"Captain van Breda?" he said, standing up slowly and tipping his hat.
"That I am. Who are you?"
The man had no memory of him, which was hardly surprising, unless he was ashamed to admit it.
"The name's Scoresby, Captain. I was looking at that schooner, and thinking I wouldn't care to pay the harbor dues that must be piling up while she can't load her cargo."
"You are an associate of that man Poliakov?" said van Breda, clenching his fists. His cheeks, under the red stubble, were suffused with a deeper crimson, and his eyes were bloodshot. It seemed as if he might fall to an apoplexy at any moment, Lee thought, looking at his daemon---a big rough-haired mongrel bitch with a lot of wolf in her, her hackles raised, trembling and emitting a constant low growl. One or two passersby glanced at them curiously and walked on.
Not far away, a bear climbed up the steps from the water and shook himself, sending sheets of spray flying high in the air, before standing to look along the waterfront towards the two men.
"An associate?" Lee said carefully. "No, sir. That's way wrong. I met the man last night at the town hall, and I told him I didn't care for the kind of man he employs. Anyway, I ain't got a vote in his election, and I fell asleep during his speech. Is that your ship?"
"Yes, goddamnit, and I don't like spies. What are you looking for? Hey?"
Hester moved a step or two closer and said a quiet word to van Breda's daemon, who snapped and growled in reply. Hester turned to Lee and said:
"Lee, buy the Captain a drink."
She was right: the man looked close to collapse.
"I'm no spy, Captain," Lee said. "Would you care to join me in a glass of hot rum? There's a bar right there. I'd like to hear about your situation."
'Yes. Ja. Very well. Why not?" said the Captain, removing his cap and scratching his thick red hair with a trembling hand. All the brittle anger had left him, and he followed Lee helplessly into the bar.
They sat at a table in the window. Van Breda gazed obsessively out at the schooner, cradling his glass of rum, while Lee lit a cigarillo so as to compete with the smoky stove nearby. Outside, Lee noticed the bear sit down near the bollard and then settle on his front, watchfully, great paws tucked under his chest.
"She's nearly lost to me now," the Captain said. "Your ship? Are you the owner as well as the skipper?"
"Not for long, if that man has his way." "How so?"
"Look at this," said van Breda, and took a crumpled envelope from his pocket.
Lee drew out the letter inside. It carried the letterheading of the Novy Odense Harbor Company, and it said:
Dear Captain van Breda, In accordance with the Merchant Shipping Act 11.303.(5), I am required to give you notice that unless the cargo currently stored in Number 5 East Warehouse is loaded by high tide on the morning of April 16, it will be impounded by the Harbor Authority and held for disposal by public auction.
Yours truly,
Johann Aagaard,
Harbor Master
"April the sixteenth," said Lee. "That's tomorrow. When's high tide?"
"Eleven thirty-two," said van Breda. "It's impossible. He knows it's impossible. He orders me to load my cargo, I want to load my cargo, but they refuse to open the bloody warehouse. They say I owe the Harbor Authority money. It's a goddamn lie. This is a concocted new charge that never existed before--they especially made it up to apply to this cargo. I ask for their authorization for this new charge and they refer me to some goddamn law I never heard of. I know Poliakov is at the back of this. Him and Larsen Manganese. The Harbor Authority will impound my cargo and then Poliakov will bid for it at this goddamn auction, on behalf of Larsen, and no one will dare bid against him. Meanwhile I lose my ship. Who cares? Huh?"
"Let me get this clear," said Lee. "First they hit you with a new kind of charge for storing your cargo, and then they refuse to let you load it, and then they threaten to impound it if you don't?"
"That's it. They want to send me mad."
"Why? What is this cargo?"
"Drilling machinery and rock samples."
"Rock samples . . . Wait a minute. Would that have anything to do with oil?"
Van Breda dragged his gaze away from the schooner and looked at Lee directly for a moment.
'You're right. See, that's what it's all about, at bottom. Oil and money."
"Who's the shipper?"
"An oil company from Bergen. See, I have the bill of lading . . ."
He fished another document out of his pocket.
"You sign the bill of lading before you load the cargo?"
"That's the system here. When the cargo is delivered to the warehouse, it becomes the carrier's responsibility and the bill of lading is signed there and then. That's the problem, see. I've already taken responsibility for this cargo, and I can't get the damn . . . can't even . . ."
He swallowed the rum convulsively.
"Why don't you talk to the Customs?" said Lee after a moment. "I understand they're the law around here."
"I tried. Not a Customs matter. All the Customs papers are in order. They wrote me a letter to say they're not concerned."
"How long would it take to load?"
"A couple of hours. Not long."
"And once it was on board, could you leave right away? Would you have to engage a tug, or a pilot?"
"No. I have an auxiliary engine, and enough fuel, and pilotage is not compulsory."
"What about your crew?"
"All on board, but they won't be for long. They know the fix I'm in."
"Because, you see," said Lee, stubbing out his little black cigarillo, "if you had the cover, you could take the cargo and run."
Van Breda stared at him. He didn't seem to understand. His expression trembled between hope and despair.
"What are you saying?" he said.
"I'm saying I don't like Poliakov. I don't like the way he talks and I especially don't like the men he keeps company with. And I'm saying if you want to load that cargo, Captain, I'll stand guard for you while you do it. All you have to do is open the warehouse door."
He pushed back his chair and went to the bar to pay for their drinks.
A thought occurred to him and he said to the bartender, "Say, do you know a man called Oskar Sigurdsson?"
"The journalist?" said the bartender. "Ja, I know him. You a friend of his?"
"No. Just curious."
"Then I tell you. He is poison. Pure poison."
"Thanks," said Lee.
He joined the Captain on the pavement outside.
He was about to turn towards the Harbor Master's office when he had a surprise. The bear by the bollard stood up, turned to them, and said:
'You."
He was looking directly at Lee. His voice was profound. Lee felt himself startled witless for a moment, and then gathered himself and crossed the road to the waterside. Hester stayed very close to his feet, and Lee picked her up.
'You want me?" Lee said.
Face to face, the bear was formidable. He was young, as far as Lee could judge; his body was enormous, and his small black eyes quite unreadable. His ivory-colored fur waved in ripples as the brisk wind played over it. Lee could feel Hester's little heart beating fast close to his.
The bear said, 'You gonna help him?" He looked briefly at the Captain, watching them from across the road, and then back at Lee.
"That's my intention," said Lee carefully.
"Then I help you."
"Do you know Captain van Breda then?"
"I know his enemy is my enemy."
"Well then, Mr. . . . Mr. Bear--"
"Iorek Byrnison," said the bear.
"York Burningson, the Captain needs to get at a cargo that's locked in the warehouse, and load it on his ship, and get away. And his enemy, who's my enemy too, as well as yours, wants to stop him. I reckon we got a short time to do it in, and then we're in trouble. Patience and caution are my watchwords, Mr. Burningson, but sometimes we have to take a risk. You will
ing to risk trouble?"
'Yes."
"Now I heard that your people make armor for themselves," Lee said. "Do you have armor?"
"A helmet. No more."
The bear reached down past the edge of the stone wharf to the top of the flight of steps and lifted up a battered, clumsy iron sheet of a curious shape and curvature. A chain hung from one corner, and Lee blinked with surprise as the bear deftly swung it over his head and hooked the chain from one corner to another under his throat. Suddenly the metal didn't look clumsy anymore: it fitted him perfectly. The bear's black eyes glittered in the depths of the two great eyeholes.
Lee was aware that they were attracting attention. People were pointing, windows opening, and a little crowd of onlookers had gathered across the road. When Iorek Byrnison put the helmet on, there was an audible intake of breath, and Lee remembered the poet saying that the bears were not allowed to wear their armor in town.
The Captain joined them, looking at Lee questioningly.
"The odds just got better, Captain," Lee said. "This is York Burningson, and he's going to ride shotgun with us."
"Byrnison," said the bear.
"Byrnison. Beg your pardon. Now the first thing we have to do is get past the Harbor Master, so you leave the talking to me. Let's go down the quay, gentlemen, and open a warehouse."
Lee led the way along the waterfront, and turned onto the quay itself. By this time the number of spectators had grown to thirty or so, and more were coming out from the side streets that led down to the harbor. They followed a short distance behind, pointing, talking excitedly, beckoning others to come and join them. Lee was aware of that, but not distracted: his eye was on the Harbor Master's office, where the door had opened briefly to let the man look out, and then closed again.
'You got that letter, Captain?" he said. "Better let me have it."
The Captain handed it over.
"Thanks. Now I'm going to be spinning a yarn, York Byrnison, so my attention will be kind of occupied, and I'd be obliged if you'd keep an eye out for any trouble."
"I will," said the bear.
They reached the building that housed the Harbor Master's office, and the door opened again. Mr. Aagaard came out, fumbling with the last button of his uniform, and stood in the center of the quay facing them.
"Good day, Mr. Aagaard," said Lee cheerfully. "I hope this fine morning finds you well. Step aside, if you would, and Captain van Breda and my associate will go about our lawful business."
'You have no business on this quay."
"Oh, I don't think you're in a position to say that, sir. As an attorney-at-law I have every kind of business on this quay. My client--"
"Attorney? You are no attorney. You came to me yesterday claiming to be an aeronaut."
"And so I am. As well. Now let me refer you to this letter, which my client has received from your office. Is this your signature?"
"Of course. What do you--?"
"Well, Mr. Aagaard," said Lee, improvising happily, "I think you should keep your law up to date. This letter is correct as far as the Merchant Shipping Act 11.303. (5) is concerned, absolutely correct, sir, and I congratulate you on the terse and manly eloquence with which you have expressed this fragment of correspondence. However, let me remind you that a subsequent piece of legislation, the Carriage of Goods and Cargoes Act of 1911, Part 3, Subsection 4, Miscellaneous Provisions, specifically and by name supersedes the Merchant Shipping Act by stating that the right of a carrier to load his cargo once the bill of lading has been signed and countersigned, and I stress that, shall in no way be impeded, obstructed, or prevented by any provision of any previous Act, notwithstanding any local interpretations that shall be put in place. Now, Captain van Breda, have you such a bill of lading?"
'Yes, Mr. Scoresby, I have."
"And is it signed and countersigned?"
"It is."
"Then, Mr. Aagaard, I invite you to stand aside, sir, and let my client go about his lawful business."
"I . . . this is not regular," said the Harbor Master, whose cat-daemon was scratching at his leg to be picked up. He bent stiffly and carried her to his breast, where she hid her face. He went on, "I know nothing of these other laws, but Captain van Breda has not paid the duty on these articles, and--"
"Mr. Harbor Master, just to save you any further trouble and embarrassment, I should remind you that the duty you refer to is a duty on importation and not on exportation, so in this case it doesn't apply. A simple and honest mistake for you to make. My client is willing to forgo any claims for compensation provided you release the goods at once from the warehouse. Furthermore, if it's a matter of duty payable and not a fee, as your own words before these fine and honest witnesses clearly indicated, then it's a Customs and Revenue matter, and the office of Customs is fully satisfied with Captain van Breda's right to move his cargo, and has no intention to levy any duty on it. Is that not so, Captain?"
"It is."
"And do you have a letter to that effect?"
"Indeed I do."
"Then there is no more to be said. Good day, Mr. Aagaard, and we shall trouble you no further."
"But . . . ," the Harbor Master began unhappily, and then thought of something else. "But that bear is wearing an illegal piece of armor, and he has no right to be on the quay."
"A proper and reasonable response to unreasonable provocation, Mr. Aagaard," said Lee.
He stepped decisively forward, and the Harbor Master moved indecisively aside. The crowd had been still, trying to follow the arguments, and several of them looked less sure than they had been a minute before; but Lee was more concerned about the little knot of men further along the quay. He knew the look of men like that.
"Nice piece of oratorical flamboyancy, Lee," said Hester.
"Captain," said Lee, "you got any weapons on your ship?"
"I got one rifle. I never used it."
"Ammunition?"
"Sure. But like I say, I never had to fire it."
"You won't have to fire it. You bring me that rifle and I'll fire it if there's any firing to be done. Now if you began to load the cargo, say, within the next hour, could you leave with the tide like this?"
"The harbor is plenty deep. It will be fine."
"That's good, because I might have to come with you. We both might. Now look out. These desperadoes are spoiling for an exchange of hot words. Say nothing and leave it to me. York Byrnison, once again I'd be obliged if you could cover the rear."
The crowd had fallen back a little now, sensing that the mood of the events had changed, as Lee and the bear and the Captain walked on towards the five men who stood between them and the schooner. Hester was checking all around for other figures lurking in the alleys between the warehouses, or at a window above, or across the water on the west quay, for a handy shot with a good rifle could pick them off easily.
Lee was very conscious of the sound of their boots on the flagstoned quay, of the ceaseless scream of seagulls, of the chugging of the steam crane across the water and the clank and crash of the great bucket as it unloaded coal from the hold of the tanker and dumped it in the wagons. Every separate sound was bright and clear, and Lee and Hester both heard the little click at the same moment. It was the sound of a revolver being cocked, and it came from up ahead, Lee thought; but Hester's ears could pinpoint an ant on a blade of grass, and she said at once, "Second man, Lee."
The men were standing abreast in a line about fifteen yards ahead. Three of them were holding cudgels or sticks, but the other two had their hands behind their backs, and before Hester had finished saying "Lee," Lee's pistol was in his hand and pointing straight at the second man from the left.
'You drop that gun right now," Lee said. 'You just let go and let it fall behind you."
The man had stiffened in surprise. He probably hadn't expected Lee to move so fast, and quite possibly no one had pointed a gun at him with intent before; he was just a boy no older than twenty. His eyes widened and he swallowed
nervously before dropping the pistol.
"Now kick it over here," Lee said.
The boy groped behind him with the toe of his boot and sent the pistol bouncing over the flagstones. The Captain bent to pick it up.
Then the man at the right of the line, the other man with his hands behind his back, did a stupid thing: lie swung his right hand round and fired a shot from the big pistol he was holding.
But he didn't take time to aim properly, and the bullet went over Lee's head. The crowd behind screamed and scattered, but Lee had fired before the first cry arose, and his bullet caught the man's hip and spun him round so that he fell right at the edge of the quay, and then, unable to hold himself safe, he fell into the water, taking the gun with him. His cry was caught short by the splash.
Lee said to the other men, "Now he's going to drown unless you pull him out. You don't want that on your conscience. Hurry up and do that, and get out of our way."
He strode forward. The other men fell aside sullenly, and two of them slouched to the help of the man in the water, who was now splashing and shouting with pain and fear.
"Let me see that pistol, Captain," said Lee, and the Captain handed it to him. It was a cheap and flimsy piece, and the barrel had bent when the boy dropped it. Anyone who fired it would be in danger of losing his hand. Lee tossed it into the water with regret, because he knew, in the moment he squeezed the trigger of his own revolver, that the cylinder had stuck for good. That was the one shot he was going to get.
"I'm going to need that rifle of yours real soon, Captain," he said.
He put his gun back in the holster and looked around. The crowd behind was much bigger now, and the sounds had changed: across the water, the steam crane was still, the operator and the ship's crew staring across at the place where the shots had come from. In the absence of the clank and crash of the great bucket, Lee could hear the steady chugging of the dredger near the harbor mouth, and the excited murmur of the crowd behind.
The three of them moved on. They were not far from the schooner now, and Lee could see the crew gathered on the poop, watching wide-eyed as the little group made its way along the quay towards them.
But then one of them pointed at something back in the town, and the others shaded their eyes to look, and Hester said, "Lee, you better look and see what's coming."