The QE2 Is Missing

Dr. Llusera was a round and pompous little man. He followed de Laiglesia down the corridor in a mincing waddle, shoulders back and chin held high so that his little black beard appeared to point the way for him. Sergeant Pradera followed behind, bulky and slightly uneasy in his unaccustomed civilian suit. The room steward was waiting by the cabin door in response to de Laiglesia’s telephone message that they were on their way.

“I contacted the hospital after your call, sir. They have what you might call a plague of seasickness, both doctors and even the three nursing sisters busy at it.”

“I know, I talked to them myself,” de Laiglesia lied smoothly. “Luckily there is a physician accompanying our party who volunteered to make himself available. Now if you would be so kind…. “

The room steward unlocked the door and wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor of vomit that washed over them when he opened it. “A bit of the old pong there, sir. I’ll leave you at it. Just close the door when you leave — it locks itself.” He hurried away as they let themselves hi.

Only the weakest illumination filtered in through the closed curtains, so de Laiglesia groped for the light switch and turned it on. The room was a shambles, with clothes and towels strewn about, some of them sitting in splatters of vomit. Chvosta himself lay on the crumpled covers of the bed, the bed linen and his tent-like pajamas also sprayed and befouled. He turned his head painfully to look at them as they approached; his skin was ashen grey and dotted with perspiration.

“I am dying… leave me….” he groaned weakly. “Nemocriy … bolest… smrt.”

Dr. Llusera treaded his way daintily around the repulsive splatterings and seized up a gross, limp wrist and felt for the pulse. He pursed his lips and nodded, then peeled open the lids to look into a bloodshot eye.

“He will be fine once we control the nausea, get some liquids into him, plus a few cc’s of an opiate to control the pain and improve his disposition.” The doctor was an old fashioned physician who was unconcerned about possible drug addiction among his patients as long as the symptoms were controlled. “Give some aid, Sergeant, in rolling him over and stripping off some of these befouled garments.”

The Sergeant, who in his day had sewn up lacerated horses, disinterred corpses and aided many a drunken comrade back to barracks, had accepted this situation as completely normal and had already removed his jacket and was rolling up his sleeves. But de Laiglesia’s skin was changing color to match that of the Czech’s. Seasickness had not touched him until this moment, but the close and foul atmosphere of the cabin seized him and he felt the nausea rise in his throat.

“I’m going to report to the… others what is happening. I’ll return to help you.”

He opened the door and fled, without waiting for an answer. Some fresh air on deck, yes, that first. Then report what was occurring and come reluctantly back here. He hurried away.

The naked body of the fat Czech was like that of a pallid, beached whale. The buttocks rose up like shivering mountains; the great belly oozed out on both sides as he lay face down. The Sergeant washed his skin with damp towels and marvelled because he had never seen a man that obese before.

“This is really an incredibly fat one, Doctor,” he said.

The doctor nodded as he filled a disposable hypodermic needle through the rubber top of a small flask. “I imagine his arteries are as clogged with fat as his arse is.”

“I'll bet if you put a wick in that arse and lit it he would burn for a year.”

The doctor smiled, like all medical men he appreciated a good, coarse joke, then jabbed the needle deep into the quivering flesh. Chvosta groaned and shivered and all of the fat quivered and shook as well. The telephone rang.

“Take that,” Doctor Llusera said, squeezing slowly down on the hypodermic needle. “I’m busy.”

The Sergeant wiped his hands on a towel and picked up the phone.

“The room of Mr. Chvosta, Sergeant Pradera speaking.”

The man on the other end of the line also spoke in Spanish. “Leandro Diaz here. We last met in the Bar Tampico and your sister’s name was Maria. Act as though I am talking to you in English.”

“I am sorry, I do not speak English.”

“We are aided by the Tupamaros and are close by. We can hear everything. We are going to seize the diamonds. No one will fire at you. Will you aid us when the time comes?”

“Yes. I know you are speaking English, but I am sorry I can understand nothing you say.”

“Good. We can count on you. Report this call, tell them you think it was the Dutch diamond expert.” The line went dead.

“Look, I’m busy. I can’t help you.” He hung the receiver up.

“Hold this,” the Doctor said, taking a plastic bag and tube from his bag. “I’ll give him a drip of 500 cc’s of saline and glucose. Hang it from the light here. By the time that’s inside him he should be feeling human enough to dress himself. That i$ a task I do not wish to attempt.”