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The naval victualing wharf was nothing like the civilian ports Stephen was familiar with. Instead of throngs of people lined up to buy tickets, go through security, or board flights; or otherwise waiting jadedly on uncomfortable benches for their flights to arrive (Stephen was to cheap to pay for entrance to the executive lounges, and indeed often too poor), the wharf was like a city, with hundreds of people moving in different directions, weaving through each other and intent on their own business, or stopping to chat with friends and colleagues long not seen. Many of the people wore Navy blue, solid or with white, but plenty of Marines were present, too, coated in bright scarlet, and even the black civilian coats looked cheerful. The very atmosphere itself seemed charged with hope, new beginnings, and adventure.
“Move your fucking arse, will you, this ain’t no Cheapside fair,” bawled a voice at Stephen’s elbow, and turning quickly he found a girl of perhaps ten years old, lugging a heavy suitcase.
“Mind your luff,” cried Barus in return. “Mind your luff or I’ll knock you down!”
The girl opened her mouth to reply but said nothing, perhaps because Panzer appeared at that moment with Stephen’s dunnage, casually placing the trolley between the two children and asking, “where to, sir?”
“What? Oh,” said Barus. “Terminal A,” he spun about to get his bearings. “This way.”
Barus led them down the corridor, and determined as he was not to stare about him like he had just fallen off the turnip truck, Stephen’s initial impression expanded: the wharf was busy, certainly, but many of gates were dark and empty, and occasional side corridors were unlit.
They passed through the hub, jostled occasionally by the crowd, and entered Terminal A. The gates were further apart here, with moving walkways stretching between them. Coffee shops and other light commercial establishments lined the corridors. An electric truck, pulling a train of heavily laden carts, glided past them; Stephen recognized its anti-collision music as the first movement of Locatelli’s C-major quartet.
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Sunday, March 29, 2015
Monday, March 23, 2015
Truth and Beauty 4-5
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Some hours later Panzer woke him with a gentle touch. “Coming up on the victualing wharf now, sir,” she said. Stephen stretched as best as he could within the confines of the wherry, then returned to his seat and fastened the seatbelt. “That’s the Roth there, sir,” said Panzer.
“The white one with the red stripe?”
“No, sir, that is the frigate Dakota. Roth is below her.”
“The shabby merchantman?”
The pause that followed these words drew out unnaturally, and Stephen realized that he must have said something tactless. Fortunately, Panzer did not seem to be in the mood to be insulted, and Barus was too involved in his phone to notice. “Well,” said Panzer, “perhaps we are a little down at heel, sir, but we are a Navy vessel, I assure you.”
Stephen looked at the Roth intently. She seemed little different than any of the scores of merchant vessels he had seen in his travels; perhaps a bit older and more worn than most, with heavy streaks of oxidation broken by occasional new sheets of steel. Much of her hull was pockmarked, especially at her front end, reminding Stephen of the photos of smallpox survivors he had seen in a history of medicine class years ago. A small work party armed with cutting torches clustered around a particularly ragged panel; the replacement panel tethered nearby was almost blindingly bright by comparison.
“Zulu sierra six three seven for approach,” said the wherryman, then after a pause, “Roger, gate C-7.” He worked his controls and brought them up against the docking collar. The collar clunked, the wherry’s mood lighting turned blue, and the wherryman turned in his seat. “Here we are, lady and gents. Will you be wanting a hand with that old baggage truck, then?”
“No,” said Barus carelessly, “she’s got it.” He tapped his ID to the reader, entered the Roth’s ID number and his PIN, paused to calculate the tip on his phone, then led Stephen and Panzer through the docking collar into the wharf.
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Some hours later Panzer woke him with a gentle touch. “Coming up on the victualing wharf now, sir,” she said. Stephen stretched as best as he could within the confines of the wherry, then returned to his seat and fastened the seatbelt. “That’s the Roth there, sir,” said Panzer.
“The white one with the red stripe?”
“No, sir, that is the frigate Dakota. Roth is below her.”
“The shabby merchantman?”
The pause that followed these words drew out unnaturally, and Stephen realized that he must have said something tactless. Fortunately, Panzer did not seem to be in the mood to be insulted, and Barus was too involved in his phone to notice. “Well,” said Panzer, “perhaps we are a little down at heel, sir, but we are a Navy vessel, I assure you.”
Stephen looked at the Roth intently. She seemed little different than any of the scores of merchant vessels he had seen in his travels; perhaps a bit older and more worn than most, with heavy streaks of oxidation broken by occasional new sheets of steel. Much of her hull was pockmarked, especially at her front end, reminding Stephen of the photos of smallpox survivors he had seen in a history of medicine class years ago. A small work party armed with cutting torches clustered around a particularly ragged panel; the replacement panel tethered nearby was almost blindingly bright by comparison.
“Zulu sierra six three seven for approach,” said the wherryman, then after a pause, “Roger, gate C-7.” He worked his controls and brought them up against the docking collar. The collar clunked, the wherry’s mood lighting turned blue, and the wherryman turned in his seat. “Here we are, lady and gents. Will you be wanting a hand with that old baggage truck, then?”
“No,” said Barus carelessly, “she’s got it.” He tapped his ID to the reader, entered the Roth’s ID number and his PIN, paused to calculate the tip on his phone, then led Stephen and Panzer through the docking collar into the wharf.
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