Abruptly a tidal wave of warmth swept over her. In the weeks she had been aboard Prometheus she had forgotten how much she loved this man.
Finishing, he leaned back and massaged his eyes gently,fingers and thumb almost lost beneath his shaggy brows, in a gesture that she remembered with poignant affection from childhood. Unaware of her scrutiny, he leaned forward and flicked a switch on the radio. At once the quiet voice of a BBC newsreader filled the room.
At last he turned, the routine complete. “Well now, lass, you’re looking gradely,” he rumbled. “Seems I wasn’t working you hard enough.”
She had come down to see that he was all right. She had no intention of staying for long, but a chat and maybe a drink wouldn’t go amiss. Smiling wryly, therefore, she crossed to his small bar-fridge. “You’re looking better yourself, Dad,” she said.
“Mebbe I am at that.”
“Whisky?”
“Grand.”
As she poured them a whisky each and turned back toward him, so the news bulletin on his radio finished.
“You want water with this?”
“Has it been that long, lass?”
“No; it’s ice-cold.”
“Ah well. No help for it.”
She turned back and opened the fridge. There were some small bottles of Perrier in the door. “And it’s fizzy…”
“Gah! The privations of shipboard life, eh?”
“Pity poor sailors…” she said.
“And here is the shipping forecast issued by the Meteorological Office at midnight to night…”
She crossed to her father and handed him his glass. Then she sat comfortably on his bunk. He sipped the amber liquid. “So,” he said, “what exactly have you been up to then?”
“German Bight, Humber: six to seven, southwesterly, strengthening. Showers. Moderate to poor…”
“Well, it’s a long story…” She was suddenly a little defensive; unsure how much she wanted to share.
“We’ve got time now, lass…” He spread his hands wide, holding the whisky firmly in the left.
“Thames, Dover: seven to gale eight, south-southwesterly, strengthening. Intermittent rain. Poor…”
“Not too long. I’m going back up onto the bridge in a minute or two.” Already she sounded distracted. She sipped her whisky.
“Nay, Robin. What good can you do? And you’re worn out. Look at you.”
“I’m third officer here, damn it, Dad. I can do my duty…”
“Wight, Portland, Plymouth: gale eight to severe gale nine. Strengthening. Heavy rain. Poor…”
“Don’t you swear at me, my girl! You’re mixed up in something pretty dirty here. Dirty, and, by the look of it, dangerous. I’m your dad. I want you safe out. It’s only natural…”
Erect now, she put her glass on his bedside table and turned. “Don’t you patronize me, Father. As I have already said, I am third officer here and I…”
It hit her then: the weather forecast.
“Biscay: severe gale force nine gusting to storm ten, southerly, strengthening. Heavy rain. Visibility poor and worsening…”
“My God! Did you hear that?”
“What…”
“South Finisterre…”
“That! There’s a southerly storm coming and we’re anchored on a lee shore. Jesus!”
She crossed to the door.
“Robin,” he called.
She turned in the doorway. A vibrant, controlled, competent person he had never seen before. “Make it quick, Dad,” she snapped, “or we’ll all be sitting hard aground on Exmouth promenade long before the dawn.”
The VDU screen flickered. A column of figures appeared then vanished in the twinkling of an eye. “Nearly there,” exulted Ben. “McTavish, is that circuit going to hold up?”
“Aye. There’s nothing uncou’ complex about it, Mr. Strong. It’s just been blown tae hell and gone. That’s all.”
“Well, if we pull this one off, my bonny boy, we’ll be able to hand in our papers here and get a job with IBM.”
“And gie up the sea, Number One?”
“And give up the sea indeed.”
They worked for a while in silence; then McTavish ventured, “But what’d there be tae catch the lassies af I’d no ma uniform tae wear?”
They were working in the Cargo Control Room as they had been since the anchor went down. The two of them, with occasional help from Quine, had been at it for nearly eight hours solidly and were quite prepared for eight more. But there would be no need: if this last circuit held up without shorting out, the end was in sight at last.
Fortunately, the computer’s memory banks did not seem to have been damaged by the explosion. Richard had sealed the room against wind and weather once it had been cleared of debris, and now Ben and McTavish were hoping to get it ready for the inspection later this morning.
“That’s it!” called McTavish from under the console.
“Right. I’ll try it again. Come out…”
McTavish needed no second warning. His face was a rash of burn spots from their last such experiment, which had shorted like a Roman candle an inch above his nose. But Ben didn’t even see him move. Even as he spoke, he pressed ENTER and now the whole screen lit up again. And stayed alight.
“Good…”
Ben’s nimble fingers moved across the keys, rattling off the entry codes that would bring up the memory index. He would check that, then the file headings. And if they were all still there, the files themselves.
But the machine was already answering perfectly:
FILE ONE: LADING: LADING SCHEDULES 1–10…
By 02.30 he knew for certain that the bulk of the memory was intact. He sat back and cracked his knuckles, satisfied for the moment. “I’m finished with the first part of this, McTavish. You all tidied?”
“Just about, Number One. Screwing down the last panel now.”
“I know someone I’d like to screw down: the S.O.B. who did all this in the first place.”
“Aye.” McTavish picked himself up and dusted off his knees punctiliously. “It’s nothing short of criminal, ruining all this expensive equipment.”
“Still, it’s working now.”
“That it is, Mr. Strong. I’ll tell the chief so too. Do you want tae tell the captain?”
“I’ll clean up first. You run along.”
“Aye. It’s been a dirty job.” The young Scot paused at Ben’s shoulder, looking across the room. “But it’s done now. And well done.”
Then he was gone.
Ben’s hands hovered over the keyboard an instant longer. Then he, too, left.
He did not go to the bridge, however, but to his own quarters. He wanted to check that everything was ready. He was still busy there when Robin arrived.
Bang Bang Bang! The hammering at his door was so unexpected that he nearly fainted. He answered as quickly as he could, still pale from the shock.
“Lord!” said Robin. “You look terrible!”
“I’m okay. What is it?”
“Where’ve you been for the last few hours, Number One?” she demanded, taking a leaf out of his own book. “It’s a bloody great storm is what it is. Got us trapped against a lee shore. It’s either hard aground on Exmouth Prom or safely afloat in the Seine Bay — so we’re off to France, says our less-than-happy captain. Off to France. Right now!”
“Can’t you get anyone on that radio, Mr. Quine?” snapped Richard.
“No, sir. It’s not really powerful enough to handle all this atmospheric interference.”
“Then our departure will have to remain unannounced. What’s our bearing, John?”
“One twenty.”
“Steady at that. What are we?”
“Slow ahead. Making five knots.”