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The officer hesitated a moment, then nodded. "She's taking sea faster than the pumps can keep up."
"How long do we have?"
"Hard to say. Maybe another hour if the water stays clear of the boilers."
"What happened? There was no other ship nearby. What did we collide with?"
"Iceberg. Slashed our hull. Damnable bit of bloody luck."
He grasped the officer's arm so hard the young man winced. "I must get into the cargo hold."
"Little chance of that, sir. The mail room on F Deck is flooding and the luggage is already floating down in the hold."
"You must guide me there."
The officer tried to shake his arm loose, but it was held like a vise. "Impossible! My orders are to see to the starboard lifeboats."
"Some other officer can man the boats," the passenger said tonelessly. "You're going to show me the way to the cargo hold."
It was then that the officer noticed two discomforting things. First, the twisted, insane look on the passenger's face, and, second, the muzzle of the gun that was pressing against his genit
als.
"Do as I ask," the man snarled, "if you wish to see grandchildren."
The officer stared dumbly at the gun and then looked up. Something inside him was suddenly sick. There was no thought of argument or resistance. The reddened eyes that burned into his, burned from within the depths of insanity.
"I can only try."
"Then try!" the passenger snarled. "And no tricks. I'll be at your back all the way. One stupid mistake and I'll shoot your spine in two at the base."
Discreetly, he shoved the gun into a coat pocket, keeping the barrel nudged against the officer's back. They made their way without difficulty through the milling throng of people who now cluttered the Boat Deck. It was a different ship now. No laughter or gaiety, no class distinction; the wealthy and the poor were joined by the common bond of fear. The stewards were the only ones smiling and making small talk as they handed out ghost-white life preservers.
The distress rockets soared into the air, looking small and vain under the smothering blackness, their burst of white sparkles seen by no one except those aboard the doomed ship. It provided an unearthly backdrop for the heartrending good-byes, the forced expressions of hope in the men's eyes as they tenderly lifted their women and children into the lifeboats. The terrible unreality of the scene was heightened as the ship's eight-piece band assembled on the Boat Deck, incongruous with their instruments and pale life jackets. They began to play Irving Berlin's "Alexander's Ragtime Band."
The ship's officer, prodded by the gun, struggled down the main stairway against the wave of passengers who were surging up toward the lifeboats. The low angle of the bow was becoming more pronounced. Going down the steps, their stride was off-balance. At B Deck they commandeered an elevator and rode it down to D Deck.
The young officer turned and studied the man whose strange whim had inexorably bound him tighter in the grip of certain death. The lips were drawn back tightly over the teeth, the eyes glassy with a faraway look. The passenger glanced up and saw the officer staring at him. For a long moment their eyes locked.
"Don't worry."
"Bigalow, sir."
"Don't worry, Bigalow. You'll make it before she goes."
"What section of the cargo hold do you want?"
"The ship's vault in number one cargo hold, G Deck."
"G Deck must surely be under water by now."
"We'll only know when we get there, won't we?" The passenger motioned with the gun in his coat pocket as the elevator doors opened. They moved out and pushed their way through the crowd.
Bigalow tore off his life belt and ran around the staircase leading to E Deck. There he stopped and looked down and saw the water crawling upward, inching its relentless path up the steps. Some of the lights still burned under the cold green water, giving off a haunting, distorted glow.
"It's no use. You can see for yourself."
"Is there another way?"
