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The Lost Warship
by ROBERT MOORE WILLIAMS
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January
1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: Jap bombs rained down, there was a tremendous blast--and a
weird thing happened to the _Idaho_]
CHAPTER I
The sun came up over a glassy, motionless sea. In the life-boat, Craig
arranged the piece of sail to protect them from the sun. He hoisted it
to the top of the improvised mast, spreading it so that it threw a
shadow on the boat. There was no wind. There had been no wind for three
days.
Craig stood up and swept his eyes around the circle of the sea. The
horizon was unbroken. As he sat down he was aware that the girl, Margy
Sharp, who had been sleeping at his feet, had awakened.
"See anything, pal?" she whispered.
He shook his head.
Her pinched face seemed to become more pinched at his gesture. She sat
up. Her eyes went involuntarily to the keg of water beside Craig. She
licked her parched, cracked lips.
"How's for a drink, pal?" she asked.
"A quarter of a cup is all we get today," Craig said. "Do you want your
share now or will you wait and take it later?"
"I'm terribly thirsty," the girl said. She glanced quickly back at the
others in the boat. They were still sleeping.
"How about slipping me a whole cup?" she asked, her bold blue eyes fixed
intently on Craig's face.
Craig looked at the sea.
"They're asleep," the girl said quickly. "They won't ever know."
Craig said nothing.
"Please," the girl begged.
Craig sat in silence. He was a big man with a great thatch of black hair
and hard gray eyes. He was clad in a pair of torn duck trousers. Rolled
bottoms revealed bare feet. He wore no shirt. Holstered on his belt was
a heavy pistol.
"Look, big boy," the girl cajoled. "Me and you could get along all
right."
"What makes you think so?" Craig questioned.
This was apparently not the answer she had expected. She seemed to be
startled. For a moment her eyes measured the man.
"You've been looking for something that you wanted very badly," she
said. "You haven't found it. Because you haven't found it, you have
become bitter."
Her words made Craig uncomfortable. They came too close to the truth. He
shifted his position on the seat.
"So what?" he said.
"So nothing," the girl answered. "Except that we are two of a kind."
"And because we are two of a kind, we can get along?" he questioned.
"Yes," she answered. She made no effort to hide the longing in her eyes.
"Look, Craig, me and you, we're tough." She gestured contemptuously at
the others in the boat. "_They_ aren't tough."
"Aren't they?"
"No." The words came faster now, as if she had made up her mind to say
what she had to say and be damned with the consequences. "They're going
to die. Oh, you needn't shake your head. You haven't fooled me for a
minute with your pretending there will be a ship along to pick us up.
There won't be a ship. Our only hope is that we may drift ashore on an
island. It may be days before we find an island. There isn't enough
water to keep us all alive that long. So--"
She couldn't quite finish what she had to say. Craig watched her, his
eyes cold and unrevealing. Her gaze dropped.
"So why don't you and I split the water and let the others die of thirst
because we are tough and they aren't? Is that what you mean?" he asked.
"No--" She faltered. "N--no." Defiance hardened her face. "Yes!" she
snapped. "That's what I mean. Why should we take care of them? We don't
owe them anything. Why should we die with them? What have they--or
anybody else--ever done for us? I'll tell you the answer. Nothing.
Nothing! _Nothing!_"
"Because they have done nothing for us and because we are the stronger,
we let them die. Is that what you mean?"
"Y--yes."
* * * * *
Craig sat in silence for a moment. Dark thoughts were in his mind but
his face showed nothing. "I have a gun," he said, "the only gun in the
boat. That makes me the boss. Why don't I keep all the water for myself
and let the rest of you die of thirst?"
"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 taunt 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.