The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [730]
“Look carefully at the survivors,” urged Dr. Glister, and I trained my binoculars on the small group. Now that they were closer, I could see that their faces were covered with unsightly green pustules.
I lowered the binoculars and looked at Dr. Glister. “What’s the prognosis?”
“A hundred percent fatal, and highly contagious. Bring them on board and we’ll be looking at a minimum of twenty percent casualties. We don’t reach port for six months, and these poor wretches will already have died in agony long before we could get any help to them.”
I rubbed my temples. “You’re completely sure of this?”
He nodded. I took a deep breath.
“Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Break off the rescue.”
“What?”
“You heard me. These people have a contagious fatal illness, and I won’t risk my passengers’ lives saving castaways who will die no matter what we do.”
“But, Captain!” he protested. “We never leave a man in the water!”
“We’re doing it today, Fitzwilliam. Do you understand?”
He glared at me menacingly, then leaned over the rail and repeated my order, making sure the men knew who had made it. After that, he went into the wheel house, rang up “full ahead,” and the vessel shuddered as we made extra speed and steamed on.
“Come inside,” said Dr. Glister.
“No,” I said. “I’m staying here. I won’t hide from the men I’ve condemned to death.”
And I stood there and watched as the lifeboat and the men drifted astern of the ship and were soon lost to view in the seas.
It was with a heavy heart that I walked back into the wheel-house and sat in the captain’s chair. Baldwin was silent, gazing straight ahead.
“It was the right thing to do,” I muttered, to no one in particular. “And what’s more, I could have used the WordStorm to escape after all.”
“Things happen here,” muttered Baldwin. “Difficult things.”
I suddenly had a thought, but hoped upon hope I was wrong. “What’s the name of this ship?”
“The ship?” replied Baldwin cheerily. “It’s the steamship Moral Dilemma, Cap’n.”
I covered my face with my hands and groaned. Anne Wirthlass-Schitt and her obnoxious husband had not been kidding when they said they’d chosen this place especially for me. My nerves were already badly frayed, and I felt the heavy hand of guilt pressing upon me. I’d only been here an hour—what would I be like in a week, or a month? Truly, I was trapped in an unenviable place: adrift on the Hypothetical Ocean, in command of the Moral Dilemma.
“Captain?”
It was the cook this time. He was unshaven and wearing a white uniform that had so many food stains on it that it was hard to say where stain ended and uniform began.
“Yes?” I said, somewhat wearily.
“Begging your pardon, but there’s been a gross underestimation on the provisions.”
“And?”
“We don’t get into port for another six months,” the cook continued, referring to a grubby sheet of calculations he had on him, “and we only have enough to feed the crew and passengers on strict rations for two-thirds of that time.”
“What are you saying?”
“That all forty of us will starve long before we reach port.”
I beckoned Fitzwilliam over. “There wouldn’t be another port closer than that, would there?”
“No, Captain,” he answered. “Port Conjecture is the only port there is.”
“I thought so. And no fish either?”
“Not in these waters.”
“Other ships?”
“None.”
I got it now. These were the “difficult things” Baldwin had spoken of, and they were mine and mine alone to deal with. The ship, the sea and the people on it might be hypothetical—but they could suffer and die the same as anyone.
“Thank you, Cook,” I said. “I’ll let you know of my decision.”
He gave a lazy salute and was gone.
“Well, Fitzwilliam,” I said, doing some simple math on a piece of paper, “there’s enough food for twenty-six people to survive until we reach port. Do you think we could find fourteen volunteers to throw themselves