The Poseidon Adventure (21 page)

With the beam of his lantern he was exploring the steel mountain he meant to have them conquer, memorizing every jagged steel promontory and pinnacle.

It would be unlike any ascent he or anyone else had ever attempted. Here there could be no cutting of steps, no circumventing or bypassing. The engine room had spilled its guts down the sides when the vessel, keeling over had subjected the turbines and all their auxiliary equipment to stresses for which their anchorage had not provided.

To make things worse, everything was slippery from the oil that had leaked out of the tanks in the double bottoms, now overhead. How much of the black lake was salt water intruded into the shaft and what was oil, could not be determined. The huge airspace of the cavern must be helping to keep the ship still afloat. Yet it had been evident to them all that she had been slowly settling and the water in the lower corridors rising. They had no way of even guessing as to what air and buoyancy remained in the forward and after freight compartments.

'Do you mean to get us up to the top of that?' Shelby asked.

'Yes,' Scott replied. He moved his light along the bright, oily cylindrical shaft far above. 'That must be the propeller shaft. But do you see just behind it, that is, on top of it, that long, thin flat piece. That must be the catwalk that enables them to follow the shaft down to the collar, in case of trouble.'

'But it's upside-down,' Shelby said. 'We can't cling to it like flies.'

'We've got to make it on to the other side. Then we can walk along it.'

'Where do you get your strength from?' Shelby asked suddenly and expected Scott to answer 'From faith', but instead the Minister merely replied, 'From knowing how.' Then he added, 'I think I've seen a path. We'll rope together, alternating man and woman. There's plenty of line. It will be up to both the man in front and behind the woman to see that she steps exactly in the right place. I'll put you, Dick, where you can work with Susan and Jane. Rogo can bring up the rear again. He's reliable.'

'He doesn't like you,' Shelby said.

'It's mutual,' replied Scott. 'But he's dependable. Life has given him fibre.'

And robbed me of mine. Shelby thought and felt shamed again. Nobody had mentioned Robin. If he had been anywhere about, if he had managed to climb and gain entrance from some other direction, he would have heard them and managed a hail. How could Jane have lived so serene and composed all those years, hating every minute of it?

Scott said, 'If you don't mind, lights out. We'll save batteries. We've come through some difficult trials. There are others ahead. We'll rest for a little. If you are able to snatch a few minutes of sleep, do so. Keep your lights off. We shall be needing them every minute later. I'll let you know when it's time to start again. Sleep if you can . . .'

None of them, with the exception of Shelby and possibly Rogo knew what lay ahead of them. They were aware that they had farther to go. How and when was in his hands. His voice soothed them. They separated into their own little groups and lay down upon the oily steel. It was better in the total darkness, for then they could not see. And if the darkness were to become permanent . . . well, then they might not even be aware of the transition.

Yet there was one more phenomenon which in one way or another affected them all and of which they had not become aware until they had reached this dark lake that Martin had named 'Hell', and in which by lantern light their reflections had been mirrored.

Each, while able to see the disarray and utter dismantling of the physical shell of the others, up to then had not thought of this as applied to himself or herself.

They had been reduced to the primitive state of near naked savages, debased to breech clout and filth, yet individually they had somehow managed to retain an image of themselves as they had been. On the way, as necessity had demanded, they had been compelled to shed the garments which differentiated them from one another and from primitives. But they had not divested themselves of the memory of these articles: trousers, jackets, frocks, slips.

As by lantern light they caught glimpses of one another, they found themselves aware of the absurdity of Rosen's pot belly emerging from the waistband of his shorts: the Minister turned Tarzan; the thin body of Miss Kinsale protected almost like Lady Godiva by her long hank of hair, or the show-girl's makeshift loin and breast coverings looking like something out of a bad jungle film. But they never thought how they must look to each other.

In some way this contributed a measure of self-esteem and courage, enabling them to do what was required without thinking too much or at all how they must appear. Much of this was drained away at Hell Lake, whose oily surface when illuminated showed them up for the ridiculous scarecrows, caricatures of human beings they had become.

Jane Shelby felt shamed by the utter preposterousness of the undergarments that only served to emphasize the parts they were worn to conceal. The reflection of her triangular panties and carefully engineered, cup-shaped breast supporters irritated her to the point where she felt the impulse to tear these last bits of fabric from her body, to feel herself free and mother-naked.

Of the men, only Scott in briefs amounting to track shorts, appeared to feel comfortable and unconcerned. The others had suddenly become aware of the all too flimsy protection to their genitalia afforded by their underpants. They were not only embarrassed, but hated the idea of injury or sudden extinction finding them so vulnerable.

Further to Muller, the comfort-loving Muller, who more than any of them was aware of the variety and complexity of the globe, over whose surface he wandered so restlessly, it was astonishing how his world had diminished and almost vanished front his memory. He could think of places and people and bring up images in his mind, but they no longer seemed to have any connection with reality. There was only the here; this dark, fetid, gruesome cavern. They were marooned upon a lifeless planet, bumbling about like insects on a Lunar landscape, as cut off from everything familiar as though indeed they had been projected through space.

He supposed it was perhaps their constant proximity to death, their closeness to becoming one with nothingness that made the earth, and life as they had known it, seem so many aeons away. It surprised him how wholly not only his body but his mind could become confined to this narrow space, the gloom, the echoes, the cruelty and the limitations.

Then why did hope persist? Why this upward striving, this eternal climbing by himself and these ill-assorted people, castaways in a floating tomb, the odds on whose chances for rescue were astronomical?

Suddenly death was imminent. The ship's buoyancy must fail. But evidence of this that had already come to others was also all about them. This blind crawl was ridiculous; it was stupid; it was ant-like. Yet indomitably they persisted. For a moment Muller entertained what amounted to almost a flash of pride and joy in himself and his companions, before he again succumbed to what must be the utter futility of their position and surrendered to the encompassment of this prison. Nonnie was all that was left. Beyond was too far away to be any longer grasped by the mind.

He and Nonnie lay apart from the rest, nearest the spot from which they had emerged. He had taken her now as he had wanted to do, holding her -- he thought of it as an enfolding -- and she had crept as close to him as she could. She said, 'Squeeze me tight.'

Even as he did so he was aware of the vulgarity of the expression but was unable to react to it. She whispered, 'I love you. Do you love me a little?'

'Yes.'

'I never felt like this about anyone before. It's different. I love you terrible.'

The strange emotion that Muller felt could not bear to be translated into banalities. He did not want to hear her speak of it, or say those commonplace things to her that he had so often parroted, the senseless, meaningless phrases tumbling from his lips like formulae from a computer at a given signal.

He felt her shiver again in spite of the increasing heat. He said, 'Hush. Lie still. I'll warm you.'

Ice-cold lips once again searched for his, found them and clung. In their touch was all her childishness, her fears and her dependency; an abused little animal creeping to shelter. In the dark, her sharpness and overlay of suspicion, her self-reliant gamin person vanished.

She whispered, 'Can we do it again?'

For an instant the old Muller who never made love until he had cleared the coast, arranged the conditions and made sure the doors were locked, was scandalized. 'Here? With everybody about?'

'They wouldn't know. I'll keep very quiet. I promise. I want you.'

'Supposing someone turns on a flashlight.'

'Then they'll see me in your arms. Maybe that's what some of the others will be doing too. Hubie please . . .'

When her begging mouth touched his again, he forgot everything but her and the surge through him of something he could not identify; hunger for this one person and the exquisite joy in union with her.

At the climax of the all engulfing sweetness he prayed that they would never awaken, that the stricken ship would show mercy and gather them now together into oblivion.

Her whisper, her breath so close to his ear brought him back. 'I was a good girlie, wasn't I?'

'Yes you were.'

'I didn't wriggle or make a sound, did I?'

'No, you didn't.'

'I wanted to. You do something to me. I never loved anyone like this before. I don't know what's come over me.'

She fell silent and he knew that she was waiting for him to tell her that he loved her too, to join her in those meaningless post-coitus murmurings which to her, for whatever reason, guilt, practice, or limit of emotional depth, were a necessity and perhaps even a habit. Would he ever be able to explain to her, or make her understand how greatly he was lost in her, that again when he had been joined to her, something further had happened to him that he did not understand. It was like the turning of a page or the opening of a door; even a reversal within him of all he had ever known or thought before. Down was up and up was down and where was Hubie Muller to whom this girl had become as necessary to him as breathing.

And she was such a common little thing.

Again she whispered 'I'm crazy over you, Hubie. It's something different, really. We hardly even met. Do you love me?'

He whispered his reply almost fiercely, 'Couldn't you feel?'

'Oh that,' she replied, almost in disappointment as having too much everyday normality connected with it. And he knew that she wanted, must have . . . words.

'Yes, I love you.'

'A lot? More than anyone else.'

'Yes. Much more.'

' Is there any one else?'

'No.'

'Are you married?'

'No.'

'Gee!'

And in the breathlessness of that expression and the wonder, Hubie thought that Nonnie had told him all of her story there was to tell. But he knew that she was craving to be interrogated, that she had her confession to make and that if he truly loved her he must abide by the rules.

'And you? Have you a . . .' He was certain she was unaware of his split-second pause while he abolished the word 'lover' and quickly substituted 'boy friend?'

But she did hesitate and perhaps wished him to note it as she replied, 'No-no. Not now.'

'But you've had them.'

She put her lip closer to his ear and he could barely hear the confidence. 'Only two.'

He knew it to be a lie and loved her the more for the perverse and infantile stupidity of it. Her instincts were those of self-preservation. Everything she did that was wrong and against his upbringing and nature charmed him. He knew all about the professed chaperonage of the Gresham Girls, but there probably had been a succession of married men.

She was satisfied now and her mind shifted yet in a manner that was so pathetically simple to follow. She said, 'Poor Moira. She won't have to worry any more. She got herself pregnant in Rio.'

'Do the girls often get pregnant?'

'We're not supposed to. They're awful strict with us.'

Hubie asked, 'Were you ever pregnant?' and then was sorry that he had. He didn't really want to know.

There was a longer hesitation while she determined whether or not to lie again. She decided against it. Gents like Muller had a way of finding things out. Her whisper dropped into an even lower key. 'Yes. Does it matter?'

Hubie was involved now. In platitudes lay safety from the emotion she roused in him. 'Does anything matter now? Or did it ever? What did you do?' He wondered if there was a child left behind with grandparents or relatives somewhere in Bristol.

'I went to a doctor. You know, one of those who helps you. It happened in Rome. Those Eyties can soft-talk you into anything.'

'Have I soft-talked you into something?'

'No. This is different. You put your arms about me when I was scared, and it done something to me. I didn't love him. I love you.' But her mind would no longer stay on the subject. She asked, 'What's become of the others? Are they all floating around in their cabins like dead goldfish in a bowl?'

'Don't say that, Nonnie. Don't think of them.'