The Ship That Sailed The Time Stream Part 23

who must fight constantly lest the evil within him break out and carry him to everlasting h.e.l.lfire.

His mother had not cried when he left home. The navy was the heaven of Satan's darlings and Howie was predestined.

The first few weeks in boot camp had been undiluted horror but Howie knew a greater horror was yet to come: evil companions would lead him into sin and degradation. They would force him to drink whiskey!

He had been surprised and vaguely disappointed when no one invited him to debauchery. All told, his first liberty turned out to be as dull as the rest of Howie's short, hyper-sheltered life.

Came sea duty, the Alice. Red Schwartz was not on the side of the angels. Red was going to fry in h.e.l.lfire forever but he didn't seem to care. Whiskey-drinking, fornicating, h.e.l.l-raising Red had survived five and a half years in the navy. Chances were he would last twenty-four and a half more. Schwartz taught him all the things he hadn't learned in bootcamp and privately vowed he would someday squire this s.h.i.+vering young wretch through a brothel. But the time was still not ripe.

McGrath remained as virgin as a national forest. Some day he was going to see Red Schwartz washed in the Blood of the Lamb. But not just yet. If Schwartz were saved, Howie would be deprived of his only sinful pleasure-shuddering over Schwartz's embellished ac- counts of San Diego's Babylonian quarter.

While he remained aboard the Alice and the women remained in San Diego it had been easy to avoid sin.

But with warm lithe women, all aquiver with sinful bulges, b.u.mping into him in narrow pa.s.sageways, sleep- ing practically within reach- Satan had buried him under an avalanche of naked women!

Yet as he listened to Ma Trimble's long, rambling

story it gradually occurred to Howie that these girls were from the Holy Land. That language must be the language Jesus spoke! Maybe they had seen Him. No, the time was a few years before Christ's birth. No point in going to Israel . . . but perhaps something greater offered itself. If he were to go to Rome, now . . . how much trouble would it be to locate young Pontius Pilate?

Once he found him, and with Mr. Rate's pistol...

It was going to require cooperation from these girls.

They seemed to have no English among them. Howie's opportunity came when all hands were lugging water down from the spring. She was small and dark, unlike the others. Though long past her apprentices.h.i.+p, some accident of nature had given her a line of lip and jaw which suggested that the world was a very large and somewhat too complicated place for her. Had Howie stopped to a.n.a.lyze it, he would have realized she re- sembled nothing so much as a darker and less G.o.d- bound version of his mother. They stumbled down the trail together, each bearing an amphora of water. Point- ing to himself, he said, "Me Howard."

She stared.

"Howard-my name's Howard."

It came out "yugger" when she said it. Pointing at her, he made a questioning mumble. Had he possessed a more detailed knowledge of Semitic vowel s.h.i.+fts Howie might have felt a premonitory shudder at her name. To him it sounded like Leilat'.

Lillith put down her water jar and squatted to rest.

These nautae had been more insatiable than a mob of Roman dogfaces just in from desert patrol. And after putting in a full night's work this water detail was giving her aches in places she scarcely remembered. She had been about to tell this nauta to go b.u.g.g.e.r Pluto, but . . .

Oh well, these young skinny ones hadn't the staying power of a starving rabbit. She lugged her amphora

around behind a tree where it wouldn't be seen from the trail. Howie followed.

It was hot and she'd been running around this island naked for the last three weeks. Today she wore one of Raquel's high collared, long sleeved dresses-just the thing for an Iceland winter. She untied the waist cord and turned round so Howie could unb.u.t.ton her. After a moment she turned again to see what was keeping him.

The idiot had some kind of miniature parchment book in one hand and a stylus in the other. Lillith was an- noyed. Slowly it dawned on her that he hadn't turned her down; he hadn't even understood her offer. What did he want?

She undid the top two b.u.t.tons at the back of her neck and fanned a little air into the bodice. Then she turned to Howie. "Anachnu Yuggerti?"

"Yes," Howie said, "I'm Howard. Anaknoo Leilat'?"

Soon he knew the words for eye, nose, mouth, arm, hand. Lillith fanned her bodice again and taught him the word for b.u.t.ton. She ballooned out the heavy wool and blew into it. This d.a.m.ned tent was suffocating her! She fanned the skirt up and down.

He learned words for toe, foot, and ankle. Breathing rapidly, he progressed to knee. Howie had not realized learning a language could be so interesting. It was get- ting unG.o.dly hot in this little hole between the oak's roots. He began to sympathize with Leilat' in that heavy woolen thing. She taught him the word for dress. Point- ing at his belt, she said the word for buckle.

Howie was sure he'd never remember the words but she gave him no time to stop and review. Leilat' caught his hand and drew him toward her. She had another lesson in mind for him-and since it was Howie's first, it went very quickly.

In spite of Ma Trimble's change in plans, Lillith had no interest at all in visiting some outlandish country no

one had ever heard of. She wanted to go to Rome. Ob- viously so did this timid young soul. Therefore . . .

Lessons progressed. Howie became obsessed with the magnificence of his plan: they would take the Alice to Rome and after he'd settled P. Pilate's hash there would be time to swing around by the Holy Land and give John the Baptist a briefing on his mission in life.

Mr. Rate had been a history professor. He would be handy for taking care of details. Mr. Rate would go along with the plan, and the Alice's men would do whatever Mr. Rate told them. Mr. Rate wouldn't balk at a chance for Salvation. But some obscure instinct made Howie decide perhaps he'd better get hold of the gun first.

Joe felt neither shock nor amazement as Howie un- folded his magnificent project, only a bored sense of corroboration. It was so magnificently logical. His only wonder was how in h.e.l.l he was going to get the pistol away from this addled G.o.d shouter.

"It's a big decision," he finally said. "When it comes to salvation each man should choose for himself. You wouldn't want me responsible for sending a man's soul to h.e.l.l, would you?"

Howie shook his head.

"Well, let's call them in one at a time and tell them your plan. Those that don't want to go can stay on the island."

Howie thought a moment. It sounded fair.

With his eye on the revolver which wobbled in How- ie's sweaty hand, Joe opened the door a crack and called Gorson. The chief crowded into the tiny compart- ment. "What the h.e.l.l-?" Abruptly he shut up, wonder- ing if Joe's kick had shattered his ankle.

"Go ahead Howie; I'm sure the chiefs interested."

Howie told his story more smoothly this time, dwell- ing long on the glories of Salvation. Gorson listened

noncommittally. When Howie was through and his blaz- ing eyes awaited a decision for G.o.d or Satan the chief glanced at Joe for a hint. "Well," Joe said rapidly, "it looks like you have two of us with you. Who should we call next?"

"Cook, by all means," the chief said.

The pistol had not left McGrath's hand. They were already jammed in like boots in a chow line. He opened the door a crack and called.

Cookie tried but there wasn't room in the tiny com- partment. He had seen the pistol so Howie could not let him retreat. They faced each other for a tense mo- ment.

"Tell you what," Joe said. "Howie, why don't you put the pistol in your pocket and follow us up on deck where we can get a breath of air?"

Howie was uncomfortable by now. He appreciated Mr. Rate's thoughtfulness. Up on deck they could reach some agreement. He had to be on his way soon. Sud- denly he remembered- "Just to show G.o.d you're on his side, we'll smash the still on the way up."

Gorson gasped.

"Don't you want to?"

The bos'n looked imploringly at Joe. "It's not the booze, Howie," he finally said. Then he remembered the G.o.d shouter had no particular interest in returning to the Twentieth Century. He opened his mouth a couple of times but nothing came out.

"Ain't another piece of copper tubing like that in the whole world," Cookie protested.

"We can talk it over later," Joe suggested. Sooner or later this madman would fall asleep. How much damage would he do beforehand? In the back of Joe's mind lurked the uncomfortable thought that they might have to kill Howie. "Why do you want to destroy the still?"

he temporized.

Howie was shocked. "Why Mr. Rate, you know it's against regulations. Whiskey is the Devil's Drink!"

"Well yes," Joe hedged, "but that still's made out of government property. You know, I'd be so busy filling out forms and writing reports, I don't know how I'd ever find time to help you with this Roman business."

"Sure, kid," Gorson contributed, "you know how it is with those reports and paperwork. Why, old Command- er Cutlott would have a hemorrhage."