The “Albatross” had almost foundered before the west-rushing tide lifted it out of the grip of the mangroves. Then it had almost been keeled over by a taller tree. After that it had been rather fun, until the storm waves had got so high and wild that everyone except Benjy had been forced below.
After a long silence — that is, a long space of listening to nothing but the baby crying and the timbers straining and the waves and the wind hitting the boat — Barbara asked: “How’s Mister K, Hester?”
“He die a little while back, Miss Barbara,” the other replied. “Hush now, baby, you had your canned milk.”
Barbara digested the information. After a while she said: “Hester, maybe we should wrap him in something and put him up front — there’s just enough room — and you should lie down in that bunk.”
“No, Miss Barbara,” Hester replied positively. “We don’t want to chance his hip get bust again or anything. He in good shape now, except he dead, and if he lie soft he stay that way. Then we got evidence we took the best care of him we could.”
Helen started up, crying: “Oh Lord, there’s a deader in the cabin! I got to get out!”
“Lie down, you crazy nigger!” Hester commanded. “Miss Barbara, you hold her!”
There was no need. A fresh attack of seasickness stretched Helen out again.
A little later the motions of the “Albatross” became less violent. Solid water no longer thumped the roof of the cabin.
“I’m going to take some coffee up to Benjy,” Barbara said.
“No you not, Miss Barbara.”
“Yes, I am,” Barbara told Hester.
When she’d cautiously slid aside the little hatch at the back of the cabin and stuck her head out, the first thing she saw was Benjy kneeling spread-legged behind the little wheel. The clouds had broken overhead, and through the narrow rift the Wanderer shone down in its bull’s-head face.
She crawled out. Wind tore at her from the bow, but it wasn’t too bad, so she slid the hatch shut and crawled back to Benjy.
He swigged coffee from the small thermos she’d brought and thanked her with a nod.
She peered around over the low coaming of the cockpit. The Wanderer, vanishing behind the clouds again, showed nothing by its last light but waves that looked very high indeed.
“I thought it was getting calmer,” she shouted to Benjy over the wind.
He pointed toward the bow. “I find a mattress,” he shouted back, “and tie one end of a rope to it and the other to the front end of this boat and throw her over. It hold the boat so she head into the wind and the waves steady-like.”
Barbara remembered the name for that: a sea anchor.
“Where do you think we are, Benjy?” she shouted.
His laughter whooped over the wind. “I don’t know if we in the Atlantic or the Gulf or what, Miss Barbara, but we still on top!”
Sally Harris and Jake Lesher climbed down from the penthouse roof. Despite the activity, they were shaking with cold. Beyond the balustrade the wavelets were sinking at a rate almost visible.
Sally looked into the living room by the light of the Wanderer in its jaws face, which she called Rin-Tin-Tin.
“It’s a mess,” she told Jake. “The furniture’s tumbled every which way. The piano’s got its legs in the air. The black rug’s got waves in it, and all those soaked black drapes make the place look like a storm-tossed mortuary. Come on, let’s hunt for driftwood or candles or something to make a fire. I’m freezing.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
The Wanderer put on its yin-yang mask for a ninth time. For two full days it had tormented Earth with fire and floods and shakings and now with storms. Bagong Bung dropped his spade, snatched up his muddy sack, and dove for the orange life raft as it rushed by on a foam-crested step of water. Cobber-Hume grabbed at him. The four insurgent captains of the “Prince Charles,” terrified by the hurricane winds that struck through the inky night from the east like ten thousand invisible planes buzzing them and by the tall regiments of waves marching under the winds like black grenadiers, steered the great atom-liner for safety into one of the mouths of the Amazon. Waves began to break over the “Albatross” again despite its sea anchor, but Barbara Katz wouldn’t go below. A chill wind began to blow in gusts across Mr. Hasseltine’s penthouse patio, rippling thin pools of water there, and Sally Harris and Jake Lesher retreated once again to the soaked living room. By the masthead light of the “Endurance” Wolf Loner saw two corpses float by amongst the ever-thickening flotsam.
The saucer students’ Corvette and truck, headlights peering, cautiously nosed their way along the mountain road that had signs pointing, at intervals, to Vandenberg Two. Twice already most of the huddling passengers had had to unkink and climb out to shovel and heave away rock-and-gravel slides not big enough to warrant expending the last charge in the momentum pistol. At any moment another earth-fall might show up in the watchful headlight beams of the Corvette. Chains clinked rhythmically on the truck’s rear wheels.
The east-breeze coming over the mountains at their back was mostly tepid — fortunately for people all bone-weary and all exposed, except for the Hixons and Pop in the cab of the truck.
Save for that of the motors and wheels, the only sound was a faint, rhythmic, hissing roar from ahead.
The Wanderer had risen two hours after sunset and now rode above the same eastward mountains in the cloudless slate-gray sky, its warm winy and golden light creating the illusion that it was the source of the friendly breeze. It was no longer quite spherical, however, but slightly gibbous, like the moon two days after full. A narrow black crescent cut off the rim of the purple half of its yin-yang face as, mimicking the movements of the moon it had destroyed, it moved east around the earth, or rather, around a point between the two planets. Loosely girdling its equator like a filmy diamond-studded scarf, the trophy-ring of moon fragments glittered and gleamed.
The road now mounted gently to a wide saddle, the sides of which rose in smooth earthen slopes to flat, low rock crests. The Corvette reached the top of the saddle, pulled to the right, and stopped with four rapid horn-beeps, dousing its lights. The truck pulled up beside it to the left, and did the same.
Most of the party had at one time or another in their lives had the experience of looking down on a fog or a low cloud layer from a mountainside or an airplane, and seeing the hilltops lifting up through it, and marveling at how flat and far it stretched — a veritable ocean of clouds. Now the same persons had for a second or two or three the illusion that they were witnessing the same sight again, by Wanderer-light.
This illusory, nocturnal cloud-ocean began scarcely fifty yards beyond and no more than a dozen yards below them and it stretched to the western horizon, closely following to either side the contours of the hills. There was only one island, low and flat, but so big it stretched out of sight past the dark hillsides to the north. Red and white lights shone sparsely from this island and the Wanderer-light revealed two clusters of low, pale-walled, pale-roofed buildings. And already in the first moments of watching, there was a faint drone and a tiny red and green pair of lights slanting down from the south, as a small airplane landed on the island. A strait a quarter of a mile wide separated the island from the mainland.
Then the illusion faded and one by one the saucer students realized that it was not cloud-ocean that stretched to the horizon but salt ocean, not mist-water but solid-water sea, its waves breaking rhythmically against the hillside and the descending road fifty yards ahead; that the island was Vandenberg Two; and that the strait between covered among other things the Pacific Coast Highway where it swung inland of the Space Force base, home of the Moon Project — of Morton Opperly and Major Buford Humphreys, of Paul Hagbolt and Donald Merriam, though those last two were elsewhere now.