Authors: J. Clayton Rogers
"You heard the doctor." Midshipman Davis stood as tall as he could before the taller black man. "Dr. Singleton wants to hook some wires to you. Don't go bug
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eyed. It won't hurt much. I took the test myself this morning." Davis held up his hand to display the tiny wound. He was chagrined by the need to reassure the steward. He told himself he did not care whether the man was afraid or not. He just wanted to avoid a scene.
"How long's it going to take?" Amos queried, nervously wiping his hands on the dish rag tucked in his belt.
"Thirty minutes, no more," Singleton said.
"I gotta tell the cook."
Singleton sighed heavily, as though to say, "The Navy... no one can do anything without telling someone else about it."
Amos stuck his head through the hatchway and shouted. Someone inside shouted back with a low volt of incredulity. Out of the dark, steamy galley the cook began to appear. But one look at the doctor and he lowered his eyes, making a cast
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off gesture before vanishing back inside.
Amos managed to keep from dragging his feet, but at the threshold of Singleton's cabin he stopped cold.
"There." Davis swung open the door and pointed at the galvanometer. "It won't hurt." He rubbed an electrode against his own arm. "See? And the needle... hell, it ain't nothing!"
"Would you sit, sir," Dr. Singleton commanded curtly. There was no need to be tactful. Men were animals, to be experimented upon as readily as any laboratory rat. Not that he held any brief with the slap
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dash cruelty of some clinical scientists who tore through flesh as wastefully as Thomas Edison had burned out threads in search of the perfect filament for light bulbs. Sometimes being humane was simply a matter of thought and effort. Kinder ways could usually be found. But all this hocus pocus about Man being so superior to other creatures... it really put him out. Too many people confused superiority with worth. A man might be more important than an ant in the scheme of things. But until that man found a way to beat death, he would not be superior. The fearful reluctance of this Negro was exasperating. He didn't really expect Singleton to electrocute him, did he? And his fear touched something else in the doctor. Negroes were men, but of a less worthy sort
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although it was becoming extremely unfashionable to say so out loud in some (usually Northern) circles. All their wonderful physical attributes had not saved them from being enslaved over the centuries. One or two of them might shine through. But none were destined for greatness--least of all this miserable wretch. It was infuriating that a simple steward would possess such a dark rage to survive, especially when the threat was only in his mind. Even if this chair was loaded with current that would fry him to the bone, he should sit quietly. Because all of them, white or black, were...
"Sit!" he commanded abruptly, slashing the sweat off his face.
Midshipman Davis hopped back a foot, stunned by the doctor's shout.
Singleton stood behind the chair and held up the needle, which he had dipped in bleach beforehand for sanitary purposes. Cautiously, Amos approached. He paused briefly when he noted a picture gummed to the bulkhead. It was the Moon. Not the moon of a soft Georgia evening, but large, harsh, its pockmarks and blemishes lovingly delineated. Amos thought of Lucretia. He always called her Ol' Lucretia, although she was younger by several years. Lucretia was so ugly that friendly dogs chased her and sleeping cats woke up just to spit. But Lucretia was a willing girl, and popular with the boys. Amos had made love to her many times. Yet he always had to close his eyes to do it. If he had once opened them and seen her close up, he would never have been able to touch her again.
After seeing Dr. Singleton's picture, he would never again be able to look at the moon the same way.
Slowly, he sat in the chair. Like Davis, he found the sight worse than the object, and looked away. His skin felt infected.
Everything set, the doctor began running through a series of questions specifically composed for this experiment. He did not appear dismayed that most of Amos' answers came in the form of grunts and mild shrugs. Truth rested in the galvanometer, not gestures or verbal responses. Still, something about the results bothered him. He checked all connections, then shook his head. Consulting his chart, the doctor rubbed his chin. Then he peered closely at his subject. Nodding, he began to speak in a low tone.
"Been working hard in the kitchen, haven't you? Whew! Can't miss it. You know... every human being has his own distinctive smell. These can be emphasized, depending on conditions. Heat, exercise, sudorific drugs, consumption, even emotion can all have an effect. Plutarch said Alexander the Great emitted a very powerful odor. It could not have been fear. It's granted that men and women differ. Theophrastus spoke of how beautiful women have their own distinctive aroma. Martial told of how Thais, the loveliest woman of her day, smelled of perfume though she never used a drop of it in her life. In Galopin's study, it was found fair
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haired women emitted a musk or ambergris
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like scent, brunettes the scent of violets. Women suffering from hysteria are also redolent of violets. I think that's most interesting. Don't you?"
"It seems," Amos said, staring at the doctor.
"Meantimes, both male and female redheads have a characteristic pungency; not offensive, mind you, but different. Mmmm...." Singleton gave Amos' pate a comedic glance. "I don't suppose you have to concern yourself with that. The races... well, their differences are common knowledge. The Chinese say Europeans smell stale
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in fact, like corpses. Japanese say whites, especially white women, are absolutely repulsive unless heavily perfumed. No one
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other than themselves, I suppose
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can abide the stink of the Mongol. Now Negroes... all blacks, I mean... there's a kind of bluntness about their odor. On rare occasions, it can be almost refreshing. The way something sour hits the spot after too many sweets. I think it's generally agreed that Negroes smell like goats."
Amos sat frozen to the seat. Racing to the galvanometer, Singleton beamed with satisfaction when he saw the indicator. He compared his new readings against his chart, then clapped Amos on the back and announced, "Sir, you are one angry nigger!"
It was an outrage, a spit on his soul. As far as he was concerned, the ship could blow to hell--and the world, with its ugly moon, could go with it. When he found Gilroy lurking by the galley, he was in no mood to grant his or any other white man's request.
"But, Amos, you've done it for me before," Gilroy pleaded.
"In port, you fool, not at sea. I've done enough for you. Get out of my way."
"I know you can get to the liquor cabinet. All the stewards can. Hell, they got whiskey and wine for all those foreign bastards in Trinidad, and were they grateful? Hell, they couldn't stand the smell of us."
"What? What made you say that?"
"The way they treated the Fleet, you'dve thought everyone who went ashore was part of the black crew."
They fell silent as some marines went by. Once they were gone, Amos hissed, "You'll land me in the brig, yet."
"We've known each other a long time."
"And every day cuts the odds for me. You were near to dead the other night. Haven't you learned your lesson? Drink'll kill you, Gilroy. I'll be killing you if I give it to you."
"You think I'll live either way?"
The comment startled Amos. It was something Methuselah might have said, only Methuselah was a good forty years older than Gilroy. It created a horrible sadness within him, to hear a man talk of death like tomorrow's dinner. But while he was a living creature in possession of the holy spirit of life, Gilroy was also a man who'd sold his soul. Amos drew back.
"No more. Please leave. I don't need no more trouble."
"And you've had that, haven't you, mate? Who bruised you up?"
There was no sense telling him. Even though they'd met the other night, Garrett's name would probably mean nothing to the stoker; he lived in what amounted to a separate civilization, among the dark cohorts below the waterline. The officers he had to deal with on a daily basis were a completely different lot from those Amos faced.
"You know, I could tell you something," said Gilroy, lowering his voice even further. "Just might save your life."
"Gilroy
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"
"Just bring me a fifth. Anything. Is that so much? Then I'll tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"What we found down below. Something you jolly lads up top never suspected."
It was the worst day of a terrible month of an awful year, and Gilroy was intent on making things worse. "You talking about the cracks in the pipes again? Have they opened up more?"
"No. It's not the cracks. Give me the fifth."
"Worse?"
"Give me the fifth. A lot worse."
"How do I know you'll tell me?"
"All right. Listen to me, Amos. I'll tell you. And then you get me the fifth and I'll tell you about a pair of lovely golden scarabs. The captain's keeping them under his hat. Do you hear? If you don't, by God I'll see that ensign that came up on us the other night. Looks to me he can't get enough hopping up and down on niggers."
"Go to hell, Gilroy. I don't want to hear."
But before Amos could turn away, the stoker said a word.
And the word stopped him cold.
Oates did not dwell on Garrett's behavior for very long. For a good reason.
There had been one major stop to date: Trinidad. And one major diplomatic disaster to date: Trinidad.
On December 23, 1907, the Atlantic Fleet had steamed into Port of Spain at flank speed, a glorious plume of water exploding from each bow. Ready to storm the town and sweep the damsels off their feet.
A lone fisherman watched from his boat as the Fleet reduced steam, then dropped anchor. After gazing with faint interest for a few minutes, he lowered his head over his pole and waited for a bite.
Hurrah.
Third Division's entrance had been magnificent, with one exception. Because of its faulty pipes, the
Florida
had fallen back thirty yards. Had anyone on shore bothered to watch they would not have noticed, but the Fleet abounded with rear admirals and the ship's tardiness had not escaped attention.
It was one of the worst moments of Captain Oates' career, not to mention his life, when Evans placed the
Florida
in the Observation Ward.
But even this had become a negligible concern.
While taking on fuel from colliers sent ahead from Norfolk, two sticks of dynamite had been discovered buried in the coal. More sticks were found being loaded upon other ships in the Fleet.
They were told the sticks had been planted by anarchists in the West Virginia coal fields. This was their way of bringing down a government. But Oates took it personally.
Forget falling back at Port of Spain. Forget being stuck in the Observation Ward. Forget that prime ass, Ensign Garrett.
Someone was trying to blow up his ship.
They could search the coal bunkers all they wanted, but the only guarantor was the God Oates prayed to.
They could blow up any instant.
On the Cliffs of Time
The belugas were intelligent creatures.
They knew the meaning of fear.
What was more, they understood, in detail, the cause of their fear.
They knew that if they were caught, the killers would finish them off piece by jagged piece. That was what Orcs did. Theirs would not be a razor swift death, for the Orcs would tear the small white whales into quarters. Not so horrible a fate as faced by larger whales attacked by the Orcs, remaining alive while being eaten bite by bloody bite until the heart had practically no body left to pump blood to. Still, the belugas' extinction would be unpleasant and certain. They knew this because they'd heard others of their kind killed this way.
So they fled.
The Orcs hunted in packs. They were smarter and more agile than the belugas and they were hungry. They knew what steps the belugas were taking to evade them, so they formed a picket against the shoreline and began slapping the ocean with their flukes. The belugas heard the drumming and sensed they were being herded and there was a brief minute when they could have slipped out of the trap. But they were frightened and they hesitated.
The killers had their own speech. The belugas did not understand the exact meaning of the sounds--only their import. And they knew the range was closing. The Orcs certainly did not bother disguising their intention. They continued drumming the waves.
The belugas went right. Racing--every jog to the surface a frantic explosion of air. Their terror was written in the ironic rainbows etched in the mist of their exhalations.