The Ship That Sailed The Time Stream Part 10

to Cookie. "You're sure everything's just the way it was the first time?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Cookie said.

"What now?" Gorson asked.

"Keep everything ready and wait for lightning."

Another day pa.s.sed before Gorson called him from his bunk. "Line squall building up," the chief said.

"Who's gonna steer?"

"I am," Joe said.

"You're the only guy can navigate this bucket," the bos'n protested.

"It's my idea so I take the risks."

"But you can't just-"

"Like h.e.l.l I can't." Joe went on deck. Villegas was steering and Guilbeau was on forward lookout. They tied him to the binnacle and went below. The scud of black cloud was barely two miles away. Forks of light- ning danced in its depths. The wind died and in the abrupt calm Joe heard thunder. An immense anvil- headed cloud bore toward the Alice.

The calm was abruptly shattered by a tremendous gust which knocked the yawl on her beam ends. Wind wailed as the Alice, taking every third one over the bows, tore along with her c.o.c.kpit filled. Joe took a deep breath and wondered when he would learn to fasten the top b.u.t.ton of his oilskins. An avalanche of green water engulfed him and the yawl shuddered.

After a long moment he gulped air again and twisted his head, feeling for the wind. The Alice was three points off and still turning. He spun the wheel with a silent prayer to Mahan's ghost.

Lightning struck.

IV.

THE NEXT THING Joe felt was Gorson forcing a vile taste into his mouth. The squall had pa.s.sed and the Alice raced along under single reefed main. Here and there patches of blue peeped through the clouds. "Did we make it back to our own time?" Joe asked.

"Dunno," Gorson said, "but I doubt it." He gestured astern.

They weren't Vikings. The towering sails had a faint Arabic look. One thing Joe was sure of: he'd know more soon. Even as he looked the strange fleet gained on the Alice.

He tried to stand up. Panic flashed through him as muscles refused to obey; the lower half of his body felt asleep. Cold sweat gushed and ran in little trickles in- side his oilskins. He took a deep breath and strained again. He felt nothing. Then he saw his foot move and knew he was not permanently damaged. Little by lit- tle, he felt control and feeling return. "Better let us take you below," Gorson was saying.

"Below, h.e.l.l!" Joe snapped. "I'm still captain of this s.h.i.+p. I want to know what the lightning's done to her this time."

The standing rigging still good. Cookie appeared from nowhere. "Nothing happened to the still," he said. Joe tried again and found he could sit up. His legs itched horribly and he fought the impulse to scratch.

Dr. Krom swam into his narrowed vision. "Are they

friendly?" the old man asked, glancing back at the s.h.i.+ps.

How should I know? But captains and G.o.ds were ex- pected to know all things. "Judging from this century's past performance, I'd say we didn't have a friend in the world," he said.

Raquel was crowding up. She's worried about me, Joe thought. Why should she worry over an invincible G.o.d? The look of tender concern she wore made him almost forget what she had done to the Norse women.

She studied the fleet which pursued them. "Do you recognise them?" Joe asked.

"Moors," she said.

He wondered what Moors were doing this far north -but the real question, he realized, was just how far north they were. The cross staff had conned him into believing he was off Portugal, but if it were spring in- stead of late summer, with days getting longer instead of shorter, he could be wrong-wrong enough to tangle with a fleet coming back from the Slave Coast.

They were driving east, probably into the Mediter- ranean. Moors were supposed to be more sophisticated than their Christian neighbors but Joe doubted if their civilization had progressed to the point of respecting an unknown flag. The high lateen rigs bore an amazing resemblance to s.h.i.+ps he had seen in Indian Ocean travelogues and would, he suspected, beat very handily to windward. Anyhow, they were too well spread out for the Alice to pull something fancy like circling be- hind them to gain the weather gage.

Schwartz and Villegas were already hoisting the spin- naker up on deck. If they could gain headway the Alice might slant off and try to lose them. Maybe the Arabs wouldn't search too hard for one small and not very profitable looking s.h.i.+p.

Under all sail, they skated on halfmile sleighrides down following seas. Stays thrummed and all hands

watched nervously, wondering how soon the spinnaker would blow out.

Two hours pa.s.sed and it was still in its boltropes. The Moors should have been well behind by now-instead, they were gaining. Joe studied the leading s.h.i.+p in his binoculars. Swarthy, ragheaded men with satanic beards stared back with equal interest. He thought wistfully of the engine but the Alice was already over her natural speed. The engine would slow her down.

Raquel appeared beside him. "What do you know about them?" Joe asked. Her tirade was too fast for him to follow but the meaning was clear. They held half of Spain in the Tenth Century. "Do you speak their language?" Raquel shook her head. "Perhaps they'll un- derstand yours?" Clearly, she was not interested.

"Why do you wait?" she asked.

Joe gave her a look of bleak inquiry.

"When will you call down lightning?"

Gorson joined them in the stern. "What's she saying?"

he asked. Joe translated, wondering if all G.o.ds were troubled thus with unreasonable demands from their wors.h.i.+ppers. There was a moment of silence as Gorson picked his teeth. "I don't think it'll work," he finally said.

"Nor do I," Joe agreed, "but we can give it the old college try. How many flares are left?"

"I'll go see."

"Are they real Arabs?" McGrath asked.

Joe was about to explain that they were Moors when he realized the G.o.d shouter wouldn't know the dif- ference. "Here's your chance to kill a few Infidels and rescue the Holy Sepulchre," he said.

McGrath stared at him.

"Either we win our own little crusade or we're liable to be converted."

"Converted?"

"Would you rather be a live Moslem or a dead Chris- tian?"

"What's a Moslem?"

"A Mohammedan," Joe explained.

Gorson came back. "Eleven flares," he said.

Cook appeared with the rifle. "Ninety-one rounds,"

he reported, "but I think we gonna need more'n that."

Joe had nearly a box of pistol ammo. Kill a man with each shot and we'll take care of two s.h.i.+ps, he thought.

Just find a way to clobber the other twelve and we've got it made.

Dr. Krom and his seasick a.s.sistant appeared. "Do you think they'll attack?" Lapham asked.