The QE2 Is Missing

Captain Rapley looked out at the savage spectacle and took no cheer from the sight. The coffee in his cup was ice cold, but he took no notice of this as he sipped it. Up here, on the uppermost deck of the ship, all of the pitching and rolling was more pronounced. He never noticed this either. He was one of the few sailors who, after a lifetime at sea, could truthfully say that he had never been seasick. Intellectually he sympathized with people who suffered this malady, but he had no real understanding of the torture they went through. No, the storm didn’t bother him, nor did it threaten his ship in any way. Some pots might be carried away in the galley, dishes and glasses would be broken, but the storm, no matter how menacing it looked, posed no physical problem at all for this vessel. It had weathered worse.

But it was the passengers who would be suffering. The Captain had been out of the Navy and in the Merchant Marines long enough to know that some of his traditional values had to be turned on their heads. In the Navy, the complex fighting machine that he had commanded always came first and foremost. All of her technical facilities were always at peak performance. The engines, electronic gear, guns, torpedoes, mines, all must function faultlessly. Unhappily, they were serviced by imperfect humans who got sick, got drunk, overstayed leave and committed other indecencies that interfered with the perfect functioning of his command. That was the way it had been and he had adjusted to it.

Now, on the QE2, his accepted values had been stood on their head. Yes, his crew still followed his commands and could be counted upon to do their part in the successful operation of the ship. But his mission now was not to fight battles and win wars — but to make some one thousand six hundred passengers happy. Perhaps not as noble a cause as the destruction of the enemy, but one just as important to his success in his chosen profession. Nor could he blame his charges. They had paid out a lot of folding green banknotes for the pleasure of a world luxury cruise. Well, they were still cruising — but there was very little luxury ill the voyage until this storm blew itself out.

Below decks, the unhappiness was so thick that you could almost detect it in the air. The restaurants were almost empty at breakfast time, with only a few hearty and healthy trenchermen digging into the rich and nourishing full breakfast so bountifully supplied. Most of the passengers remained in their cabins and, if they cared for any breakfast at all, the stewards brought around trays of tea and dry toast.

Hank and Frances were the only diners in the Queen’s Grill, alone at their table by the window. Hank drank his orange juice in a gulp, then sipped his coffee. And wondered just what to say. It had been a silent morning so far. Neither of them had slept well because of the motion of the ship, and when the first light had filtered around the drapes over the windows they had found themselves awake and unable to sleep anymore. Without saying a word about it, they were both painfully aware of the Tupamaros in the adjoining room of the suite. Frances had finally kicked off the covers in disgust, then had pulled clothing from the drawers and closet with far more banging than was needed. With her arms filled with clothing she had stamped into the bathroom and had slammed the door. When she emerged, dressed in slacks and a light sweater, her hair bound in place by a scarf, she had nothing to say to Hank, in fact had acted as though he didn’t exist. He had gone to the bathroom himself and had enjoyed the luxury of a hot shower — followed by a bracing cold one — but when he had emerged she was gone.

He had dressed quickly and followed her. In the adjoining sitting room, three of the Tupamaros were asleep, one snoring loudly. But the fourth one was wide awake, sitting on the couch and watching him. A large pistol ready on his lap. Hank said nothing, just opened the door and slipped out.

The QE2 was a big ship, but not big enough to get lost on, and he had found her right away, at their table in the dining room. Making a breakfast of a large glass of Citrocarbonate.

His cheerful good morning had produced no response other than a twitch of her nostrils, as though she had suddenly detected the smell of something very rotten and decayed. Knowing he was never at his best before breakfast, he had enough sense not to make any attempts at conversation until he had eaten something. A knot of hunger had growled in his stomach and only then had he realized how many meals he had missed the previous day. The waiter had scribbled the order, then hurried away.