Cape Flattery Will Get You Nowhere

2

From the Journals of Stanford Pines: 4:05 a.m., July 11—We should be within sight of the anomaly by daybreak, and yet I am not sure we shall see anything. I have checked satellite imagery, radar, and even quantum stability levels, and I see nothing whatever out of the ordinary—and yet the Reality Disturbance Detector persists in indicating some unidentifiable perturbation of reality at a spot perhaps forty nautical miles from our present position. We are currently making seventeen knots. If the wind holds, I'm sure we should be close to the anomaly—if indeed there is one—by about six-thirty.

As for our location, I read it as latitude 48◦ 62' north, 127◦ 70' west. In other words, we are west of the continental shelf and past the range of sea mounts lying offshore of Vancouver. Sonar indicates a depth of 12,000 feet here. My charts of the sea floor show no sign of disturbance with the single exception of a circular, or nearly circular, depression about a mile in diameter, surrounded by what seem to be broken stony outcrops. Curiously, it is roughly below the site of the suspected anomaly—but the anomaly (if it is not an artifact of malfunctioning equipment) seems to lie on the surface.

I have repeatedly, almost obsessively, checked the weather forecasts, radar, and imagery—it wouldn't do for us to be caught this far out at sea in a small boat with children aboard. However, currently everything looks clear for scores of miles in all directions, with only a small low-pressure system bringing rain in from the north—but it will bypass us, making landfall in Alaska, hundreds of miles away—and aside from that, no threats anywhere near us.

However, it is always better to err on the side of caution in situations like this, so after I have a quick look at the suspected anomaly, we will change course and circle northward and then eastward again until we make landfall, and then coast along to the Straits of Juan de Fuca. We can make our leisurely way back to port and still have our excursion. Mabel has asked if we could do some fishing, and I told her not in these waters, not in the open sea. However, we well might spot some whales tomorrow, and she's very excited about that.

Mason is making scientific observations—he takes the surface temperature once an hour, and last night he logged some notations about meteors and identified Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, correctly pointing them out as clearly visible in the night sky. I also heard him lecturing Mabel about constellations, though she insisted that Cassiopeia looked more like "Irving the Tipsy Gnome."

I'm tempted to wake him early, because a faint green aurora is playing around the northern horizon right now, and I'm not sure he's ever seen one. However, we're likely to have a stronger display tomorrow night (a current solar flare will almost guarantee that), and we'll be farther north to see it, so I shall let him sleep. The young man does impress me—like me, he is a polymath, but unlike me, he is not hopelessly awkward socially.

And Mabel is—well, Mabel, and that's enough for anyone.

Dipper woke not with the sun, but with the drool-inducing smell of bacon cooking. He got out of his bunk, tapped on the bulkhead and asked, "Are you awake?"

"No," Mabel mumbled in a grumpy voice. "I'm in a coma. Wake me for dinner."

He squirmed out of the narrow bunk, put on yesterday's outfit—fresh water is limited on a small boat, and they didn't get showers every day out here and didn't do laundry—and made his way back to the galley, where Stan was humming as he cooked at the two-burner propane stove. "Hiya, knucklehead!" he said cheerfully. "Eggs an' bacon an' toast today."

Well—he was wearing khaki pants and a long-sleeved shirt, so the chances of stray Stan hair were minimal. "Sounds good," Dipper said.

"Want coffee?" Stan asked.

"Please!"

"Then get it yourself, I'm not the maid! Hah!"

Rolling his eyes, Dipper took a thick-walled mug from the tiny cabinet, lifted the coffee pot from its cage—it nested inside a wire basket that was bolted to a counter, to keep it from spilling—and poured three-quarters of a cup of coffee. Then he found the condensed milk in the ice chest and topped the mug up with that. It was different from real milk, and it made the coffee taste a little funny—but he was getting used to coffee now. "What time is it?" he asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

"Dunno exactly. Six-something. I should be on watch now, but Poindexter's all excited about tryin' to spot a mermaid or some crazy thing, so he took a double shift at the wheel. You an' Mabel are due on deck at eight. She up yet?"

"Not yet."

"Here ya go. Bacon and scrambled," Stan said, serving up a plate.

"Thanks, Grunkle Stan," Dipper said. The bacon was crunchy, but the eggs were a little overdone and rubbery—still, Stan had sliced in some cheese, and they tasted eggy and cheesy, so Dipper ate without complaint.

"Ya bring your vitamins?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, in my duffle."

"Be sure to take one," Stan said. "Just in case ya need an antidote to my cookin'."

When Dipper finished, he cleaned and dried his plate and cup and then Stan said, "Hey, Dip, I ate already. You want to take Ford's food up to him and then see if you can raise Mabel from the dead so's I can get her to shove some grub into her pie hole?"

"Sure," Dipper said. Stan cooked it, and Dipper took plate, fork, and mug of coffee, two sugars, no cream—trying hard not to drop or spill anything—up the short companionway and out onto a rolling deck.

Ford was at the wheel, though the boat was on autopilot. He was staring off into the distance through a pair of binoculars, but then he must have heard Dipper, because he looked around at him, his expression a little worried. "Mason! I'm glad you're here."

"I brought your breakfast," Dipper said.

"Yes, yes, fine." Ford took the mug of coffee and gulped at least half of it before wincing. "Hot!" He handed Dipper his long binoculars, a powerful Navy-surplus instrument. "Look ahead, just off the port bow at the horizon, and tell me if you see anything unusual. Anything at all."

Dipper awkwardly passed him his plate, then raised the binoculars, focused on the horizon, and started a slow sweep toward the bow. "Um . . . Nothing, really, just empty ocean . . . a few low clouds . . . whoa! Lightning?"

"Then I wasn't mistaken," Ford said.

"But—going upward from the clouds?"

"That part is admittedly unusual. However, I've read that meteorologists have confirmed the existence of rarely-seen electrical phenomena—red sprites, blue jets—that spring from the tops of cumulonimbus clouds and may extend to the very stratosphere. I suspect that's what we're seeing."

"Cumulonimbus? You mean storm clouds?" Dipper asked uneasily.

Ford nodded emphatically. "That's the truly odd part! Radar shows no storm activity, nor does satellite imagery. And the clouds there are not cumulonimbus, but stratus—maybe even just ocean fog! They certainly shouldn't have a high enough electrical charge to produce such brilliant lightning effects."

"Is it lightning?"

"If not, something nearly identical to it." Ford smiled and held up a small yellow transistor radio—it looked like a relic of the 1980s, and it probably was—and clicked it on. "Listen."

Dipper lowered his chin and tilted his head to concentrate. The radio hissed with static—but then a burst like a distant explosion crackled from the speaker. And another, and another. "What am I listening for?" he asked.

"Those little crashes. Those are sferics."

"What?"

Ford spelled the word. "Short flashes of lightning-generated electromagnetic radiation. An AM radio tuned to an empty spot on the dial—easy out here at sea—picks them up each time lightning discharges. An AM radio is one of the cheapest tornado detectors around! If it starts blasting a constant roar of sferics, get to cover because a tornado's approaching."

"But I don't see any—oops, there was one."

"Yes, and it all comes from right ahead. I say we explore! I don't think we're in danger of an actual lightning strike—the bolts seem to be cloud-to cloud or, actually, cloud-to-air—and they must be some strange atmospheric phenomenon."

"Well—if it's not dangerous—"

"Ah, well. I can't positively guarantee that there's no danger. Just as a precaution, bring me my lifejacket, take one to Stan and one to Mabel, and see that they put them on, please. And of course, wear one yourself."

"But if it gets bad—"

"I promise you I'll turn back long before it gets bad. And another bizarre thing about this is that the disturbance hasn't moved at all since I first detected it last night. It won't suddenly sweep down on us. We'll approach it, but keep a prudent distance." Ford grinned. "Who knows? We may get another joint scientific paper out of this!"

That decided Dipper. He hurried forward, got Mabel up—not an easy task—and told her to get dressed and to don her lifejacket. He put his own on—bright orange, filled with squarish packs of some buoyant foam—and then grabbed a pair of adult-sized ones. He more or less waddled forward and delivered one flotation jacket to Stan, who said, "What is this, a joke?"

"No, Ford says to put it on," Dipper said, taking the last lifejacket to Stanford.

"Thank you," Ford said, accepting it from him. "Take the wheel and hold her steady while I get into this."

Dipper did—though it wasn't hard. The Stan O' War II was under easy sail, the breeze lay steady, and the ocean was smooth. Even the clouds looked less important, more like wisps of steam than storm clouds. Stan emerged from the hatch. "What are you up to? Lifeboat drill?"

"Just being careful, Stanley," Ford replied, cinching the belt around the bulky lifejacket. "Get yours on too, please."

Mabel came out onto deck rubbing her eyes and looking weird in the bright orange jacket. "This totally clashes with what I was gonna wear," she complained.

Dipper said, "Uh, Grunkle Ford—"

"We won't have to wear them for very long. We're almost to the periphery of the anomalous readings."

"Grunkle Ford!"

"I merely propose to get to the edge, close enough to observe any visible phenomenon, do a quick scan and then come about and make for waters closer to shore. We'll drop sail and—"

Stan yelled, "Holy moly! Wouldja look at that! Ford, what's goin' on?"

"Oh, my word!" Ford exclaimed. "Here, give me the wheel."

Dipper stepped aside. In front of the boat, the ocean . . . ended. Not against land—no shore, no beach, nothing. But the horizon suddenly stretched right there, right in front of the bow, and in another second it would be too late to—

"Turn around!" Stand bellowed, hauling on the wheel.

"I'm trying to!" Ford yelled, turning it in the same direction—to starboard, away from whatever void had opened.

The boat lurched sickeningly to the left, the deck tilting. Mabel yelped and grabbed one of the stays supporting the mast. Dipper grasped the brass rail, and Stan and Ford clung to the wheel housing. We're going to capsize! Dipper thought—but they didn't.

Instead, as though it were suddenly jet-propelled, the Stan O' War II leaped forward with astonishing speed. Yet dirty-yellow foam streamed forward even faster, streaks of it racing past them. The boat still listed at a 30-degree angle, making the deck steep. Instantly thick clouds engulfed them in darkness, and forks of lighting flashgunned the vessel in silent explosions of blazing light and showed—

A vast dark whirlpool, easily a mile in diameter, like an enormous funnel. The boat was caught in it twenty feet down from the lip, impelled not by wind but by the rush of water. Mabel made a gagging sound, but nothing came up—

And Dipper, clinging to the port rail, looked down and down and farther down. The whirlpool narrowed and darkened into nothing—

"Hang on!" Ford shouted. "I'm starting the engine! We'll try to climb out of this!"

The engine coughed and roared, and the boat moved even faster—but though Ford angled the nose upward, it did not climb the wall of the whirlpool, but dashed along nearly sideways. In fact, if anything it lost ground—

"Ford, you idiot!" Stan bellowed. "We're goin' down!"