He stirred the cauldron's contents and replaced the lid with a metallic clunk. Then he wiped his hands on his apron again and checked the heat.
Satisfied, he stepped to the other side of the galley and retrieved his fishing pole. It was a relatively short, stout rod made of a shoot from the curious Baalkpan bamboo. The line was rolled around it with about two feet of woven wire for a leader at the end. The hook was stuck in the handle. He took a stringy piece of the "turkey" innards and impaled it on the hook. The mess attendant, Ray Mertz, slept in a chair near the hatch.
He was leaning against the bulkhead with the front legs off the deck. Lanier was tempted to knock the others out from under him, but settled for kicking his foot. The younger man nearly fell anyway when his eyes fluttered open.
"Watch the fires," said Earl. "Time to get my breakfast." Ignoring tradition, he whistled "The Krawdad Song" happily but quietly off-key as he strode from under the gun platform. "Bad enough I have to cook the shit," he told himself. "They can't expect me to eat it." Eat it he rarely did. He, almost alone among the crew, liked the silvery flasher-fish. Fried, mostly.
The men were just squeamish, he decided. Sure, they'd eat anything that went over the side, from people to turds, but a catfish would too. Fried fish was his favorite food in the world and had been since he was a kid, near Pinedale, Wyoming. There the trout could be had with little effort, and they fulfilled their purpose in life only when they simmered in his skillet.
He stepped to the rail on the starboard side, next to the number one torpedo mount. Not far away, the lights of the city cast their ceaselessly shifting reflection on the small waves around the darkened ship. It was almost eerily quiet. The boilers were cold, and for the first time he could remember, the blowers were silent as well. The only sounds besides water lapping against Walker's plates were the snores. Most of the crew was ashore on liberty, celebrating the victory, and there was still an hour or more before the first wave of drunken revelers returned to the ship. Many who hadn't been so fortunate, or who simply decided to forgo the festivities—including some Lemurian "cadets"—were scattered about, sleeping on deck, away from the stifling confines of the berthing spaces.
But they were exhausted, and Lanier's quiet whistling disturbed no one.
He rotated the pole in his hand and the "turkey" innards began their slow descent to the water.
"Fishin'?" inquired a quiet voice from behind.
"No," Lanier sneered, "I'm rootin' up taters."
Tom Felts eased up beside him in the gloom. The scrawny gunner's mate must have the watch, Lanier thought.
"Did you hear them Mice found oil after all?" Felts asked.
The cook nodded. He felt genuine relief over that. "I wonder how long it'll be before we have any to burn?"
"Not too long, they say. Something about it being `sweet,' or something. 'Cats already have storage tanks built. All they have to do is ship 'em over there and set 'em up. Few days, maybe." Felts sighed. "Sure hope so. I only thought I felt helpless before the fires went out."
Lanier nodded in the darkness. He cooked over charcoal, but with the lights out, it was hard to see in the galley. All he had were a couple of little lamps fired by the stinky oil of those big fish the 'cats hunted.
"Yup," he said, wishing Felts would go away. Suddenly, his pole jerked downward. There was no need to set the hook. Whatever had it, had it. He held on tight as the line whipped back and forth and the end of the pole jerked erratically. He didn't have a reel, so all he could do was keep tension while the fish tired and when it was spent, he'd drag it aboard. With the leader in the fish's jaws, the braided line would hold as long as the fish wasn't much over forty or fifty pounds. He grunted under the strain as it tried to go deep, under the hull.
"Whatcha got?" Felts whispered excitedly.
Lanier risked a quick, incredulous glance. "A fish, you idiot."
"No, I mean what kind?"
"Christ, Felts," the cook rasped, still trying to control his voice, "I don't know what kind any I've already caught are! It might be another one of them or it might not. Lay off!"
The fight went on a while longer, Lanier puffing with exertion and the gunner's mate peering expectantly over the side.
"I think he's runnin' out of steam," offered Felts encouragingly.
Lanier jerked a nod and blew sweat off his upper lip. He glanced behind to make sure the coast was clear. He didn't want to trample anybody.
"Here we go," he wheezed. He turned and grasped the pole more firmly with his hands and under his arm and lumbered to port.
"Hey!" Felts exclaimed as something thrashed at the surface of the water and thumped and thudded up the side of the ship. Right next to him, less than a yard from his feet, some . . . thing right out of Felts's most fevered nightmare squirmed out of the darkness and onto the deck. It was six feet long, with the body of a flat snake except for a feathery "fin" that ran its length, top and bottom. Very much like an eel—except for the head. Its head looked sort of like a normal fish, but its eyes were huge and dark and full of malice and its mouth was stuffed with what seemed like hundreds of ridiculously long, needle-sharp teeth, flashing in jaws that opened impossibly wide. The lights from shore showed a rainbow color that shimmered as it flailed in spastic rage, snapping at the line, the deck . . . and Felts as it slithered past.
"Goddamn!" he squeaked and jerked back against the rail. Fumbling at his side for the pistol strapped there, he pulled it out, thumbing the safety off. An earsplitting roar shattered the night as he fired at the thing, again and again. Bullets spanged off the deck plates and whined over the water. Pieces of fish and flakes of paint rained down on the men who'd been sleeping nearby. The automatic's slide locked back, empty, and still Felts pointed it at the fish, jerking the trigger in convulsive panic.
Lanier flung down his pole. "You stupid son of a bitch!" he shrieked.
Heads were coming up slowly off the deck as men raised them with understandable caution, and voices called out to one another. The sound of shoes running on steel approached and Chief Campeti arrived with a battle lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. The Bosun wasn't far behind, dressed only in T-shirt and skivvies.
"What the hell's goin' on here?" Campeti bellowed. "Who fired a weapon?" He shined the lantern around. Eyes, human and Lemurian, squinted in the glare. Finally the beam fell on Felts's terrified face and the smoking pistol, still outstretched. Campeti redirected the light and involuntarily stepped back. Gray saw the fish too. It was shot to pieces, but its terrible jaws still snapped spasmodically. A hook gleamed brightly, piercing the lower lip, and the line trailed to port.
"Who brought that thing on my deck?" Gray demanded.
"I did!" Lanier snarled, stepping up. "I work my ass off feeding these goons and I try to catch a little fish for myself and what happens? One of 'em destroys it!" The cook had his filleting knife in his hand and Gray wondered if he meant to use it on Felts. Instead, he knelt beside the twitching fish as if by a dying loved one. The knife moved over the corpse in benediction. "Destroyed," he lamented. Quite a gathering of half-naked men and entirely naked Lemurians had assembled by now.
"Anybody hurt?" Campeti asked. There were murmured voices, but no replies.
"No eat!" came a voice from the group.
"What?"
"No eat!" One of the cadets edged forward and stared down at the fish.
He looked up at Gray. "Bad fish. No eat. Make very . . . dead sick. Chops?