there’s still work to be done for’ard?”
“Looking for you, Number One. Thought you might like to double-check. Some nasty rust, but nothing dangerous: looks all right to me.”
“Then I’m sure it is all right. Get your lot up and get that lot stowed.” He turned to go. John glanced at her behind his back: told you so, he grinned.
Ben Strong turned back. “No, leave it,” he ordered inevitably. “I’d better check it all for myself.”
“Have you seen the Little Mistress?” asked Hajji of Salah Malik some time later. “I would like to share my good fortune with her.” He had made up the nickname for Robin himself when one of his more intelligent colleagues explained to him that a pun existed in English upon the word
mate.
Salah eyed him with even more disfavor than usual. “The third mate is a better officer than you have a right to expect,” he said severely. “She is a better seaman thanyou will ever be and is superior to you in every conceivable way. I do not like to hear the wise insulted by the foolish, although I know it is the way of the world.”
Hajji stalked off in high outrage at that. But he did not stay in a bad mood for long. He would attend to the Little Mistress soon. For the present, he was a fortunate man. And what do such men do? They celebrate. Now he knew for certain where the old woman Malik was, he would smoke the last of his hashish.
It was the work of only a few moments to liberate the little packet from behind the black cylinders and to slip out of the haunted Pump Room; then he was scurrying down and down to the secret hiding place where he could indulge his vice leisurely.
As he descended, the pounding of the engine grew louder. The air grew warmer, out of reach of the air-conditioning, and more redolent of oil from the engine room. Hajji liked it down here. The deeper he went, the more things shrank to an acceptable scale until, in the farthest depths of the great ship’s bowels, he arrived at a tiny alcove. It was too small to be a room. It was deep and dark, though not pitch dark, and warm. The walls were covered in pipes. The engine throbbed like a heart.
Hajji sat contentedly on the floor and slowly rolled himself a joint. He regretted the loss of his pipe—Malik had found that and confiscated it as though the seaman were a child—but this way was better than no way. His fingers were clumsy but he persisted dreamily, his mind drifting from Malik back to the Little Mistress…
The cigarette was rolled by now, but he was having trouble with the matches. Were they damp? He could not get them to light. At last he tried three together and was rewarded with a small blue flame. He held it close and puffed hard. A trace of the drugged smoke filteredinto his lungs. He took the matches away, holding them high as he drew on the joint again. His mind still on Robin, he glanced up, surprised to see that the matches were burning more brightly now. Slowly, he brought them down toward his eyes again, watching with wonder as the flame grew smaller as it came nearer. No matter, the flame was still burning. He brought it back toward the end of his cigarette but for some reason he could not understand, at that very moment the deck came up and hit him in the face. He thought about getting up, especially as he seemed to have broken his nose and it was becoming difficult to breathe—but in the end, it was simply too much trouble.
C HAPTER E LEVEN
“Think they’ll ever find the little twit?”
“Nope. I think he went overboard. Probably got drunk celebrating his win and fell into the ocean.”
“Didn’t think Malik let them drink. Anyway, they’re Moslems.”
“Think that’d stop Hassan?”
“Probably not.”
It wasn’t much of an epitaph, but it was almost all Hajji got.
Ben and John were standing on the bridge at 07.30 next morning, chatting idly about last night’s excitement as they watched Robin lead her depleted team down to the forecastle head. The
“Looking for you, Number One. Thought you might like to double-check. Some nasty rust, but nothing dangerous: looks all right to me.”
“Then I’m sure it is all right. Get your lot up and get that lot stowed.” He turned to go. John glanced at her behind his back: told you so, he grinned.
Ben Strong turned back. “No, leave it,” he ordered inevitably. “I’d better check it all for myself.”
“Have you seen the Little Mistress?” asked Hajji of Salah Malik some time later. “I would like to share my good fortune with her.” He had made up the nickname for Robin himself when one of his more intelligent colleagues explained to him that a pun existed in English upon the word
mate.
Salah eyed him with even more disfavor than usual. “The third mate is a better officer than you have a right to expect,” he said severely. “She is a better seaman thanyou will ever be and is superior to you in every conceivable way. I do not like to hear the wise insulted by the foolish, although I know it is the way of the world.”
Hajji stalked off in high outrage at that. But he did not stay in a bad mood for long. He would attend to the Little Mistress soon. For the present, he was a fortunate man. And what do such men do? They celebrate. Now he knew for certain where the old woman Malik was, he would smoke the last of his hashish.
It was the work of only a few moments to liberate the little packet from behind the black cylinders and to slip out of the haunted Pump Room; then he was scurrying down and down to the secret hiding place where he could indulge his vice leisurely.
As he descended, the pounding of the engine grew louder. The air grew warmer, out of reach of the air-conditioning, and more redolent of oil from the engine room. Hajji liked it down here. The deeper he went, the more things shrank to an acceptable scale until, in the farthest depths of the great ship’s bowels, he arrived at a tiny alcove. It was too small to be a room. It was deep and dark, though not pitch dark, and warm. The walls were covered in pipes. The engine throbbed like a heart.
Hajji sat contentedly on the floor and slowly rolled himself a joint. He regretted the loss of his pipe—Malik had found that and confiscated it as though the seaman were a child—but this way was better than no way. His fingers were clumsy but he persisted dreamily, his mind drifting from Malik back to the Little Mistress…
The cigarette was rolled by now, but he was having trouble with the matches. Were they damp? He could not get them to light. At last he tried three together and was rewarded with a small blue flame. He held it close and puffed hard. A trace of the drugged smoke filteredinto his lungs. He took the matches away, holding them high as he drew on the joint again. His mind still on Robin, he glanced up, surprised to see that the matches were burning more brightly now. Slowly, he brought them down toward his eyes again, watching with wonder as the flame grew smaller as it came nearer. No matter, the flame was still burning. He brought it back toward the end of his cigarette but for some reason he could not understand, at that very moment the deck came up and hit him in the face. He thought about getting up, especially as he seemed to have broken his nose and it was becoming difficult to breathe—but in the end, it was simply too much trouble.
C HAPTER E LEVEN
“Think they’ll ever find the little twit?”
“Nope. I think he went overboard. Probably got drunk celebrating his win and fell into the ocean.”
“Didn’t think Malik let them drink. Anyway, they’re Moslems.”
“Think that’d stop Hassan?”
“Probably not.”
It wasn’t much of an epitaph, but it was almost all Hajji got.
Ben and John were standing on the bridge at 07.30 next morning, chatting idly about last night’s excitement as they watched Robin lead her depleted team down to the forecastle head. The
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