The Brave New World 42 The Gulls Of Galway

Jerry Hard put the receiver back and stepped out of the phone booth, leaving the door open. The booth sure could do with some fresh air. It smelled of dust and dirt and wet clothes that hadn't been washed in a while.

He was in Galway's post office, surprisingly empty considering how many people aboard the Great Western had asked him for its location. Maybe they'd found a better place to make long distance calls, closer to the s.h.i.+p. The weather certainly didn't encourage taking long walks around the town. Snow mixed with rain pattered on the windows of the post office, and the street outside looked dirty and drab.

He was going to have a h.e.l.l of a difficult time doing what Brock had asked him to do. The messengers sent by the various heads of state back in New York were sure to resist being thrown off the s.h.i.+p. There really was just one way to handle this: he had to convince Gregson, the s.h.i.+p's captain, to announce the Great Western could sail no further because of serious damage of some sort. Something that would sound as if it would keep the s.h.i.+p in port indefinitely.

Gregson would be easy to convince. The s.h.i.+p really needed some repairs done after its crossing of the Atlantic. Gregson thought they could be done inside a week. Well, he'd tell his pa.s.sengers they could take up to six months. Yes, that definitely was the way to go. When the pa.s.sengers heard that, they would leave the s.h.i.+p all of their own accord.

Things had already been getting better while they were still at sea. A couple of days earlier, everyone discovered that their smart phones were working. The initial excitement died down when it transpired no calls could be made. But after they'd docked in Galway, everyone got excited again because most of the town had electric power. It was supplied by a wind farm nearby, and everything seemed to be working fine there.

When they learned that the land line telephones in the town were working as well, everyone rushed off the s.h.i.+p to make calls. Jerry antic.i.p.ated having a hard time calling New York. But the post office was almost empty, if one didn't count the giggling, ugly, female staff. Only two of the six booths used for long distance calls were occupied, and only one of these was occupied by a courier from New York.

It was a mystery. Where did all the couriers go?

Jerry took one last, long look at the weather outside, grimaced, and raised the collar of his trench coat. He walked to the s.h.i.+p as fast as he could without breaking into a run.

As he approached the pier, he saw a couple of seagulls huddled under an antique tractor parked by the road leading to the port. The birds' orange eyes seemed to be angry. They seemed to be evaluating him as a potential meal. He was sure that if he dropped dead right were he was, they wouldn't waste a minute pecking him to pieces. He swerved unnecessarily toward the birds, but they weren't scared. They kept watching him with those pitiless, blinking eyes as he went past.

He went straight to his cabin and treated himself to three quick slugs of Wild Turkey. He was on his last bottle; he'd have to get some more in Galway. Fortunately, it seemed all the shops were open. Everything seemed perfectly normal, aside from the lack of traffic on the roads.

Galway had its own glowing cube all right, but it had disappeared even before the government could claim its contents. The town's inhabitants hadn't been scared of the cube. They'd taken all the items that could be taken within just three days. Their greed was rewarded: power came back on over the next forty eight hours.

What was more, several of the town's many antiquated vehicles were made to work. They provided a steady if weak flow of food supplies from the surrounding country. The citizens of Galway were very upbeat, and full of optimism about the future. That feeling communicated itself to everyone that had arrived on the Great Western, and just as well: there had been an atmosphere of doom and gloom on the s.h.i.+p through most of the voyage.

And Jerry Hard had felt his own mood improve, too. The three slugs of Wild Turkey improved it even further.

It took him a while to find the s.h.i.+p's captain. Gregson was buried in the belly of the s.h.i.+p, supervising the repairs being done to the boiler. When he saw Jerry approach, he immediately a.s.sumed a defensive stance and started speaking before Jerry had a chance to open his mouth.

"We're working as fast as we can, honest. Might get everything fixed day after tomorrow if we're lucky. And the purser has already secured a supply of coal. I'll rotate teams so that we can work around the clock. We'll definitely be ready to sail within a few days."

"Tell your guys to get some rest," Jerry Hard said. 'There's no hurry. Not any more."

"Why? Did something change? What happened?"

"Tell your guys to take a break. I need to talk to you in private."

"We can talk in my cabin."

"Fine. That's great. But tell them to take a break anyway. They look exhausted. They should get some sh.o.r.e leave, and relax."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Fantastic! Go right ahead to my cabin. I'll join you in a second. Help yourself to a drink while you're waiting."

"Fantastic," agreed Jerry. He went to Gregson's cabin and treated himself to half a gla.s.s of scotch. It tasted like medicine, after the bourbon.

He was about to pour himself some more to see whether his taste buds had adjusted when the cabin door opened, and Gregson came in.

"Pour me one as well if you could be so kind," he said joyfully. He actually hummed a tune as he stripped off the dirty overalls and pulled down the sleeves of his thick sweater.

"So, what's the big news?" he asked, taking his gla.s.s from Jerry's hand. He took a sip and looked at Jerry expectantly.

"I can't tell you everything. Top secret," Jerry said sternly. He swished the scotch around in his gla.s.s and added:

"What matters is that we no longer have to hurry. As a matter of fact, I'd like you to make an announcement to the pa.s.sengers once everyone is back for the night. Where have they all gone, anyway? I saw just one of those guys at the post office. I'd expected it to be packed."

"Oh, they're all at the pub," said Gregson and grinned. He took a swig of scotch, noticed that Jerry looked puzzled, and explained:

"There are six pubs within easy walking distance. I understand they're well stocked, and that each has at least three working phone lines. The landlords are making a killing, they're charging five quid per minute for the calls. But our guys don't seem to mind. I looked into The Maiden's b.u.m a while ago, and saw at least twenty. The ones that weren't on the phone were drinking as if there was no tomorrow."

Jerry nodded slowly, evaluating this new piece of information. Eventually he said:

"That's good. That's excellent, in fact. Because I want you to tell them Galway's where they get off the s.h.i.+p. I want you to say that the damage to the s.h.i.+p has turned out to be pretty serious, and that it won't be fixed anytime soon, if ever. And that if you do manage to fix it, you'll be returning straight to New York. Which in fact, you'll do."

"We're going back? We're not sailing onward to continental Europe?"

"That's correct."

"That's good news. Just let me get this right: you were saying we can take all the time we want with the repairs?"

"That's correct also."

"Wonderful," said captain John Gregson, and drank the remaining contents of his gla.s.s. He held it out for more and added:

"I can't wait to see the expressions on the faces of that bunch. They've really been getting on my nerves. Why this, why that, why can't I..."

"Same here," said Jerry Hard.

"But what if some decide to stay and wait for the s.h.i.+p to be repaired?"

"Don't worry," Jerry said. "I'll deal with that."

He looked into Gregson's eyes, and raised his gla.s.s. He said:

"To our new understanding."

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