Echoes of the Fourth Magic Read Online Free Page B

“Thompson,” he called.
    An empty pause.
    “Engine room, come in.”
    Still silence. Mitchell grew worried and reacted with typical anger. He grabbed the com away from Billy. “Thompson!” he shouted.
    “Here, sir,” came the unsteady voice, much like the tone they had first heard the day before.
    “What’s the matter?” Mitchell demanded.
    “Sinclair’s dead,” Thompson muttered. The men took the news stoically. Corbin rubbed his face to brush away any intruding emotions, and Billy Shank let out a resigned sigh.
    Thompson’s voice came with sudden determination. “How deep are we?”
    Mitchell rarely felt sorry for anybody, but he pitied the man on the other end of the intercom, trapped alone in the steamy engine room. “We’re not sure,” he replied calmly. “The gauge says a hundred feet; we think it’s broken.”
    “Then mine must be broken, too,” Thompson said, again stubbornly. “I’m going out. I’ll be up front soon.”
    “Don’t be a fool!” Mitchell shouted. “If that gauge isn’t right—”
    “I’ll be killed,” Thompson interrupted with a resigned, almost sedated, laugh. “So what?”
    Mitchell started to reply, but merely shook his head, for there seemed nothing to say, no arguments to refute the man’s choice.
    “I’m alone back here with no food or water,” Thompson went on. “I’ll be dead soon anyway.” He ended any further arguments by shutting off his mike.
    There wouldn’t have been any arguments forthcoming anyway. “His right to choose the way to die,” Ray Corbin remarked.
    “He’ll never make it,” Reinheiser muttered.
    “Unless the gauge is right,” Billy snapped, not appreciating the physicist’s too-sure pessimism in an already dismal situation.
    They went back to work halfheartedly, unable to concentrate on their tasks as each of them, even Reinheiser, waited and prayed that somehow Thompson would make it through, that the gauge would indeed be right. But as minutes passed, the miracle seemed less likely, and finally Reinheiser took it upon himself to defuse the tension.
    “Gentlemen,” he said with his customary formality. “Since Seaman Thompson hasn’t yet arrived, we must assume that he is dead. So let us concentrate on our assigned duties and get this ship back together.”
    Corbin and Billy exchanged helpless glances. They hurt at the loss of yet another companion, but once again they had to push their emotions deep inside and refuse to acknowledge the pain.
    “How’s that screen coming?” Mitchell snapped, trying to bring everyone back into the tasks at hand.
    “Good, sir,” Billy replied. “I should have something for you in a few minutes.” He focused on his work and tried to forget that a friend of his had just died, taking what was possibly their last hope with him.
    “We aren’t going to see much without the outer searchlights,” Reinheiser remarked. “Let us hope they’re still working.”
    “Even if they are, all we’re going to see is dark water and gray stone,” Billy mumbled to himself, too low for anyone else to hear. But he, too, hoped that the equipment would work. At least then something would be fixed.
    Billy restarted his computer once more, then double-clicked on the appropriate icons, and the screen crackled sharply and filled with snow. He stood up, grumbling, reached over to the back of the panel and jiggled the connector behind his personal monitor. The picture came clearly into view for just a split second, then returned to snow.
    “Did you see that!” Corbin cried.
    “I’m not sure what I saw,” Mitchell gasped. “Shank, get that damned picture back!”
    “Trying,” Billy replied, confused as to why they were so excited. He hadn’t seen.
    “The hull of an old warship,” Reinheiser said.
    “But did you see its condition?” Corbin cried. “It looked like it just went down!”
    The screen flickered a couple of times, the picture came clear again, and the four men gaped at the eerie sight.