The Sword and the Net полностью

“Dee droonkentramps ee kiesterflogger! . . .” he roared—and broke off with a strange sound which was half scream, half gurgle.

For the lèse majesté was too much for Otto Falken. Incredibly, he came up from the deck and his lying position in one smooth, catlike movement so fast that the eyes of the watchers could barely follow it. And his right hand took Bates by his scrawny throat while the left took iron grip upon the belt around the man’s middle. . . .

“Hey!” said the Scot, and scrambled to his feet.

“Ugg!” said Bates—or something like that. He was now above Otto’s head, held parallel with the deck at the full stretch of Otto’s arms—and very near was a yawning companionway which led down steeply to the second-class saloon. . . .

“Hey, Swede!” shouted the Scot—and began to move. But he was too late. Otto, still with his burden kicking and struggling above his head, took four steps—and flung the burden from him, a weirdly waving mass of arms and legs, down the companionway. . . .

There was trouble. There was bound to be, although the wiry Bates escaped with nothing more than a great fright, complete loss of wind and a badly bruised back.

But his story had lost nothing in the telling—and Otto was confined, awaiting appearance before the Captain, to the cramped amidships quarters below ‘C’ deck which he shared with the Scot and two stewards. He would, on a normal cruise, have been in the brig—but on the Vulcania now there was no such thing: like every other inch of available space, it was housing units of the cargo.

Otto sat on the edge of a lower bunk. His elbows were on his knees and his chin was cupped in his hands. He stared unseeingly at his feet and, his heart no higher than his ankles, reviled himself for a headstrong and utterly incompetent fool who was so little fitted for his work that he must betray himself, forsooth, because he could not tolerate the apings of a moronic enemy; apings which were merely malicious chaff. . . .

He seemed to have been endless hours in confinement—but actually only half the middle watch had passed since they put him there. He wondered, hopelessly, when the Captain would see him—and what would happen after that. It seemed inevitable to him, now, that he should be recognized for what he was. . . . He thought of prison-camps, and courts-martial, and firing parties—and the utter unworthiness of Otto Falken. . . .

He wondered why they kept him waiting so long—and thought it must be to break him down. Well, they wouldn’t break him down. They could do what they liked to him, he wouldn’t slip again: for what it was worth he would maintain to the end steadfast adherence to the character and self of Nils.

He jumped up and from its corner pulled his duffel bag and undid it and dragged out the battered strong-box. He unlocked this and found the oilskin-covered package of photographs and papers: it could do no harm to have with him the ‘proofs’ of Nils’ identity which the Machine had provided, from birth certificate to the yellowed old snapshots.

He locked the box again and put it back in the duffel bag and slipped the oilskin packet inside his shirt. He began to pace the little cabin: he would not let this waiting break him down, he would think of other things; things which Nils might think of—anything and everything except the fact that he was Otto Falken. . . .

It was weary, uphill work—but he made some sort of showing at last, by asking himself Nils-like questions, then giving the answers. Why, for instance, if England were sending women and children away because things were so bad, did they not properly escort the ships which carried these women and children? And what was a boat bound from Southampton to New York doing in Lisbon, which the Portuguese so foolishly called Lisboa? And why should the voyage from Lisbon to New York be supposed to take eight days upon a ship of this class, when six should be more than enough? And who and what was the English Quartermaster who had got him aboard? . . .

Stop! That was a dangerous question—it couldn’t matter to Nils; it would not even occur to Nils! Better just answer the questions asked already. For instance, the Vulcania had had an escort for the first day and a half of her voyage; two destroyers which, after that time, had left her and returned to their Channel duties. The Vulcania was in Lisbon because of radioed orders concerning submarines which had sent her temporarily out of her course. The Vulcania must follow an unusual course which would take her much longer than a direct one would. And the English Quartermaster—whether or no a servant of the Machine—obviously could not be approached for help. . . .