rising forested hills behind. “This lot couldn’t build a rabbit hutch
for export, far less a motorcar. Machinery. So the bills of lading
say. Dynamos, generators, refrigerating, air-conditioning, and
refueling machinery. For New York.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” I said, carefully, “that the
generalIssimo, having successfully completed the confiscation of all the
American sugar-refining mills, is now dismantling them and selling the
machinery back to the Americans? barefaced theft like that?”
“Jetty larceny on the part of the individual is theft,” captain
Bullen said morosely. “When governments engage in grand larceny, it’s
economics. But, it’ll be all perfectly legal, i’ve no doubt, but it
still doesn’t make me feel less of a contraband runner. But if we don’t
do it, someone else will. And the freight rate’s double the normal.”
“Which makes the generalIssimo and his government pretty desperate for
money?”
“What do you think?” Bullen growled. “No one knows how many were
killed in the capital and a dozen other towns in Tuesday’s hunger riots.
Jamaican authorities reckon the number in hundreds. Since they turfed
out most foreigners and closed down or confiscated nearly all foreign
businesses they haven’t been able to earn a penny abroad. The coffers
of the revolution are as empty as a drum. Ban’s completely desperate
for money.” he turned away and stood staring over the harbour, big
hands wide-spaced on the guardrail, his back ramrod-stiff. He seemed in
no hurry to go-and aimless loitering was no part of captain Bullen’s
life. He was always in a hurry. I recognised the signs; after three
years of sailing with him, it would have been impossible not to. There
was something he wanted to say; there was some steam he wanted to blow
off, and no better outlet than that tried and trusty relief valve, Chief
Officer Carter. Only whenever he wished to blow off steam it was a
matter of personal pride with him never to bring up the matter himself.
It was no great trick to guess what was troubling him, so I obliged. I
said, conversationally, “the cables we sent to London, sir.” they had
been sent by the captain himself, but the “we” would spread the load if
things had gone wrong, as they almost certainly had. “Any reply to them
yet?”
“Just ten minutes ago.” he turned round casually as if the matter
had really slipped his memory, but the slight purpling tinge in the red
face betrayed him, and there was nothing casual about his voice when he
went on: “slapped me down, Mister, that’s what they did. Slapped me
down. My own company. And the Ministry of Transport. Both of them.
Told me to forget about it, said my protests were completely out of
order, warned me of the consequences of future lack of co-operation with
the appropriate authorities, whatever the hell appropriate authorities
might be. Me my own company! thirty-five years i’ve sailed with the
Blue Mail Line and now… And now…” his fists clenched and his voice
choked into fuming silence. “So there was someone bringing very heavy
pressure to bear, after all,” I murmured. “There was, Mister, there
was.” the cold blue eyes were very cold indeed and the big hands opened
wide, then closed, tight, till the ivory showed. Bullen was a captain,
but he was more than that: he was the Commodore of the Blue Mail Fleet,
and even the board of directors walk softly when the fleet commodore is
around; at least they don’t treat him like an office boy. He went on
softly: “if ever I get my hands on Dr. Slingsby Caroline, i’ll break his
bloody neck.” captain Bullen would have loved to get his hands on the
oddly named Dr. slingsby Caroline. Tens of thousands of police,
government agents, and American service men engaged in the hunt for him
would also have loved to get their hands on him. So would millions of
ordinary citizens if for no other reason than the excellent one that
there was a reward of $50,000 for information leading to his capture.
But the interest of captain Bullen and the crew of the Campari was even
more personal: the missing man was very much the root of all our
troubles. Dr. Slingsby Caroline had vanished, appropriately enough, in
South Carolina. He had worked at a U. S. government’s very hush-hush
weapons research establishment south of the town of Columbia, an
establishment concerned with the evolving, as had only become known in
the past week or so, of some sort of small fission weapon for use by
either fighter planes or mobile rocket launchers in local tactical
nuclear wars. As nuclear weapons went, it was the veriest bagatelle
compared to the five megaton monsters already developed by both the
United States and Russia, developing barely one-thousandth of the
explosive power of those and hardly capable of devastating more than a
square mile of territory. Still, with the explosive potential of five
thousand tons of T.N.T., it was no toy. Then, one day night, to be
precise. Slingsby Caroline had vanished. As he was the director of the
research establishment, this was serious enough, but what was even more
dismaying was that he had taken the working prototype with him. He had
apparently been surprised by two of the night guards at the plant and
had killed them both, presumably with a silenced weapon, since no one
heard or suspected anything amiss. He had driven through the plant
gates about ten o’clock at night at the wheel of his own blue Chevrolet
station wagon; the guards at the gate, recognising both the car and
their own chief and knowing that he habitually worked until a late hour,
had waved him on without a second glance. And that was the last anyone
had ever seen of Dr. Caroline or the Twister, as the weapon, for some
obscure reason, had been named. But it wasn’t the last that was seen of
the blue Chevrolet. That had been discovered abandoned outside the Port
of Savannah, some nine hours after the crime had been committed, but
less than an hour after it had been discovered, which showed pretty
smart police work on someone’s part. And it had been just our evil luck
that the S.S. Campari had called in at Savannah on the afternoon of the
day the crime had been committed. Within an hour of the discovery of
the two dead guards in the research establishment, all interstate and
foreign air and sea traffic in the southeastern united states had been
halted. As from seven o’clock in the morning all planes were grounded
until they had been rigorously searched; as from seven o’clock police
stopped and examined every truck crossing a state border; and, of
course, everything larger than a rowing boat was forbidden to put out to
sea. Unfortunately for the authorities in general and us in particular,
the S.S. Campari had sailed from Savannah at six o’clock that morning.
Automatically the Campari became very, very “hot,” the number one
suspect for the getaway. The First radio call came through at 8.30 A.M.
Would captain Bullen return immediately to Savannah? the captain, no
beater about the bush, asked why the hell he should. He was told that
it was desperately urgent that he return at once. Not, replied the
captain, unless they gave him a very compelling reason indeed. They
refused to give him a reason and captain Bullen refused to return.
Deadlock. Then, because they hadn’t much option, the federal
authorities, who had already taken over from the state, gave him the
facts. Captain Bullen asked for more facts. He asked for a description
of the missing scientist and weapon, and he’d soon find out for himself
whether or not they were on board. Followed a fifteen-minute delay, no
doubt necessary to secure the release of top classified information,
then the descriptions were reluctantly given. There was a curious
similarity between the two descriptions. Both the Twister and Dr.
Caroline were exactly seventy-five inches in length. Both were very
thin, the weapon being only eleven inches in diameter. The doctor
weighed 180 pounds, the Twister 280. The Twister was covered in a one
piece sheath of polished anodised aluminum, the Doctor in a two-piece
grey gabardine. The Twister’s head was covered by a grey pyroceram nose
cap, the doctor’s by black hair with a telltale lock of grey in the
centre. The orders for the Doctor were to identify and apprehend, for
the Twister to identify but do not, repeat, do not touch. The weapon
should be completely stable and safe, and normally it would take one of
the only two experts who were as yet sufficiently acquainted with it at
least ten minutes to arm it; but no one could guess what effect might
have been had upon the Twister’s delicate mechanism by the jolting it
might have suffered in transit. Three hours later captain Bullen was
able to report with complete certainty that neither the missing