Eleven
"Captain Chester seems a like a nice man," Tintin said as he and Captain Haddock strolled back towards the bridge.
"Salt of the earth," the Captain agreed. He clamped his pipe between his teeth and lit it with his plump, silver-coloured Zippo lighter. When he was finished, he eyed the lighter and Tintin. "Have you seen this?" he asked. He held the Zippo loosely between two fingers. Then, he brought his right hand close to the lighter's lid and snapped his fingers. The lid shot open. He snapped his fingers a second time and the lighter burst into flame.
"Oh!" said Tintin, impressed. "How'd you do that?"
"Ah-ha! It's magic!" The Captain snapped the lighter closed with a flourish. "Nah, there's a little flint in it: the friction from your fingers rubs off on it. What about this one?" He flipped the lighter in his hand and the lid snapped open. With another quick, fluid motion he ran it along the rough wool of his jacket. Once again, the lighter lit itself. "I once did that in a pub in Australia and set my trousers on fire," the Captain admitted as he snapped the lid closed again.
"That's cool!" Tintin said. "Can you do anything else?"
"Have you never seen these tricks before?" The Captain shook his head in wonder. "By thunder, I thought everyone had seen these."
They spent the rest of the morning hanging out on the deck while the AB kept watch at the wheel. They found a good, clear stretch of deck and a football, and organized a kick-about between some of the crew and the research students. Everything was fine until the ball went into the ocean and bobbed sadly away on the waves. The Captain and Tintin leaned side-by-side on the rail and saluted the ball as it drifted off.
"It was a good ball," Tintin said with a sigh.
"It had a good life," the Captain agreed. He clapped Tintin on the back. "Right, I'm hungry now: lunch-time! Ayup," he added, looking around, "there's Billy-boy out having a fag. Alright, mate?" he called.
The cook, dressed in greying chef's whites that were splattered with the remains of meals long-eaten, looked over and waved before making his way to them. He was a tall, gloomy Northern Irishman with a thick neck and well-muscled arms. His hands reminded Tintin of shovels. "What about yerselves?" he said morosely.
"Not bad," the Captain answered pleasantly. "And you?"
"I'm not happy, Captain," Bill replied. "That sous-chef's useless. He keeps tryin' te put salt in everything. I found him trying to salt the cheese last night. Even the mice are complaining."
"Aye, you know you're using too much salt when the mice complain." The Captain never took Bill's complaints seriously: the man wasn't happy unless he had something to complain about.
"And that dog of yours is driving me nuts," Bill said to Tintin. "I keep having to chase him out the kitchen. Can ye not keep him with ye?"
"I'll try," Tintin replied politely.
"Don't mind him," the Captain scoffed. "Snowy's fine. What are having today, Big Bill? I'm bloody starving."
"Spaghetti and salt, most likely. But mainly spaghetti. Those tomatoes are on the turn and I need t'use 'em up. So we're prob'ly going to be having a lot of tomato sauce for the next week."
"Sounds delightful."
"Liar. You hate tomatoes, Captain."
"Yes, but I like spaghetti."
"You won't like this one; it's far too salty."
"You're a breath of fresh air, Bill."
"Aye, that's what they tell me." Bill sighed deeply, as though it weighed heavily on his soul.
They were interrupted by a crash from the kitchen. They turned and waited: a second later Snowy tore from the kitchen, his neat wool jacket covered with clinging strands of spaghetti. He ran off, yowling in fright.
"That bloody dog!" Bill yelled. "I'll kill him if I catch him!"
"I'm so, so sorry!" Tintin said quickly. "I'll clean it up, I promise."
"Just keep him away from me!"
The Captain laughed as Tintin high-tailed it after Snowy. "Don't be too hard on him," he said soothingly to the angry chef. "Dogs are stupid: you know that. And that one's a greedy little beggar."
"This isn't on, Captain," Bill insisted.
"Then you should learn to shut doors after yourself. That's what you get when you leave 'em open. Come on, Bill, calm down," he said. "You know there's no point getting angry. Besides, at least someone's enjoying your food, salt and all!" He started to stroll away. "Just remember to keep your sense of humour: one must always keep ones sense of humour or-aaaaaagh!" His foot slipped on a stray piece of spaghetti and he went down, landing on his backside. Hard. "That flaming mongrel!" he roared, shaking his fist in the air. "Billions of blue blistering barnacles! Wait till I get my hands on that little pirate!"
Bill laughed heartily as he helped his old friend up. "Ye couldn't have timed that better, Archie! Gaw, but you don't half cheer me up sometimes."
"Well, I'm glad somebody's laughing!" The Captain rubbed his aching derrière.
"I have to say, Archie, it's good to see you in such a good mood these days," Bill continued as they walked together back towards the kitchens. "I don't know what's come over you, but it was long over-due."
"What's that supposed to mean?" the Captain snapped.
"I dunno," Bill said, ignoring the Captain's tone of voice. They'd been friends for too long to start taking offence at things like that. "You were in a bad way though, you have to admit. These last few weeks you've been like a new person. You're not a flaming drunk for a start."
"Aye, I suppose," the Captain grudgingly agreed.
"That lad's been good for you: he brings out the best in you."
"Who, Tintin? Yeah, he's not a bad kid."
"He deserves a medal for pulling you out of that funk. You should keep him close to you: he's good for you."
"Shut up, Bill, and serve me my lunch, will you?"
"Aye, go on with yerself, mate, and the grub'll be up soon enough."
x
A week passed quickly. When he wasn't taking photos or interviewing people for his article, Tintin hung out with the Captain and played cards or talked about rubbish. He learnt a lot about the inner workings of the ship and its crew, and a lot about the Captain himself. In return, he did his best to deflect personal questions without appearing rude. He learnt how to change the subject artfully and with more skill than he had previously possessed. In a way, it was a shame to have to keep the man at arm's length: he was a good fellow, and funny too. He would have made a good friend.
That was the one part of his life that he didn't like: his inability to keep friends. Oh, it wasn't as though he couldn't keep friends; he was as personable and friendly as they came. But aside from Chang he kept everyone else removed from him. He had acquaintances and contacts. Friends were difficult. They shared a part of themselves with you, and in return you did the same. Chang understood about Tintin's life and the choices he had made. Adults were different, and Tintin had no intention of going back to his old life. For a start, he'd worked to hard to make this one.
He'd once had a conversation about kids with the Captain. The Captain believed that kids belonged with their parents or, if they didn't have any, in state-run institutions where they could be 'looked after' properly. But the Captain didn't know. He couldn't understand what it was like to be there, to be just one among many. He didn't understand that the many were all seeking a way to belong to something, anything, and they looked for weaknesses among their own. If they found any sign of weakness – from fear to the desire to stand out and be one's own person – they struck, and they were cruel, and they were relentless.
He didn't understand about the men and women that ran such institutions, about how they ran them to their own sense of morals and goodness, and did what they believed was best. He didn't understand that if one of their wards didn't follow-the-leader or agree with everything they believed they were singled out by everyone, and that harsh too. And he certainly didn't understand the power the Church held in Catholic countries.
Tintin believed in God, but he didn't believe in the Catholic version of God. He didn't believe in the Protestant version either: he was still young enough to hold on to that firm belief that God didn't hate anyone, and didn't require His followers to hate on His behalf. Tintin also believed in logic, and it was logic that suffered in the face of Catholicism. Tintin liked his belief in God and logic, and he didn't want anyone trying to take it away from him, or trying to break him down and build him up as someone else; somebody else's opinion of what a 'good man' should be.
So, emotionally, he kept his distance. He listened to the Captain's stories and laughed in all the right places – and to be honest they were funny stories – and offered jokes and observations in place of his own honesty.
It was just better that way.
x
"Right," the Captain said. They were leaning over the desk and watching as he plotted a course. Tintin was present, of course, along with the pilot of the seaplane – an Englishman named James King – and Professor Phostle. "This is where we are," the Captain continued, pointing at a spot on the map. "We've crossed the 72nd Parallel. You'll need to confine your search to an area between 73 and 79 North, and 8 and 13 West. Got that?"
Captain King nodded. "Got it," he said with a half-hearted salute. "You know me, Cap'n, I'm an ace pilot."
"More like Eight-Ace," the Captain replied with a laugh.
"What's Eight-Ace?" Tintin asked.
"Don't ask."
They were taking the seaplane up and starting the search for the meteor. They were closing in on where it was, and they needed to find out how far they were from it, and what reaction it was having to the sea. So much time had passed, and they were so intermittently in areas where they could make contact with any shore that they had no idea if it was still on top of the waves. For all they knew the thing could have sunk by now. Tintin had offered to accompany King: he could take the radio while the pilot took the controls, and he had some experience in a seaplane, although the Captain didn't like thinking about that experience: it still brought him out in a cold sweat. Plus, aerial photography of the meteor and the Aurora would look good in Tintin's article.
"What about the icebergs?" Tintin asked as they left the bridge and walked towards the seaplane. It was on top of the prow on a sort of metal catapult that would act as a miniature runway, to give the plane the force it needed to lift-off with stalling and crashing.
"Will you stop going on about the flaming icebergs!" the Captain snapped. "We're not going to hit an iceberg!"
"I meant the plane!" Tintin pointed out. They had entered the ice fields some weeks ago. True to the Captain's word, he hadn't hit a single iceberg. Yet.
"You'll be fine. Like he says; King's an ace."
"King of the sky," King added. "That's what they call me."
"The most important thing you've got to remember," the Captain said, "is don't take any risks. And don't go beyond the limits we fixed. You've got a set amount of fuel and we don't want any accidents, got it?"
They had reached the plane. Tintin, holding Snowy under one arm, scrambled up after King, who was already strapping himself into his seat. "Do a radio check now," the Captain ordered.
"One-two, one-two," King said obediently into the radio. "Are you receiving me, Sparky?"
"Loud and clear, over," came the crackling reply from the radio.
"I made it with your sister last Christmas. Over."
"Bell-end!"
"Don't forget to say 'over'." King grinned as Tintin fastened his seatbelt. "Handing control of the radio to Tintin. Over."
"Make a joke about sister," Sparky muttered sourly, "I dare you. Over."
Captain Haddock hopped up onto the struts and took the radio from Tintin. "He's never met your sister, but we hear she's easy. Over!"
The adults laughed. Tintin assumed it was an established exchanged echoed the world over by grown men with two-way radios. There was something about communication systems that made crude jokes so much more acceptable than saying them face-to-face.
"I don't even have a sister!" Sparky wailed plaintively. "Over!"
"The radio works," Tintin said dryly, taking the mike back from the Captain. "Over and out."
"Spoil sport," the Captain said with an amicable grin. "Good luck, lads, and good bye. And keep your eyes peeled for the meteor."
The thick fibreglass cover for the cockpit slid back into place and locked automatically from the inside. There was a low hum as the air-conditioning kicked in and cold, fresh air flooded the chamber. Captain King flicked a few switches and the propellers started, slowly at first but chug-chugging faster and faster until they spun in a blur. Underneath them, something whirred as the metal catapult extended out from the prow and over the freezing water.
"Here we go," Captain King murmured. He pushed a button and for a moment Tintin's stomach was in his mouth as he was forced back into his hard, leather seat. The plane catapulted forward and the engine burst into life. For a split-second – barely a nano-second – it seemed like something had gone wrong, and they hung in the air for an eternity, but then the Aurora dropped below them and they were up, up in the sky and among the sparse, white clouds. King whooped and Tintin grinned in relief, letting go of the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
Author's Note: That's totally true about grown men and two-way communication systems. Nobody knows why, but 'Your Mother' and 'Your Sister' jokes are perfectly acceptable in any situation that involves the testing of a two-way communication system.