Part 33 (1/2)
”The old one,” I said.
”The new one,” she said.
”Exactly.” Miles rubbed his hands together. ”It's not just about some boat. It's about what it means to be something.” He pointed at the smashed wood on the floor. ”Is that still a chair? Is that still a mirror? Are you the same person you were a year ago? Is this boat the same one you found on that shelf?”
I threw my hands up.
”Great. Typical philosophy. We could debate all night, and we'd still have no idea what to do.”
”I have an idea,” Miles said. ”Take those d.a.m.n planks out and drop it in the water.”
”Are you crazy?” Sarah snapped.
”It makes perfect sense,” Miles answered. ”Think about the V and D. What they're doing. They don't want the s.h.i.+p to change. They want the same old s.h.i.+p to keep sailing, forever and ever. They don't want to turn the voyage over to a new crew, a new s.h.i.+p, new planks. You put those pieces in, the philosophy's all wrong.”
”But the physics is right. My boat won't sink. Yours will.”
”Trust me.”
”This from the guy who smashed the mirror.”
”I'm telling you.”
”We get one chance,” I said. ”It's twenty feet down.”
”You're right,” Miles said. He sighed. ”Let me just see one thing.”
He took the boat from my hands. He pulled out the brown slats of wood.
”Hmm . . .” he said, thinking hard, or rather pretending to. Before I could say anything, he took a ma.s.sive step and dropped the boat right into the split.
”YOU b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”.
We ran to the edge. The boat went down with a splash then sank underwater.
”You f.u.c.king arrogant p.r.i.c.k,” Sarah shouted. ”How dare you? People's lives are at stake. Maybe you don't care about them, but don't you care about yourself?”
”I have self-esteem issues,” Miles said.
”Shut up and look!” I shouted.
The boat had hit the water and submerged from the force, but now it popped back up and rocked its way in the slow current toward the far end.
”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” Miles said.
I started to get excited, but then I saw the bubbles escaping the boat. I could imagine the water flooding into the hull.
”Oh s.h.i.+t.”
The boat started to sink.
”NO.”.
It was still moving, slower than we needed. Halfway down the stream, it was halfway submerged.
”s.h.i.+t,” I said. ”s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. Come on.”
”Go . . . go . . . go . . .” Sarah called.
”Oh no,” Miles said.
He was looking at the far end of the stream.
”What?” I slid toward the end with him. ”What is that?”
There was a tunnel at the end of the stream, tall enough for the boat to pa.s.s through, sails and all. But what Miles saw was spanning the length of that entrance: a wire, pulled tight across the pa.s.sage, near the top of the opening.
A wonderful phrase from my childhood adventure books suddenly came to mind: b.o.o.by trap.
”Miles,” I said, ”what do you think happens if our sail hits that string?”
He shrugged. All the smugness was gone. He met my eyes and made a motion with his hands that said: ka-boom.
Sarah was a couple of feet away, her eyes locked on the boat, chanting: ”Float . . . float . . . float . . .”
”Sarah.”
I showed her the wire.
Her eyes went wide.
She looked back at our boat and chanted: ”Sink . . . sink . . . sink . . .”
I joined her.
What else could we do--run out the way we came in?
Miles was already there. He tried the k.n.o.b and cursed.
The boat was inches from the end. It was almost three-quarters underwater, still drifting in the current, the sails still high enough to hook the filament. The bubbles were pouring out the sides.
”Sink . . . sink . . . sink . . . SINK . . .”
The s.h.i.+p hit the end, sputtering air, drowning, and by a fraction of an inch the sail cleared the wire.
The boat disappeared into the shadows of the pa.s.sage.