Post by Cid on Nov 15, 2009 0:18:20 GMT -5
The elder Riley had fancied that the sea was a hard place and that sailors were rude, bow-legged creatures, perhaps dark as a result of storms and salt, perhaps tongue-tied from perpetual solitude. So he was astonished by this merely flushed and tired homecomer, in whose face instead of age there was a look of strange precocity--knots of worn muscle, soft shadows of grimaces left by foreign emotions--indifferent to all that he had left behind several years before, voluble as an aged man.
~Excerpt from "The Sailor" by Glenway Wescott
---
It was a beaut, sitting in the musty hangar of Black Rock One (something, he realized now, Numbers had settled on). It gleamed, it shined, and most of all it made Riley's favorite sound--kah-ching. He heard it anytime he glimpsed the hermit crab-esque ship, with its mandibles relaxed on the metal bay. They'd missed out on a lot of doubloons going after this little ditty, and though he wasn't altogether sure if she was worth a hold full of laughing gold, he had settled on exhibiting a mild anticipatory demeanor. Why not? Lately he'd been downright rotten to the crew. Normally he wouldn't really care, but a topsy-turvy knot in his gut told play it straight.
He didn't want to turn into a Bligh, set adrift in a skiff to meander his way to some safe port. Only thing is, there wouldn't be eighteen loyal men to have his back. No, there'd be none. And a safe port? Hah, he'd never set foot on one.
Standing atop a catwalk, he'd finally decided to start being less of a prig. So, to commemorate the occasion, he'd radioed word to Manuel to send old Mr. Haywood Beecham his way for a talk. The salty old bugger'd been at his heels for months now, begging and pleading for a chance to prove his metal. The lark had cajones, bothering the Wraith the way we was, and that meant something. Stupidity? Probably. A lot of spacers were stupid. Why else would someone give up civilization and roam the mindless lanes between the spheres?
Well, stupid people. That and people like the Wraith--people with no other choice.
Son of Sam heard a shuffling of large feet behind him accompanied by the smell of something pickled. He turned and nodded to the slightly stout man standing next to him, not wanting to go too overboard on his new decree.
"Heya, captain, sir. Heard you wanted t'speak t'me."
Haywood had come from a long line of spacers, which meant stupid was in his blood. He didn't think little of him for it since anytime anger flashed through his vains, pity quickly overtook it. Picturing little Haywood being dragged from one bilge hold to another, lugging some unimportant cargo for piddly coins. It almost made the Wraith shed a tear as it was once trendy to do, but he didn't.
"Aye, Haywood," he nearly snarled, but caught himself. "It's something I'd ask you."
"Anything, f'course." He was sweaty as large men are.
"You once mentioned you did a tour on a repair and rescue shuttle off Andora, Earthside."
"Aye, aye! Was first mate under, um," he cocked his hat and looked thoughtfully as if he had to fart. "Captain Eldred Geoffrys was his name."
"I've heard of him."
"Aye, true an' blue shipwright he was! Taught me all he knew!"
The Wraith admired the man's eagerness and willing to please. He believe his story. It's not like you could check reference in this biz. Pick up a tele' and say, You know so-n-so? Strong worth ethic? Dedicated employee? Didn't exist in this biz.
Haywood piddled his thumbs and sucked his lip, waiting for the captain to come out of whatever reverie that had caught him. It wasn't wise to interrupt, nor "polite" as some men had reported the captain saying after giving a lash or two.
"I was considerin' giving you a try on Callysto." The name shuddered on his tongue and felt a little queer, but it filled him with a sense of power.
"Aye, say true, capt?"
Samuel nodded.
"Won't let ye down, no sir!" Haywood nearly lept from his large knickers and whatever sweaty plague he had had lifted.
"We're to launch tomorrow and I'd see you in the big chair."
"Be there right n' ready, sir!"
Samuel waved him away, sending him off to meet with his future crew. He had little faith in the man this early on, but was willing to keep an open mind. He knew the man had experience and years behind his belt--that much was enough for now.
~Excerpt from "The Sailor" by Glenway Wescott
---
It was a beaut, sitting in the musty hangar of Black Rock One (something, he realized now, Numbers had settled on). It gleamed, it shined, and most of all it made Riley's favorite sound--kah-ching. He heard it anytime he glimpsed the hermit crab-esque ship, with its mandibles relaxed on the metal bay. They'd missed out on a lot of doubloons going after this little ditty, and though he wasn't altogether sure if she was worth a hold full of laughing gold, he had settled on exhibiting a mild anticipatory demeanor. Why not? Lately he'd been downright rotten to the crew. Normally he wouldn't really care, but a topsy-turvy knot in his gut told play it straight.
He didn't want to turn into a Bligh, set adrift in a skiff to meander his way to some safe port. Only thing is, there wouldn't be eighteen loyal men to have his back. No, there'd be none. And a safe port? Hah, he'd never set foot on one.
Standing atop a catwalk, he'd finally decided to start being less of a prig. So, to commemorate the occasion, he'd radioed word to Manuel to send old Mr. Haywood Beecham his way for a talk. The salty old bugger'd been at his heels for months now, begging and pleading for a chance to prove his metal. The lark had cajones, bothering the Wraith the way we was, and that meant something. Stupidity? Probably. A lot of spacers were stupid. Why else would someone give up civilization and roam the mindless lanes between the spheres?
Well, stupid people. That and people like the Wraith--people with no other choice.
Son of Sam heard a shuffling of large feet behind him accompanied by the smell of something pickled. He turned and nodded to the slightly stout man standing next to him, not wanting to go too overboard on his new decree.
"Heya, captain, sir. Heard you wanted t'speak t'me."
Haywood had come from a long line of spacers, which meant stupid was in his blood. He didn't think little of him for it since anytime anger flashed through his vains, pity quickly overtook it. Picturing little Haywood being dragged from one bilge hold to another, lugging some unimportant cargo for piddly coins. It almost made the Wraith shed a tear as it was once trendy to do, but he didn't.
"Aye, Haywood," he nearly snarled, but caught himself. "It's something I'd ask you."
"Anything, f'course." He was sweaty as large men are.
"You once mentioned you did a tour on a repair and rescue shuttle off Andora, Earthside."
"Aye, aye! Was first mate under, um," he cocked his hat and looked thoughtfully as if he had to fart. "Captain Eldred Geoffrys was his name."
"I've heard of him."
"Aye, true an' blue shipwright he was! Taught me all he knew!"
The Wraith admired the man's eagerness and willing to please. He believe his story. It's not like you could check reference in this biz. Pick up a tele' and say, You know so-n-so? Strong worth ethic? Dedicated employee? Didn't exist in this biz.
Haywood piddled his thumbs and sucked his lip, waiting for the captain to come out of whatever reverie that had caught him. It wasn't wise to interrupt, nor "polite" as some men had reported the captain saying after giving a lash or two.
"I was considerin' giving you a try on Callysto." The name shuddered on his tongue and felt a little queer, but it filled him with a sense of power.
"Aye, say true, capt?"
Samuel nodded.
"Won't let ye down, no sir!" Haywood nearly lept from his large knickers and whatever sweaty plague he had had lifted.
"We're to launch tomorrow and I'd see you in the big chair."
"Be there right n' ready, sir!"
Samuel waved him away, sending him off to meet with his future crew. He had little faith in the man this early on, but was willing to keep an open mind. He knew the man had experience and years behind his belt--that much was enough for now.