The Skipper, standing in the waist-deep water, manhandled a sack of rocks into the raft with a controlled fury completely out of proportion to the task. It was already loaded with casks of fresh water, bags of dried fruit and other basic necessities, and five other sacks of rocks, each labeled with the initials of the person it represented. While it had been necessary for the Professor to know what each of them weighed in order to create their stony surrogates, by popular request the paper on which the statistics had been documented had been burned as soon as the dummies had been created.
"Sorry, Skipper, but could you move 'Mary Ann' to your other side? I think it'll balance better," the Professor said, squinting at the arrangement.
"Sure thing," the Skipper grunted, and complied. The 'Skipper' sack was at the bow, counterbalanced by the water casks at the stern.
The Professor was taking his time trying to figure out the best way to arrange the other five. It was either the best or the worst possible distraction for the Skipper; he wasn't sure which. On the one hand, it needed to be done. And carting about large bags of rocks was, one could hope, exhausting enough that the Skipper would need to concentrate on what he was doing, instead of what he was not doing, which was continuing to fight with Gilligan over his decision to exile himself.
On the other hand, it was rather rubbing his nose in the fact that he had, at least so far, lost that fight, and he looked ready to explode. "I think that's sufficient for now," said the Professor. "It's fairly evenly balanced. We can come back and check on it tomorrow to see how it's held up."
The Skipper nodded, grimly, and turned away from the raft, which, so far at least, was floating perfectly well. No bubbles indicating leaks from the seams, and not riding too low in the water for safety. It would have been nice to have been able to feel triumphant over that. He waded back to shore.
"Skipper… we'll just do what we'd agreed to do with Eva Grubb," the Professor said softly. "Once we've been picked up, we'll come back for him. With competent psychological experts."
That had been intended to soothe; it failed miserably. "No," the Skipper said, eyes blazing. "We won't. Get out another bag. He's about one-twenty; can't be more than that, not with the way he's been eating lately."
"Skipper—"
"Fine. I'll do it myself," he snapped. He shook out a sack, placed it in the basket of the scale, and began to fill it with rocks. "We're not— mmph— leaving him here. He's my crewman—ugh—and you never—oof— leave a man behind." Punctuating the noble sentiments with a few low-pitched grunts, he heaved the last sack into the raft, which settled a few inches deeper into the water. "There. Now we can just leave it to see how she holds up. In the meantime, Professor, you go brew up that Mickey Finn, after all."
"Skipper, are you sure that's a good idea?"
"No. But I am sure that leaving him here is a bad one." The Skipper's face set. "I'm the captain, and this isn't up for debate. He's coming along where I can keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn't do anything… stupid. If I have to truss him up like a Thanksgiving turkey to keep him onboard, then that's what I'll do. He's coming."
The Professor didn't say anything. The Skipper was probably right to fear…what he obviously feared. That said, the notion of setting off for the open sea in a homemade rubber raft while carrying a man either drugged into insensibility or tied hand and foot had disaster written all over it.
"We have a little time," he said, finally. "After our experiences with the tree-sap glue, I want to wait at least three days before entrusting this vessel with anything more valuable than a few sacks of stones. Preferably longer. We'll talk to him again. Skipper," he hesitated. "You know we'll all do everything we can."
OoOoOoO
Talking to him again, it turned out, didn't work any better than it had the first ten times they had tried. No argument could get very far when one of the main participants refused to do his share; variants of 'no,' without reasons or explanations, heavily garnished with stubborn silences, did nothing but lead them around in circles. By the end of one such, the Skipper's face was getting red, but he kept his voice sweetly reasonable. The way he always did before blowing his stack. "That's enough. You're coming back to civilization with us, and that's an order, so get used to it!"
"And then what?"
"What are you talking about now?"
"Say I do come back to civilization with you. What then? Do you lock me in jail with the rest of the murderers or in the nuthatch with the rest of the lunatics? It's got to be one or the other, right?"
"For the millionth time, you idiot, you're not a murderer. And you're doing a pretty good job of driving me crazy, but you're not a lunatic, either."
"If I'm not a kook or a killer, then it seems to me that I have the right to decide for myself where I do or don't go. And I'm staying here."
"You're my crew, and these people are our passengers. You have a duty to help me see to it that they get home safe."
"…A duty? Skipper, I've done everything I'm supposed to do. I've done all my work. I've tried my best to keep my dumb dreams from bothering anyone else. I haven't complained, not even once! I've done my duty, Skipper, and now you're going to be rescued, and that's great. I want you all to be rescued," he said, and swallowed hard. His voice wavered as he continued. "But I'm tired, Skipper. I just… I'm too tired. I… I can't do this anymore. It hurts too bad. I just want it all to be over with, Skipper; I can't take much more of this. I'm not brave like you. I can't. Please, can't it be over? Please?"
It took the Skipper a long moment to realize that Gilligan was asking him for permission to die.
His first reaction was horror. His second was a twisted sort of relief. If Gilligan thought the Skipper was ever going to grant that permission, he had another think coming.
"No," he said. "No, it can't 'be over.' I don't ever want to hear you talking like that again, you hear me? And another thing; we've still got a job to do. We're not done until our passengers are back at the marina in Honolulu, and that means you're still on the clock."
It wasn't working, and he could tell it wasn't working. He gritted his teeth, and pulled out the big guns. God knew the last thing the poor guy needed was something else to feel guilty about, and this was more than a little below the belt, but the Skipper was genuinely desperate. "Besides. If you don't go, none of us do. That's what we said when the Professor got stubborn, that's what we said when Ginger did, that's what we say now. You can come, or we all stay."
That hit home, as he'd known it would. He watched his first mate's eyes clouding over as the rack in his soul twisted a notch tighter, and he hated himself for it, but it was the only shot he'd had left in the locker.
"You win," Gilligan said, after a while. "We'll get them safe to the marina."
"Gilligan—"
"I said you win, okay?" he said sharply. "I'll do what I gotta do."
"Okay, good," the Skipper said, trying to sound normal. "That's settled, then. We're going to need you out there."
Gilligan snorted. "Yeah, like a fish needs a scuba tank. Who do you think you're kidding?" He kicked at the sand. "I just mess everything up. I was a menace before Kinkaid, and that was just by accident."
"What makes you think that?"
"Not just what I think. You think so too! When we first landed here, every night you'd hand me a gun and tell me to stand guard. You wouldn't do that now, would you?"
"…No," the Skipper admitted. "No, little buddy, I wouldn't. I'd be too afraid that you'd go and clean the wax out of your ears the hard way, and I'm not letting that happen."
Gilligan looked away, which was admission enough to be going on with. "Okay, Skipper," he said quietly. Six lives outweigh one, the Professor had said. You win, Kinkaid had said. You'll be rescued, all of you. I swear it. And he'd replied, I'm what you made me be, and then there had been blood. So much blood. "Okay. You win. You'll be rescued, I swear it. I'll be what you need me to be," he said softly, and he walked away before the Skipper could ask him what he meant. But he walked; he didn't run. Maybe that was enough to be going on with, too.
OoOoOoO
The Professor found him watching the raft that evening.
"She's looking real good," Gilligan said. "No leaks or anything."
"I'm cautiously optimistic," the Professor admitted. "It's still a gamble, but I believe it's one worth taking."
"You're not sure we'll make it all the way to the shipping lanes? I thought you had figured out how far we could get and how long it would take."
"I did. My calculations show that, barring unforeseen circumstances, we can reach our intended coordinates before our supplies run out. But there's always risk in undertakings such as these."
Gilligan bit a knuckle thoughtfully. "Huh. What if… what if I took her out by myself? And then whoever I find can come back for you guys."
"Absolutely not," the Professor said. "That's preposterous. We'll share the dangers, just as we always have."
"What's preposterous about it? I'm a lot lighter than any of you except Mary Ann, and definitely a whole lot lighter than all seven of us." He looked up. "Six outweighs one, right?"
"What?" The phrase was seared into his memory… but Gilligan had been asleep, hadn't he?
"Kinkaid said that's what you said about being rescued when you gave him that fake map. Six outweighs one."
"He would," the Professor said with real hatred. "Forgive me. But please, you must know that I didn't mean it. I was simply trying to convince him that I was coldblooded enough to take his part."
"I know you didn't mean it; as soon as he told me about it I figured that it had to be some sort of sneaky trick. But that doesn't mean that you're not right."
"Of course it's not right. We're not—"
"No, don't you see? This'll work, I know it will! Without all that extra weight, the raft could carry lots more water, and so I'd have a better chance of making it to the shipping lanes before it ran out." His eyes lit up in a way the Professor had almost lost hope of ever seeing again. "I could get her there, I'm positive I could, and then everyone would be saved!"
It was, the Professor had to admit, logical. Unacceptable, but logical. "No, that's ridiculous. It's far too dangerous."
"How come it's too dangerous for me, but not for all seven of us?" Gilligan cocked his head quizzically. "Wouldn't it just be seven times more dangerous if we all went? And with seven times less food and water?"
Three years of trying to teach his young friend the rudiments of reasoned debate and scientific thinking. He had to choose now to suddenly become good at it? "There's safety in numbers," the Professor said firmly. "We can take turns rowing, and take turns keeping watch for ships. No one person could ever have the requisite stamina to maneuver the craft indefinitely."
"So I'll pin a note to my shirt. That way, if I fall asleep and someone finds me, they can just read the note. And when I wake up I can start paddling again."
"That's hardly a viable solution. Note or no note, when you fell asleep, you'd run the risk of drifting completely off course. This is a two-person job, at the very least."
"Nobody else knows how to navigate besides Skipper, and you'll need him here. Besides, a cask of water the size of Skipper could get me most of the way to Hawaii." He smiled, reconsidering that last. "Heck, I bet it could get me most of the way to China. This'll work. I know it will."
The Professor shook his head. "We'll have to discuss this with the others," so the Skipper can bring you to your senses, he thought. "And in any case, no one can go anywhere for at least a few more days while I make certain that the seams are holding. Until I'm convinced that the vessel is seaworthy, it's a moot point."
"No, it's not; it's a raft!"
"…That too. Come on, let's go back to camp," the Professor said.