...
Then, gradually, the range was opening again. The range was opening, and the frequent heavy
vibrations caused by the racing screw were becoming less. The wind was still shrieking in from the
westward, whipping the crests off the seas, splattering them against the wheelhouse windows in shrapnel
bursts of spray, but the ship was steering again, keeping her nose into it, clawing away from the rocks
that had claimed, over the years, too many victims.
Grimes followed the Master down to the afterdeck, stood with him as he looked down a trunkway
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