Wormholes by Dennis Meredith Page B

down the center of the great ship for most of its thousand-yard length. He loved this walk, along the very spine of this gigantic moving island that he oversaw. But he didn’t admit it. He insisted that this was a nightly inspection trip. He started along the catwalk, his hand now and then brushing the cool rail with his fingertips to mark the rhythm of his walk. The only sounds were the faint metallic thunk of his shoes on the steel grating, underlain by the delicate distant whisper of the breeze. The gigantic screw that drove the supertanker was held deep underwater by the weight of its cargo. And the bow, his objective, was almost a quarter-mile ahead. That destination represented the only real contact he had with the ocean on this immense vessel. He loved to lean over the bow in the darkness and watch the ocean being relentlessly cleaved into a curling, hissing froth by the advance of the ship’s bulbous prow.
    He reached the midship deck light suspended high on a pole and proceeded beyond toward the darkness of the bow. The first mate knew to briefly extinguish the bow lamp for him when no other ships were on radar. And since the broad windows in the looming superstructure behind him were heavily curtained, the darkness on deck was profound, and to some, frightening.
    Peering out at the ocean, he was just able to make out the faint white frosting of foam on the occasional breaker. He didn’t like perfectly calm seas. He liked seas that had some character, some intricate interweaving of waves that offered a challenge to a mariner’s sea sense.
    He looked downward occasionally as he walked, scanning the familiar labyrinth of pipes and valves below the catwalk that allowed the great mass of ebony liquid to be transferred and managed. He knew every component of that system, and when the offending malfunctioning valve passed beneath, he gave it an especially reproachful look.
    He stopped in the darkest part of the catwalk and looked up at the stars. Only the brightest ones shone through the faint haze that marked the nearness of the African continent, even though they were a hundred miles at sea. This region was the nursery for hurricanes that would begin as mere storms in the warm ocean, drawing strength and power to slam against the East coast of the U.S. He always gave this part of the Atlantic the proper respect. Again, he looked out across the dark sea stretching away to the horizon. He remembered his beginnings as a seventeen-year-old seaman on an ocean-going tug. He had been close to the sea then, learning the infinity of its fluid moods. Now he commanded this floating island that rode apart from the sea’s governance, a law unto itself.
    His reverie quickly faded, though, eroded by a growing realization that the water had grown strangely visible. He stared hard at the sea. Yes, he was sure. It had begun to glow with a faint greenish phosphorescence that he could only barely discern. This was new. This was unsettling. He watched for a while to make sure it was not some trick played by the night on his middle-aged eyes. Or maybe it was like the faint bioluminescence called the white sea he’d seen many times in the Arabian Sea. No. Indeed, there was a new, an unusual, source of light somewhere below the surface. He decided the glow was strongest to port, clenched his pipe between his teeth and strode briskly along the catwalk to a portside ramp and hurried along it toward the railing. Around him the glow rose to suffuse the ship in a half-light that he had never seen before, giving the familiar steel clutter an eerily ghostly aspect. He reached the railing and leaned over, peering into the water.
    Despite the surface chop from the ship’s wake, he could make out the glow deep in the water. It had brightened, revealing the immense depth of the deep green ocean beneath the ship.
    He inhaled deeply, his nostrils filling with a salty aroma marking heated seawater. He felt steam rising against his face, moistening