Free Microcosmic God by Theodore Sturgeon Page B

belonged to a nation that likes to sink arms runners. One of the nations, I mean. I had just come off watch, and was leaning on the taffrail when I saw her boiling along behind us, overtaking.
    I ran forward, collaring an ordinary seaman. “Run up some colors,” I said. “I don’t give a damn what ones. Hurry!”
    Pounding up the ladder, I hauled Toole out of the wheelhouse, pointed out the raider and dived for the radio shack, which was some good to us now that the generator was going again.
    I sat down at the key and put on a headset. Sure enough, in a second or two I heard: “What ship is that? Where from? Where bound?” repeated in English, French, German and Spanish. I’d have called the skipper, but had given him up as a bad job. Toole came in.
    “They want to know who we are,” I said excitedly. “Who are we?”
    “Wait’ll I look at the flag the kid is running up,” he said. He went to the door, and I heard him swear and whistle. “Give a look,” he said.
    Flying from the masthead was a brilliant green flag on which was a unicorn, rampant. I’d seen it—where was it? Years ago—oh, yes; that was it! In a book of English folk tales; that was supposed to be the standard of Oberon and Titania, King and Queen of … of the fairies, the Little Folk!
    Dazed, I turned to the key and began pounding. I didn’t even realize what I was sending. Some imp controlled my hand, and not until it was sent did I realize I had said, “S.S.
Princess of Birmingham
, Liverpool, bound for Calais with a load of airplane parts.”
    “Thank you!” said the raider, and put a shell across our bow. Toole had gone back to the bridge, and I sat there sweating and wondering what the hell to do about this. Of all stupid things to say to an enemy raider!
    The engine vibration suddenly became labored and the ship slowed perceptibly. Oh, of course, the old wagon would pick a time like this to become temperamental! I beat my skull with my fists and groaned. This was curtains.
    The raider was abeam and angling toward us. “Heave to!” she kept buzzing through my phones. Through the porthole beside me I could already see the men moving about on her narrow decks. I turned to my key again and sent the commander of the raider some advice on a highly original way to amuse himself. In answer he brought his four swivel guns to bear on us.
    The bridge tube whistled. Toole said, “What the hell did you say to him? He’s fixin’ to sink us!”
    “I don’t know,” I wailed. “I don’t know nothing!”
    I ripped off the headset and put my elbows on the port ring across the room, staring out to sea with my back to the swiftly approaching raider. And there in the sunny waves was a conning tower, periscope and all!
    Now get this. Here we were, lying helpless, going dead slow with crippled engines between a surface raider and a sub. We were meat for anyone working for any government. Most of us were Americans; if the raider took us it would mean an international incident at a time when no one could afford one. If the sub took us, it was the concentration camp for us. Either might, and probably would, sink us. We were outlaws.
    I went up on the bridge. No sense doing anything now. If we got into boats, we’d likely be cut down by machine-gun bullets. Toole was frantically tugging at the handle of the engine room telegraph.
    “I’m trying to stop her!” he gasped. “She’s going dead slow; there’s something wrong with the engines. They’re making such a racket back there that the first assistant can’t hear the tube whistle. The telegraph is jammed! The helm won’t answer! Oh, my God!”
    “Where’s your quartermaster?”
    Toole jerked a thumb toward the bridge ladder. “I sent him aft to run down to the engine room, and he tripped and fell down to the boat deck! Knocked himself out!”
    I ran to the port wing and looked out at the sub. True to her kind, she was attacking without asking questions. There was a jet of spume, and