The Ship That Sailed The Time Stream Part 11

"Of course not," Gorson growled. "As soon's they see our papers they'll apologize for bothering us."

The effects of the lightning were nearly worn off and Joe was thinking in high gear again. "Get Rose," he said. Lapham went below and returned in a moment with the engineman. "How long would it take to string some bare wire around the gunwale?" Joe asked.

"Well bless my bacon, cried the rabbi."

Joe stared at the usually dour engineman.

"My uncle's a Zionist," Rose laughed. "He'd get as big a charge as they're going to if he knew I was about to fry some Ayrabs."

"How big will it be?"

"Two kilowatts ought to take the curl out of their whiskers."

Joe remembered their last brush with the Norse off Ireland. "Will we be having any last minute engine failures?"

"If we do I'll cut my throat," Rose promised.

And ours too, Joe thought.

"What will you use for wire?" Dr. Krom asked.

"The input transformer from your Christmas tree."

"No!" the old man screamed. "Half of my appropria- tion went into that-" Abruptly, he remembered where

he was. "I'll show them how to get it apart," he said quietly.

Gorson and Cookie were already las.h.i.+ng sticks of firewood to the Alice's stanchions. Not bad, as long as they stayed dry. If green water came over the rail some- thing would blow up anyway. If it worked they could dream up something permanent. The Moors gained an- other quarter mile while Joe was thinking. Not the slightest chance of holding out until dark now. To h.e.l.l with all this running, Joe thought. He was ready to meet the Tenth Century on its own terms.

Wires were soon strung and there was time to bring the dinghy aft. With it lashed to the boom crutch the steersman's back was protected from arrows or what- ever the Moors would throw. Joe studied the arrange- ment and had mattresses lashed to the dinghy's sides.

The leading Moor was only a mile away. Joe counted a fifteenth sail just coming over the horizon. "We're ready, for once," he said. "When they come in range we'll try a couple of flares to put the fear of Allah in them. Maybe we can set fire to their sails. When they come close I want everybody below. I'll be protected at the wheel and I don't want any sightseers getting hurt. They may have slingers aboard, so keep the port- holes shut."

The leading s.h.i.+p was two hundred yards away, com- ing up slowly on the portside. "Another fifty yards and they'll start throwing things," Gorson muttered.

Joe rested the gun on the taffrail and took careful aim a hundred feet above the towering lateen sail.

There was a pop and hissing roar as the flare curved in an arc which seemed sure to connect. The sail was white-linen or possibly cotton. Joe hoped it would burn. But the parachute opened too soon.

The flare floated gently into the water a few feet behind the speeding felucca. Impressive as it might have

been in northern twilight, the blazing pinpoint was con- siderably less than lightning-size in bright afternoon.

"Another good idea shot to h.e.l.l," Gorson mumbled.

Joe handed him the flare pistol. "Go below," he said.

"Things may get a little hairy now." He wasn't really worried though. He hadn't expected much of the flares.

Thank Neptune the electric fence was ready. As he took the wheel he heard the generator start turning.

There was a tw.a.n.ging thunk as a catapult unwound on the Moor's foredeck. Something the size and shape of a garbage can sailed in a high trajectory toward the Alice and Joe knew with a sick certainty that if a stone of this size struck squarely it would go nonstop through deck and keel.

The missile struck amids.h.i.+ps, shattering a portside stanchion. As fragments crunched across the deck Joe saw it had been a large clay pot. The hot wire from the broken stanchion was dangling overboard. Over- loaded generators screamed and a smell of burning in- sulation came from belowdecks. And that, Joe knew, was the end of his electric fence.

The broken pot was sending up blue flames and clouds of stinking, sulphurous smoke.

Great Mahan's ghost! The slightest whiff of flame will melt that nylon spinnaker sheet in less than- Flut- tering slowly like a manta ray, the spinnaker rolled for- ward and wrapped itself over the bow. Joe struggled to keep the yawl on course as she lost speed.

Gorson had a bucket and was slos.h.i.+ng water at the firepot. There was a warning creak and the mainsheet started running through its blocks. Joe threw the wheel hard aport, hoping he could spill wind before the boom came around and wiped out the standing rig- ging. Men came boiling out of the scuttle to fight the fire. Smoke blew aft as the yawl slowly turned. There must be unslaked lime mixed with it, joe decided, for even under water the firepot burned.

From the corner of his eye Joe saw the Moor was also turning. Wind spilled from the huge lateen and both s.h.i.+ps lost way. The felucca drifted down toward them. They had the fire nearly out before a grapnel, whizzed and thunked into the Alice's cabintop. A mo- ment later ragheaded men with Mephistophelean beards swarmed over the yawl's decks.

And the most amazing part of it was that n.o.body- was hurt. An immense Negro with pointed teeth was tickling Joe with the tip of a yataghan before he had time to remember his pistol. Joe's happiness at being alive was tempered by the knowledge that he was cast in a mold of less than John Paul Jones' proportions.

They counted on me to see them through. What must they think of their captain now? The Alice's men were lined up on deck, stunned and unbelieving. What will happen to Raquel? Joe wondered.

With the deck secured, several ragheads ventured below. Minutes of tense silence pa.s.sed, then a Moor stuck his head out of the forward scuttle and shouted*

A moment later someone in a more elegant burnoose and a turban several shades whiter leapt the breach between the felucca and the Alice.

Clean Turban had a widow's peak showing under his turban. His beard shone black and curly; it was trimmed very short and came to a neat point. Just like a Nineteenth Century portrait of Satan, Joe thought.

The Moor looked at the Alice's men contemptuously and asked something in raucous Arabic. When no one answered he tried another language.

"I'm captain," Joe said in English. The Moor didn't understand but it got his attention. It occurred to Joe that Arabs of this period studied Aristotle. He tried to remember some Greek. "Ego imi keleustes." No, d.a.m.n it!-that meant oarsmaster. What did he want to say?

"Navarchos." But there was no sign of understanding.

"Magister," Joe essayed. Maybe this joker knew Latin.

Again it was no soap. He tried Raquel's Tenth Century Spanish and light dawned in the Moor's eyes. "Chris- tiano?" he asked. The Moor p.r.o.nounced it with a kh sound like the Greek Chi.

"Some of us are."

"What land?"

"America."

The Moor frowned. "Almeria?" he asked.

Joe shook his head. "It lies west of here."

"I have heard of this land," the Moor said thought- fully. "But the people are savage with hair like a black horse's tail. What do you here?"

"Blown off course. Our food is nearly gone." Might as well get in a line about how little loot we have to offer.

"Why did you throw fire at us?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

The Moor shrugged.

"Where are you heading?" Joe asked.

"Malaga. Our cargo sells at Granada."

"Black men?"

The Moor nodded.

"You've taken care not to kill us. What will you do with us?"

The slave trader shrugged again. "Isn't that obvious?

Your s.h.i.+p is strange," he reflected. "Still, it'll bring more money than the lot of you." He frowned at the Alice's crew. "How many did you lose?"