The Forty Fathom Bank and Other Stories by Les Galloway Page A

Astoria,” the agent said. “Beyond that, I can’t tell you much more than that he signed his name William Mueller. No local address and no next of kin.”
    â€œCould he be going up north to find work in the woods?”
    â€œNot likely. He looked pretty well off. Wore an expensive business suit and carried a briefcase.”
    â€œDoes he have any baggage? A suitcase, trunk?”
    â€œNothing but the briefcase. Why do you ask?”
    â€œSeems a bit strange,” the Captain commented. “A well-dressed man heading north with no baggage, no particular destination. And on the
Caspar
? What’s he look like?”
    â€œHe’s about your height, gray haired, thin. He sounds educated and speaks in a very low voice.” The agent paused. “Come to think of it, I can’t remember his face except that it seemed kind of pale. He’ll be boarding around noon so you’ll see for yourself.” He paused again. “By the way, he wants a cabin to himself on the lee side of the ship. Says he has an aversion to the wind.”
    The Captain explained that since he had never expected to see a passenger again, all the cabins had been taken over for use as paint lockers and general stowage rooms. “Whether or not an accommodation can be made ready on the lee side depends on the whim of the wind. At this time of year, that’s about as trustworthy as the
Caspar
herself.”
    The agent laughed and said he didn’t see why it should make much difference anyway.
    Though the Captain enjoyed meeting new people, especially from far off places and with interesting backgrounds, the prospect of a stranger aboard, whose suspect appearanceaugured trouble, exacerbated his present frustrations. And he’d had enough of those. He had been on the move since before dawn hurrying about from the engine room to the machine shop, to the welders, to the company office and back, lifting, carrying, and overseeing things too urgent to be relegated to anyone but himself. In addition to all this, he had personally taken on the job of cleaning and preparing the passenger’s cabin for occupancy. A younger man would have found the work hard, the problems difficult. At his age, they were nothing less than exhausting. Now he wished only to rest and to lose himself for a time in dreamless sleep.
    From the bridge came the muted clang of the ship’s clock. Twelve-thirty. He yawned and closed his book. Two, maybe three hours before sailing. He yawned again, deeply, and shut his eyes. Instantly a kaleidoscope of ghastly scenes flashed through his mind—red flames leaping from the forward hold, a man’s arm being torn off in the gears of the windlass. Nameless fears projected themselves visually as infantile memories emerged in vivid detail—a snarling beast springing at him from a dark doorway, a dead man sprawled in a gutter. . . . It was as if all the terrifying experiences in his life were disgorged en masse onto his unprotected consciousness. He longed to rest, and above all, to halt the unprecedented torrent that swept out of nowhere, and like the descending course of his life, raced on without cause or purpose. He was too tired to move and too mentally drained to break the savage continuum.
    Yet, despite his inner turbulence, he was not unaware that these rampant feelings, unleashed in a moment of high vulnerability, were the accumulated anxieties of a lifetime of hurrying about, of getting things done, of keeping himself busy searching for answers. With a supreme effort, heopened his eyes. The brilliant sunlight, the comforting reality of the windblown smoke now thinned to a light brown haze, and the tarpaulin covered forehatch battened down and ready for sea, quickly dispelled the morbid flux within him.
    A feeling of tranquility came over him, and with it, an almost mystic sense of expectation. It was as if he were on the verge of a momentous revelation in which the