A minute later he heard Lubin’s voice speaking again — thick, guttural and yet glutinous. There was something loathsome in it, something oddly flesh-creeping about the mere fact that Lubin was giving tongue again at the last. For Shaw felt now that the last stage had been reached, and when he heard what Lubin had to say he knew he was right.
Lubin said, “Tien, she comes now — the liner. For now she is hull-down, yes, but presently she will be near enough, and I start.”
After that there was a kind of sing-song noise, a voice, and after a moment or two Shaw realized it must be Dr Tien. The man was praying to his gods. The next sounds were those of the bottom-boards in the cabin coming up and then,
very faintly some minutes later, the dit-da, dit-da, dit-da of a Morse key.
Lubin sending A’s, Lubin testing.
Silently, Shaw also prayed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Below in the tween-deck of the New South Wales above Number One hold, the MAPIACCIND man on watch lit an unlawful cigarette and glanced at the time. He would soon be relieved now. He yawned, moved across the deck towards the big crate and checked the steel-wire lashings, the extra lashings which had been secured when the bad weather had been reported.
He sauntered a step or two away, and then he stopped, feeling a curious pricking at his scalp. He’d caught a peculiar sound, a sound which he could have sworn was coining from the crate itself.
He moved nearer and put his ear hard up against the wood.
There was no doubt about it then. Trip, buzz, zing-g-g-g.. trip, buzz, zing-g-g-g…
The man stood back, frowned. Funny… this could be what the Captain had spoken about to him and the rest of the MAPIACCIND party. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs and then, whistling a nameless, nervous tune between his teeth, he went quickly across the tween-deck and rang the bridge.
The New South Wales was, on account of the weather, standing some two miles clear of Wilson’s Promontory as she came round South-East Point with her high, knifing bows cutting through the gale and sending great swathes of water tearing aft along her sides to mingle into the roaring wake. Spray flew above her, streaming in cold cascades over the observation platform and the bridge, reaching almost to masthead height at times. The seas raced along the exposed lower promenade deck on the weather side as the New South Wales almost dipped her rails under on the roll. One of her stabilizers had been torn off during her passage of the Great Australian Bight some days earlier, and this had made the motion extremely uncomfortable. The impression she was giving now from ahead, as she came down enveloped in flung spray and cloven waves, was that of a steam-belching express train, a gigantic runaway engine ripping and snorting along a set track.
Sir Donald Mackinnon, on the bridge as his ship came round the Promontory, was staring out over the heaving water when he heard the buzz of the intercom phone, and a moment later his officer-of-the-watch came up behind him. “Captain, sir — radio office to speak to you.”
“Thank you.” Sir Donald walked across to the phone, said briefly: “Captain here.”
The Radio Officer reported, “We’re being jammed on V.H.F., sir. Could be ham radio, but I think the signals are being directed towards the ship.”
Sir Donald stiffened. “Is there any similarity with the signals you picked up when we were alongside that tanker?”
“Hard to say, sir. This is a lot weaker — I’d say farther off — and it sounds like single letters only.”
“Right. Thank you.” Sir Donald slammed the hand-set back on its bracket, his face white and tense. Back in Melbourne he’d been summoned to the offices of the Navy Board, given Shaw’s news. Now, it looked as though what he’d been warned about might be starting. He was about to ring the tween-deck when another phone buzzed and the REDCAP guard came on the line.
Sir Donald listened for a moment, then said quietly: “Very well. Switch off. Don’t worry about the keys — smash the panel. Report when you’ve done it — I’ll hold on.”
He heard the receiver put down on a ledge. He waited, feeling his stomach turn to water. God — this voyage! That damfool Admiral in Melbourne, who’d passed on Shaw’s warning but had refused to commit himself far enough to give permission for REDCAP to be set in neutral, who had hedged wildly, and hinted that as Master of the ship it would be up to Sir Donald to make his own decisions… the arrest, also in Melbourne, of that fellow Markham and the re-opening of the Gresham case… the desertion of a young engineer called Siggings, in Melbourne again. One damn thing after another… and now perhaps the world in mortal danger through the medium of his cargo. He found his hand was shaking uncontrollably on the phone — why didn’t that fellow down below in the tween-deck smack it about a bit more lively?
The voice came unnaturally loud in his ear: “Switched off, sir!”
The Captain let out a long sigh. “Thank you.” Shakily he put the hand-set down. The day was cold, but there was sweat coursing down Sir Donald’s square face, and his legs felt like jelly as he moved back to the for’ard screen of the wheelhouse and glared out unseeingly across the tumbled water.
The New South Wales plunged on for Sydney; and, a little later, right down in her double bottoms, where Siggings had set it in place, the small metal box gave a subdued click-click and began to get just a fraction warm.
But this time there was no one to hear the click or to notice anything unusual.
Away across the racing seas and the wind-blown, icy spray, Shaw, still locked in the cupboard, had heard the tap of the key sending the signals out from the cabin. He had blasphemed viciously, bathed as he was in sweat and vomit. The shorts and longs, the three-letter groups, had been going out, piercing the air, winging out for REDCAP. Dit-da, da-dit-da, dit-dit-da-dit… on and on, again and again and again.
And then they had stopped.
Shaw heard the sound of Lubin’s voice, high and angry and scared. Some argument seemed to be going on. Shaw caught something about the check-signal, gathered that Lubin was not receiving it back after his transmission. Then the Morse signals were resumed. Shaw listened eagerly, feeling a wild excitement surge through him like a flood-tide. Once again the signals stopped, and Lubin’s voice came shrilly:
“Tien, I am sure they have neutralized it.”
After that, the loud voice of Karstad: “There’s always the alternative, idiot! It will mean a day’s delay and more fighting for all of us, but I, at least, have done my work properly. We must go back now — we can do no good here.” There was a note of panic in the voice, and once again Shaw realized that the man was dead scared at being at sea in such conditions. He could hardly blame him for that. And now, presumably, there was no one left at the wheel — that in itself was an act of sheer lunacy. Then Shaw heard a sound as though some one was clumping towards the cupboard and a moment later the panel began to slide open. Shaw, stiff and cramped, swayed forward. But there was a triumphant grin on his face now, and Karstad, who had opened the panel, saw that grin.
The man’s eyes hardened and his mouth twisted with sheer hate. He stepped back, reached out and pushed Shaw over untO he was lying face upwards on the deck. Then he raised his foot, swung it, took Shaw a glancing blow almost in the mouth with his boot. Shaw, trying to struggle up, crashed backwards and hit his head on the bulkhead behind. Dimly, through the pain, he heard Karstad yelling at him: