Mr. Regato cursed the arrangement every time we used it, “Mechanical buffoonery!” was his name for it. “I’ve never seen a ship’s architect who wasn’t happy as soon as he had a pretty picture. He never stops to think that some poor fool is going to have to use his pretty picture.”
As may be, the arrangement did let the helis be unloaded with a minimum of special machinery to get out of order-which, I understand, was a prime purpose in refitting the ships for the Project. But that day the helicopters were outside and ready, one of them at camp and the other tied down near me on the monkey island. All we had to do was to load the boats.
The boats were whale boats molded of glass and teflon and made nonsinkable by plastic foam in all dead spaces. They were so tough that, while you might be able to bash one in, you could not puncture it with anything short of a drill or a torch, yet they were so light that four men could lift one that was empty. It did them no harm to drive them up onto a rocky beach, then they could be unloaded and easily dragged higher. They were driven by alcohol jets, just as the helis were, but they had oars and sails as well. We never used the oars although all the men had gone through a dry drill under my Uncle Steve’s watchful eye.
The boats had come in the night before loaded with specimens for the research department; now they were going back with people who would replace those ashore. From the monkey island I could see, half a mile away, the people who were coming back, waiting on the beach for the boats. Two of the boats were lying off, waiting for the third; each had about eighteen people in it and a few bundles of things requisitioned by Harry Gates for his scientific uses ashore, as well as a week’s supplies for the whole party.
I noticed a movement behind me, turned, and saw that it was the Old Man coming up the airlock hatch. “Good morning, Captain.”
“Morning, Bartlett.” He looked around. “Nice day.”
“Yes, sir…and a nice place.”
“It is indeed.” He looked toward the shore. “I’m going to find some excuse to hit dirt before we leave here. I’ve been on steel too long.”
“I don’t see why not, sir. This place is friendly as a puppy. Not like Inferno.”
“Not a bit.” He turned away, so I did too; you don’t press conversation on the Captain unless he wants it. The third boat was loaded now and cast loose; all three were about fifty yards away and were forming a column to go in together. I waved to Gloria and Anna.
At each boat, a long, wet rope as thick as my waist came up out of the water, passed across it amidships and back into the water on the other side. I yelled, “Hey, Captain! Look!”
He turned. The boats rolled sideways and sank-they were pulled under. I heard somebody scream and the water was crowded with struggling bodies.
The Captain leaned past me at the raft and looked at the disaster. He said in an ordinary tone, “Can you start that chopper?”
“Uh, I think so, Captain.” I was not a helicopter pilot but I knew how it worked.
“Then do it.” He leaned far over and yelled, “Get that cargo door closed!” He turned and dived down the hatch. I caught a glimpse of what had made him yell as I turned to climb into the helicopter. It was another of those wet ropes slithering up the Elsie’s side toward the cargo port.
Starting the helicopter was more complicated than I had realized, but there was a check-off list printed on the instrument panel. I had fumbled my way down to “step four: start impeller” when I was pushed aside by Ace Wenzel the torchman who was the regular pilot. Ace did something with both hands, the blades started to revolve, making shadows across our faces, and he yelled, “Cast her loose!”
I was shoved out the door as the Surgeon was climbing in; I fell four feet to the deck as the down blast hit me. I picked myself up and looked around.