attempt to locate a hidden supply of alcohol — had sunk their attempt to produce the
Titanic Times
all by themselves.
And yet, amazingly, everything was working perfectly. The stories they had painstakingly written were just as they'd left them, saved, unharmed, on the computers. Claire's photos were still on file.
They got right back to work.
Jimmy wrote at speed, picking out the letters on the keyboard with increasing speed and occasional accuracy. Luckily there was a good spell check. Claire tried a dozen different variations of her merged engine-room photos before finally settling on one. When they were both finished they designed the feature page together before checking the rest of the pages one last time.
'It's a good read,' said Jimmy.
'And it looks good.'
'You couldn't tell the difference between our
Times
and Scoop's.'
'And that's the whole point. Let's print it.'
When the ship was fully functioning, three thousand copies would be required first thing every morning, seven days a week. But that wasn't their problem. They had done their job. Whoever came on board in Miami would inherit a fully functioning newspaper production office. And it would only smell slightly of vomit.
***
They had been given an eight p.m. deadline for providing finished copies of the
Titanic Times
for Captain Smith's approval. Once he gave the go-ahead the paper would be distributed to the skeleton crew. By the time they had finished printing it out they had just ten minutes to spare, and what with the size of the ship it took most of that time to get to the bridge. Claire, a regular visitor to this and many other bridges, was more than familiar with it, but it blew Jimmy's mind. He had always thought of ships' bridges as featuring — well, basically a big wheel, maybe a bell, with waves crashing against the window. And bluff men saying things like 'Ahoy there, Captain!' Perhaps, as a concession to the twenty-first century, there might be some electronic equipment. Like radar. Or a toaster for midnight snacks.
This was like mission control.
The place bristled with computer monitors.
Crewmen in short-sleeved shirts studied electronic charts and forecasts and maps and . . . well, he hadn't a clue what they were all doing or what half of the equipment was for. It was just incredibly impressive.
Captain Smith was seated behind a desk to the rear, examining a monitor with First Officer Jeffers on his left shoulder and Claire's father on his right. They were all looking very grave.
'We've brought the papers,' Claire said proudly. She wasn't supposed to say it proudly. It was, after all, supposed to be Scoop's paper, but she could hardly help herself.
Captain Smith barely looked up. 'Just leave them there.'
Claire set them down, but then took off the top copy and opened it to the centre pages. 'Look, Daddy,' she beamed. 'My photo.'
Mr Stanford sighed and took hold of the paper. He glanced at the photo, then quickly closed it over. 'Yes, very good.' He handed it back. 'Now run along, there's a good girl.'
But Claire stood her ground. 'You hardly even looked at it!'
'Yes I did, and I'm sure it's very good. Now if you don't mind—'
'No!' Claire exploded. 'You order me to do something useful and then when I do it you're not the slightest bit interested! I nearly froze to death and you hardly raised an eyebrow!'
'Claire, come on,' said Jimmy. He caught hold of her arm and tried to pull her away. He'd been arguing with his parents for years and knew how pointless it was. But she wasn't for moving.
'Claire, that's quite enough,' her father barked. 'We have more important things on our minds right now.'
'You always have!'
Captain Smith clasped his hands before him and said, 'Claire.'
She glared at him. 'It's not fair, I do my best and all—'
'Claire.'
She took a deep breath. 'What?'
'We've had some very bad news.'
Jimmy had thought the bridge was quiet for . . . well, a bridge. But now he realized it was more than that. It
Titanic Times
all by themselves.
And yet, amazingly, everything was working perfectly. The stories they had painstakingly written were just as they'd left them, saved, unharmed, on the computers. Claire's photos were still on file.
They got right back to work.
Jimmy wrote at speed, picking out the letters on the keyboard with increasing speed and occasional accuracy. Luckily there was a good spell check. Claire tried a dozen different variations of her merged engine-room photos before finally settling on one. When they were both finished they designed the feature page together before checking the rest of the pages one last time.
'It's a good read,' said Jimmy.
'And it looks good.'
'You couldn't tell the difference between our
Times
and Scoop's.'
'And that's the whole point. Let's print it.'
When the ship was fully functioning, three thousand copies would be required first thing every morning, seven days a week. But that wasn't their problem. They had done their job. Whoever came on board in Miami would inherit a fully functioning newspaper production office. And it would only smell slightly of vomit.
***
They had been given an eight p.m. deadline for providing finished copies of the
Titanic Times
for Captain Smith's approval. Once he gave the go-ahead the paper would be distributed to the skeleton crew. By the time they had finished printing it out they had just ten minutes to spare, and what with the size of the ship it took most of that time to get to the bridge. Claire, a regular visitor to this and many other bridges, was more than familiar with it, but it blew Jimmy's mind. He had always thought of ships' bridges as featuring — well, basically a big wheel, maybe a bell, with waves crashing against the window. And bluff men saying things like 'Ahoy there, Captain!' Perhaps, as a concession to the twenty-first century, there might be some electronic equipment. Like radar. Or a toaster for midnight snacks.
This was like mission control.
The place bristled with computer monitors.
Crewmen in short-sleeved shirts studied electronic charts and forecasts and maps and . . . well, he hadn't a clue what they were all doing or what half of the equipment was for. It was just incredibly impressive.
Captain Smith was seated behind a desk to the rear, examining a monitor with First Officer Jeffers on his left shoulder and Claire's father on his right. They were all looking very grave.
'We've brought the papers,' Claire said proudly. She wasn't supposed to say it proudly. It was, after all, supposed to be Scoop's paper, but she could hardly help herself.
Captain Smith barely looked up. 'Just leave them there.'
Claire set them down, but then took off the top copy and opened it to the centre pages. 'Look, Daddy,' she beamed. 'My photo.'
Mr Stanford sighed and took hold of the paper. He glanced at the photo, then quickly closed it over. 'Yes, very good.' He handed it back. 'Now run along, there's a good girl.'
But Claire stood her ground. 'You hardly even looked at it!'
'Yes I did, and I'm sure it's very good. Now if you don't mind—'
'No!' Claire exploded. 'You order me to do something useful and then when I do it you're not the slightest bit interested! I nearly froze to death and you hardly raised an eyebrow!'
'Claire, come on,' said Jimmy. He caught hold of her arm and tried to pull her away. He'd been arguing with his parents for years and knew how pointless it was. But she wasn't for moving.
'Claire, that's quite enough,' her father barked. 'We have more important things on our minds right now.'
'You always have!'
Captain Smith clasped his hands before him and said, 'Claire.'
She glared at him. 'It's not fair, I do my best and all—'
'Claire.'
She took a deep breath. 'What?'
'We've had some very bad news.'
Jimmy had thought the bridge was quiet for . . . well, a bridge. But now he realized it was more than that. It
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