Walker, now, Walker looked excited. She had her doubts about him, anyway. Intelligent, hardworking, and they even shared a hobby in the martial arts, but there was something . . .
“Speaking of rations, how are we found?” she asked.
The fuel-oil tanks were full—they’d topped up in New London before they left. Thank God for small mercies. The Eagle’s auxiliary was a fairly recent thousand-horsepower Caterpillar diesel named Max, practically immortal given that the ship’s own machine shop could make most replacement parts; the generators and freshwater plant ran off the same fuel system. Oil would be the weak point. Wind only from now on, she thought . We use the auxiliary in nothing but real emergencies.
“Ma’am,” the quartermaster said. “We’ll be out of fresh vegetables and the like shortly. Flour, canned and dried goods, and so forth, maybe four weeks. But ma’am, two hundred people take a lot of feeding.”
“Reduced rations immediately then. Use the perishables first, and I’ll talk to Chief Cofflin and see what they can spare from shore. From what Lieutenant Walker says, the fishing and so forth will be very good. We can lend a hand with that right away. We’ll also probably be making a run to England—well, to the British Isles, whatever they’re called here-and-now—to trade for grain. I’d like your ideas on that ASAP, by tomorrow morning, if you please.”
Officers needed to be kept busy too. “Also on how we can convert the ship for operations in a low-tech environment. More fuel’s out of the question, and so are electronics or most machine parts except those we can make in the shop on board or get from the island. We’ll be lucky to get cordage and sails.”
“Captain Alston.” That was the former operations officer, Sandy Rapczewicz, now acting XO. She was a competent-looking woman in her thirties with a weathered, pug-nosed Slavic face; her eyes were red, but she seemed calm enough. A teenaged son ashore, Alston remembered, and a husband. “I was just thinking. We’re in the past, right?”
She nodded. Rapczewicz went on: “But if we, um, do things—make contact with the locals, that sort of thing—won’t we, um, sort of change the way things happened? It isn’t in the history books, thousands of people and a ship appearing in Moses’ time.”
Silence fell around the table. Alston nodded. “Sandy, you’re right.” Some of the officers were beginning to look frightened. “On shore, I talked about that to some of Cofflin’s Council, a history professor and an astronomer, and the town librarian, who’s an amateur archaeologist.” Odd what types ended up on Nantucket, but it wasn’t your average island. “One thing they agreed on—-even if we all dropped dead tomorrow morning, we’ve already changed history.”
“How’s that, Captain? We haven’t done anything yet.”
“We’re here. A lot of buildings and so forth are here, including brick and concrete and stone that’ll last. When Europeans arrived, they’d find the ruins. More important, the islanders already sent some people ashore, they had contact with the Indians—and according to the doctor in charge of the local clinic, the one they brought back is dying of the common cold.”
That brought everyone up. “The person with the cold sneezed on one of the others on shore, too, which means their whole tribe probably has it by now. You think that isn’t going to change history? They’ll pass it on, since not all of them will keel over at once. And as a practical matter, everyone on the island isn’t going to drop dead tomorrow. People will try to survive. Even if everything goes wrong, hundreds will be around for years, and everything they do will change things.”
Rapczewicz crossed herself. “Then we could be destroying the future—everyone we know, the whole country.”
“If we have, we’ve already done it. Think it through. We’re still here, so the history that produced us is too,
“Speaking of rations, how are we found?” she asked.
The fuel-oil tanks were full—they’d topped up in New London before they left. Thank God for small mercies. The Eagle’s auxiliary was a fairly recent thousand-horsepower Caterpillar diesel named Max, practically immortal given that the ship’s own machine shop could make most replacement parts; the generators and freshwater plant ran off the same fuel system. Oil would be the weak point. Wind only from now on, she thought . We use the auxiliary in nothing but real emergencies.
“Ma’am,” the quartermaster said. “We’ll be out of fresh vegetables and the like shortly. Flour, canned and dried goods, and so forth, maybe four weeks. But ma’am, two hundred people take a lot of feeding.”
“Reduced rations immediately then. Use the perishables first, and I’ll talk to Chief Cofflin and see what they can spare from shore. From what Lieutenant Walker says, the fishing and so forth will be very good. We can lend a hand with that right away. We’ll also probably be making a run to England—well, to the British Isles, whatever they’re called here-and-now—to trade for grain. I’d like your ideas on that ASAP, by tomorrow morning, if you please.”
Officers needed to be kept busy too. “Also on how we can convert the ship for operations in a low-tech environment. More fuel’s out of the question, and so are electronics or most machine parts except those we can make in the shop on board or get from the island. We’ll be lucky to get cordage and sails.”
“Captain Alston.” That was the former operations officer, Sandy Rapczewicz, now acting XO. She was a competent-looking woman in her thirties with a weathered, pug-nosed Slavic face; her eyes were red, but she seemed calm enough. A teenaged son ashore, Alston remembered, and a husband. “I was just thinking. We’re in the past, right?”
She nodded. Rapczewicz went on: “But if we, um, do things—make contact with the locals, that sort of thing—won’t we, um, sort of change the way things happened? It isn’t in the history books, thousands of people and a ship appearing in Moses’ time.”
Silence fell around the table. Alston nodded. “Sandy, you’re right.” Some of the officers were beginning to look frightened. “On shore, I talked about that to some of Cofflin’s Council, a history professor and an astronomer, and the town librarian, who’s an amateur archaeologist.” Odd what types ended up on Nantucket, but it wasn’t your average island. “One thing they agreed on—-even if we all dropped dead tomorrow morning, we’ve already changed history.”
“How’s that, Captain? We haven’t done anything yet.”
“We’re here. A lot of buildings and so forth are here, including brick and concrete and stone that’ll last. When Europeans arrived, they’d find the ruins. More important, the islanders already sent some people ashore, they had contact with the Indians—and according to the doctor in charge of the local clinic, the one they brought back is dying of the common cold.”
That brought everyone up. “The person with the cold sneezed on one of the others on shore, too, which means their whole tribe probably has it by now. You think that isn’t going to change history? They’ll pass it on, since not all of them will keel over at once. And as a practical matter, everyone on the island isn’t going to drop dead tomorrow. People will try to survive. Even if everything goes wrong, hundreds will be around for years, and everything they do will change things.”
Rapczewicz crossed herself. “Then we could be destroying the future—everyone we know, the whole country.”
“If we have, we’ve already done it. Think it through. We’re still here, so the history that produced us is too,
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