The Nylon Pirates

PART SIX "The ULTIMATE in cruise adventure"

The Professor should have been seen by half a dozen people in the course of his wanderings, and led back to his cabin or to the sick bay; but he was not seen. The Master-at-Arms, making his rounds, missed him twice; the shoe-cleaner was dozing, the night-stewards enjoying their mid-watch brew of cocoa; and when he was once glimpsed briefly, from the bridge, it was too far away to notice anything amiss, and the single figure was presumed to be a wakeful passenger, searching for cooler air in the torrid night. He finished his wretched journey at the boat-deck level, on a deck-chair in the lee of a funnel, musing—at first miserably, and then vengefully —on the pitiful pass to which the corroding years had brought him.

He had known Carl for a very long time; originally, they had worked together on certain London share promotions which required, as a front, a middle-aged man who looked like a retired clergyman; and in later years, when the Professor grew truly old, Carl had been kind, and generous with commissions and odd jobs. It was hard to recognize, in this long-term friend, the cruel man who had grown so gross and remorseless in his bullying, and who had finally destroyed a lifetime of work in a few terrible moments.

The Professor pressed and stroked his chest, where he had been kicked. It hurt excruciatingly whenever he made a careless movement, and his head and battered face stabbed with pain unceasingly. Without the precious manuscript which was now lost, he was nothing; he had no hope in the future at all. He must play out his life, tied to a friend who was no friend, who had become a hated enemy. He was trapped, he was powerless. Of course, he had the money, and the jewellery. . . . But he had Carl as well. Thus bound, he would never make any harbour. Life was a cruise from which one did not return.

Just as in a slave ship. ... It seemed to him suddenly that he was like a galley-slave, chained to his oar, doomed to row for ever, to starve and suffer for ever. He would grow old and blind, and finally be shackled to an anchor-cable and dropped overboard into engulfing waters.

Unless he revolted against this vile bondage in time.

Spartacus!

The revolt of the Roman slaves at Capua in 73 b.c., against a wicked tyranny which promised to make brute beasts out of men, was led by a man who . . . Now there was something he should have written! But if he could not write it—he would never write again now, it was too late—perhaps he might presume to lead it. A blow for liberty! He had the money and the jewellery, after all. He had, also, this terrible pain.

But he must not think of the money. It was not a matter of money, it was not that sort of thing at all. It was a moral crusade, a public cleansing. In the Greek city-states, in ancient times, certain humble citizens, scandalized by the vice and corruption which infected the whole republic, took counsel together, and swore an oath to the immortal gods. . . .

There was a duty to be done. Carl had cursed him, and torn up his lifetime of work, and shackled him to an oar in the slave-galley, until he bent double in agony, and died upon his chains.

So, for a long time, surrounded by darkness, this demented man, in a torment of pain and despair, pondered on the ancient Stoic virtues, the rule that all tyrants must be overthrown.

Carl could not sleep, for rage, for shame. It had never happened before. It was the beginning of getting old, of saying good-bye to Kathy. He had felt that message of good-bye in her body, in her skin; by the time he had turned to embrace her, she had left him already. It was one of the reasons why he could not make love to her. To want, one had to be wanted. He had not been wanted, and so he had failed, like a boy, like an old man. . . .

Sleepless, his nerves on edge, he dressed, and climbed slowly up to the boat-deck. The dawn was at hand, on tiptoe; a wonderful pale light was creeping towards them over the calm Indian Ocean, pushing back the night. As he stood at the rail, in a small space between two lifeboats, he watched first the sky, and then the grey-black water far below.

The water was still phosphorescent, and it was possible to see the school of sharks which had been following them tirelessly, day and night, for the past forty-eight hours. Baleful darting shapes, they almost nuzzled the ship as they swam along with it. The crew sometimes threw them lumps of offal, to enjoy the swirling, snapping, often bloody battle which ensued. Now, in the half-darkness, their sleek black bodies and pale bellies left greenish trails as they wove a criss-cross pattern of attendant murder.

There was one huge one, a monster, just below where he was standing. Carl climbed up one step of the rail, for a better view, and leaned far out-board. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow dart forward behind him. But when he turned, it was too late.

The Professor screamed: "Tyrant! Slave-master! Wicked man!" and pushed with all his might. The lunatic strength was too much for any resistance, the surprise too great. Carl, toppling over, clawed at nothing, embraced the free air, and went plummeting down to the ferocious jaws below.

The Professor, momentarily astonished, surveyed the space which his skill and resource had rendered empty. Then he beamed happily, and started to giggle and to caper. He was still cackling and pointing, like some poor crazy showman, when the Master-at-Arms found him, an hour later, and said:

"Now then, sir. It's bed-time for you!"

It was three days later, and the Alcestis, delayed by official inquiries, was still at Durban. The police had been and gone; they might or might not return—they were large blond men, armed, preoccupied, who had bigger things to worry about than the chance death of a passenger aboard a visiting liner. Diane was on her way home, discreetly wafted ashore in time to catch an early flight; the Professor, not ceasing to babble, had begun what must be a very long sojourn in hospital ashore.

Over Kathy, the Captain had held his hand. "Sir, I swear she's not like that—she's a good girl!" Tim Mansell had told him, with such intense fervour that Harmer's imagination had been caught. Privately, and cynically, he wondered if any girl who promoted such strong feeling could truly be classified as "good"; but he relented none the less. Of all the gang, she was the only one remaining on board; he felt now—as he had always felt—that the Alcestis was strong enough to take care of one small enigma, one female question-mark. Kathy would be allowed to remain on board for the return journey.

"But no funny business!" he warned sternly.

"Sir, we're going to be engaged," protested Tim Mansell.

"That's exactly what I meant," said Harmer. "If you have any spare energy, use it to work up on your navigation. It's still bloody awful."

Now they stood in the sunshine, looking down on the odd, straggling, almost unclassifiable city of Durban. The cruise brochure described it as colourful, and that was as good a word as any. It was impressively hot, as well. The bright sun shone down on the yellow facades of great buildings, on the lines of surf which marked the bathing beaches, and on the grotesque rank of rickshaw-boys— feathered, beaded, sea-shelled, crowned with buffalo-horn head-dresses—who (in an intriguing reverse play) made every tourist pay a minimum fee of two shillings for the privilege of taking their photographs.

Kathy was still deeply shocked. She could be handled gently, or not at all. The disappearance of Carl had had its own natural, inevitable prelude; he had been gone already, by the time he had crucified the Professor, by the time he could not make love to her. But there were six years of the past still to be counted, six years which could not disappear. They were a part of her, they were the reason why she dressed so well, talked so persuasively, looked so beautiful and aware. They were the formative years, changing her from a half-awake child to a woman. They could not be forgotten, nor disparaged.

She was not happy, but she was ready to be so, when the time came. Instead (she realized) she was lucky. She could shed the bad part of the past, and she could remain the heiress, for ever, of the good. There were all sorts of troubles ahead, but she had a man to help her. A man who she had thought was a boy, but who was not.

It was remarkable, she thought, looking at Tim, pressing his arm, how one such man could sum up the virtues of discipline and order, the merit of good behaviour.

He could make love beautifully, too.

"Darling," she said.

"Yes?" Standing guardian for her, with love allied to watchfulness, his voice had the correct, cherishing blend of both.

"What's a mate's ticket?"

.