And the Deep Blue Sea by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online

in the room. It’s a two-shot; his viewpoint is her back, about three-quarters, so he can see her hands, and she’s filling a syringe very professionally from a vial with a rubber membrane. The second setup, of course, we get Pommefrite’s reaction: eccchhh! another needle-throwing dragon. She turns, radiantly beautiful, eyes right into the camera, widening a little and almost shy as she sees he’s awake—
    The door opened a few inches and somebody looked in at him. “Oh, you’re up.” A sharp-faced man pushed the door on back and came in. “How do you feel?”
    “Fine,” Goddard replied. “A little woozy yet. And hungry.”
    “We’ll fix you up. I’m the chief steward. George Barset.”
    They shook hands, and Barset asked, “How about a whole breakfast, ham and eggs and the works? Can you handle that?”
    “Sure,” Goddard replied.
    “How long was it? On the raft, I mean?”
    “Less than three days.”
    Barset grinned. “Well, you sure came up smelling of roses. I’ll be right back.” He went out.
    Goddard brushed his teeth, and looked at himself in the mirror above the washbasin. Takes class, he told himself, to face something like that without a gun. All his face not covered with a mottled black and gray wire-brush of whiskers was burned a shiny red over the old tan, and skin was peeling from his ears. And note, gentlemen, that while this species of moose appears to have no antlers, this is not true at all, as even the most outstanding rack can be tastefully concealed in its hair. Whether this concealment is a symbolic castration forced on the bull by feminist and aggressive elements within the harem or whether he simply hopes with this camouflage to elude the constant demands for money has never been completely established.
    Barset came back bearing a pot of coffee. “Here you go, Mr. Goddard. Rest of it’ll be along in a few minutes.”
    “Thanks a lot,” Goddard said. He poured a cup, black and very hot, and sipped it. He grinned. “Good coffee. It’s got authority.”
    Barset lit a cigarette and sat down on the opposite bunk. “Where you from?”
    “California,” Goddard replied. “I sailed from Long Beach about twenty-five days ago.”
    “Where to?”
    Goddard shrugged. “Marquesas, and on down through the islands. Australia, maybe. All ad lib.”
    “Just alone, in a puddle-jumper? Not even a babe?” It was obvious this made no sense to the steward. “You going to write a book about it?”
    “No,” Goddard replied, aware that by thus disavowing both sex and money as possible objectives he was leaving the other no alternative to the seaman’s blanket rationale for all types of exotic behavior: you don’t have to be crazy but it helps. “What ship is this? And where are we bound?”
    “ Leander ,” Barset replied. “Manila and Kobe, from South America. Callao was the last port.”
    He went on. She was under the Panamanian flag, but registry was the only thing about her connected with Panama; she was owned by Greeks and under charter to the Hayworth Line, with offices in London. She was built in 1944, reciprocating engine, single screw, and she’d be pushed to make thirteen knots downhill. Goddard began to form a picture of her, an old bucket verging on obsolescence as she shuttled around the Pacific basin from Hong Kong to Australia and the west coast of South America to the Philippines and Japan, able to compete with modern eighteen-knot freighters only with the aid of tax breaks and lower wages.
    Captain Steen, known as Holy Joe, was scowegian, a Bible-pounder who got sidetracked and went to sea, a booze-hater and a nickel-squeezer. It was that big mate, Lind, who really ran the show; he’d go to bat for you, and Holy Joe didn’t impress him at all, but he was too good at his job for the skipper to get mad enough to fire him. The second mate was a Dutch-Indonesian type and the third mate was a young Swede.
    The Filipino entered with a tray, and Goddard ate as Barset went