“Surely there are other people along for this joyride who have more experience with DSVs.”
“There are. Antonella Sax, for example, our exobiology chief. But she won’t be joining the ship for some time yet. Besides, Glinn said there was a reason you should get comfortable with operating a DSV. Something to do with your role in the overall mission.”
“He never mentioned I’d be driving a submarine. I don’t like being on the water, let alone in it—and two miles down, for Chrissakes.”
She peered at him with a half smile. “That’s strange. I didn’t take you for a wimp.”
“I am a wimp. I am most definitely, without doubt, a lily-livered, spineless, cowardly, gutless poltroon.”
“Poltroon? Nice word. But you’re going down with me tomorrow. End of discussion.”
Gideon gave her a stare. God, he was sick of bossy women. But there was no point in arguing with her for the moment; he would take it up with Glinn. “So what else is there to see around here?”
“There’s the various labs—they’re fantastic, you’ll see them soon enough—along with the mission-control room, a library, galley, dining room, lounge and game room, and crew quarters. Not to mention the engine room, machine shop, commissary, sick bay, and all the other shipboard necessities.” She checked her watch. “But now it’s time for dinner.”
“At five o’clock?”
“When breakfast is at oh five thirty, all the mealtimes are shifted.”
“Breakfast at five thirty?” This was another thing he’d take up with Glinn, this totally unnecessary nod to military discipline. “I hope to God this isn’t a dry ship.”
“Not now. It will be once we arrive on target. We’ve quite a long journey ahead of us.”
“How long?”
“Nine thousand nautical miles to the target site.”
It hadn’t occurred to Gideon there would be a long preliminary voyage before they even reached their goal. Of course, if he’d given it even a moment’s thought, he would have realized. What had Glinn said about the cruising speed of the ship? Twelve knots. Twelve nautical miles per hour, divided by nine thousand nautical miles—
“Thirty-two days,” said Alex.
Gideon groaned.
6
LET’S TAKE OUR drinks out on deck,” Gideon said to Alex Lispenard.
“Good idea.”
Gideon rose from the bar, trying to keep his second martini from slopping over the rim. The bar on the R/V Batavia, an alcove off the dining room, was small and spare but pleasing in a kind of nautical way. It sported a row of windows, presently looking over Great Harbor to the low-lying shores of Ram Island. After negotiating the low door, they emerged on deck. It was a faultless October evening, cool and deep, the golden light falling aslant the ship, the cries of seagulls in the distance.
Gideon took a good slug of the drink and leaned on the rail, Alex joining him. He was feeling good—very good, in fact: a total reversal from how he’d felt just two hours before. It was amazing what an excellent meal and a martini could do to one’s outlook on life.
“Think we’re going to get fed like that throughout the voyage?” Gideon asked.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been on a lot of research vessels and the food is always good. When you’re months at sea, bad food means bad morale. On a trip like this, food is the least of any expense, so you might as well stock the best. And in Vince Brancacci, we have one of the finest chefs afloat.”
“You mean that guy I saw in the white smock, with the laugh of a hyena and the build of a sumo wrestler?”
“That’s the one.”
Gideon took another slug and glanced at Alex, leaning on the rail, the breeze stirring her glossy brown hair, her upturned nose and agate eyes aimed at the blue sea horizon, her breasts just pressing into the rail.
He averted his eyes. As attractive as she was, there was no way—none—that he was going to get involved in a romance on a long voyage to the antipodes of the world.
She turned toward him. “So, what’s your history?”
“You haven’t been briefed?”
“The opposite of ‘briefed.’ Beyond asking me to familiarize you with the DSVs, Glinn was totally mysterious. I got the sense he wanted me to find everything out for myself.”
Gideon was relieved. This meant she knew nothing about his medical situation. “Where to begin? I started my professional career stealing art, then I got a job designing nuclear bombs.”
She laughed. “Naturally.”
“It’s true. I work at Los Alamos designing the high-explosive lenses used to implode the cores. I was part of the Stockpile Stewardship program, running computer simulations and tweaking those lenses to make sure the bombs would still go off after years of rotting in some nuclear vault somewhere. I’m, ah, on extended leave at present.”
“Wait…you’re not kidding?”
Gideon shook his head. His drink was disappointingly empty. He thought of going back for a third, but a little voice in his head told him that would not be a good idea.
“So you actually design nukes?”
“More or less. That’s why I’m on this voyage, in fact.”
“What do nuclear bombs have to do with this voyage?”
Gideon stared at her. She really hadn’t been briefed. He quickly backtracked. “It’s just that I’m an engineer with a knowledge of explosives—that’s all.”
“And you weren’t kidding about the art thief business, either?”
“No.”
“One question. Why?”
“I was poor, I needed money. And more important, I loved the pieces I stole, and I only stole from historical societies and museums that weren’t taking care of their collections, stuff that nobody saw anyway.”
“And I suppose that made it morally okay.”
This irritated Gideon. “No, it didn’t, and I’m not excusing myself. Just don’t expect me to grovel in guilt and self-reproach.”
A silence. He really might need that third drink now. Or maybe it was time to change the subject. “I also worked as a magician. Prestidigitator, to be precise.”
“You were a magician? So was I!”
Gideon stood up from the rail. He had heard this many times before: somebody who learned a few card tricks and then bestowed on themselves the hallowed title of magician. “So you can pull a coin from behind someone’s ear?”
Alex frowned and said nothing.
Gideon leaned back on the railing, realizing he’d offended her. “I was a professional,” he explained. “I went on stage, got paid well. I even developed some original tricks. Worked with live animals—rabbits and the like. I had a great trick with a six-foot python that would clear out half the audience.” He fiddled with his empty glass. “And I still keep my hand in—picking pockets for fun, that sort of thing. It’s like playing the violin: you have to keep practicing or your skills go to hell.”
“I see.”
“Turns out magical tricks and art thievery are, in fact, related fields.”
“I imagine they would be.”
Gideon had an idea. A really good idea. This would be amusing. He leaned toward her. “I’m going back in for another—can I bring you one?”
“Two’s my limit, but you go ahead. Bring me a glass of water, if you don’t mind.”
As he departed he brushed against her, casually, using the distracting touch to lift the wallet out of her open purse. Tucking it into his pocket with his own wallet, he went back inside and returned to the bar. “Another Hendrick’s on the rocks with a twist, and a glass of water, please.”
He watched as the bartender mixed the martini. Alex suddenly appeared next to him. “Getting a little chilly out there.” To his surprise, and more, she leaned against him. “Warm me up?”