The Dream Vessel Read Online Free

centimes at most.”
    “Ya, but that’s what Sanders is asking, 10,000. Hey, it could take days to negotiate him down. An’ you gotta talk to the brigsman today—none of this bend-rules-for-the-captain, uh-uh.”
    “So Sanders and Eric and Larry are all in on this.”
    “Oh ya. It was quite a trick movin’ that table in that captain’s way, but we’d a gotten a fight going somehow.”

4
Big Bang Day
    Tym disliked this foolishness. She was not trained to be a teacher, had no inclination to be one. But every few months, her name came up in the rotation to fill in for Lupa and Manfred, the real teachers who seemed quite talented at escaping the classroom.
    She would much rather be spearing boar, or plucking lobster off the sea floor. Anything but the classroom, those twenty sets of moist noses and wide eyes demanding wisdom. The little ruggers filled four collapsible benches under an open-air tent, which was dyed varied shades of green and brown to hide it amid the jungle vegetation. Collapsible was a dominant concept when you moved every few weeks, dodging enemies and following food.
    “Todaaaay….” She let the word linger, as an announcement that the lessons were beginning. Finally even Pilsey, the jumpy six-year-old, had her grubby hands folded primly. “Today, we are going to talk about destructivism. Does anyone know what destructivism is?”
    Silence.
    Patiently, she began to pace in front of the class. She hooked her thumbs into her cut-off trousers and patted her long brown fingers against her thighs. She was bald, or nearly so—just a couple of days’ growth. Being out of the sun, she wore no shirt.
    “You talked about it before…”
    “What, Jim-Jim?” She turned quickly. The older kid, maybe twelve, the one with no left hand, had said something.
    “You talked about it before….”
    “Yes, Jim-Jim, I discussed destructivism the last time that I was honored with teaching duty. But do you remember my rule? I want you to speak up when you have something to say—speak up loudly. But before you do, please raise your hand. I’ll know to watch your lips. Remember, ah don’ hear so good.” She thrust her hip out and propped her right hand on it.
    Giggles.
    Tym pointed. “What, Luci?”
    “Ummm…ah don’ hear so WELL,” squeaked Luci, the little one down front, naked except for sandals.
    “Correct. Yes. I don’t hear so well. Now, Jim-Jim, please define destructivism.”
    “It’s…” His voice was croaking, sounding like it hurt. “It’s, well, that things are getting worse.”
    “Well, not quite. There’s more.”
    “Well, there was the Big Fire! Hundreds of years ago. The bombs that blew up most the mainland.”
    Tym was beckoning now, waving her hand in little strokes—come on, come on, come on—her eyes fixed on his rippling mouth. But Jim-Jim seemed to have run out of knowledge.
    “Okay,” Tym said, “that was very good, as far as you went. But you were lacking one idea: That sometimes things have to get bad, there must be destruction, before things can get any better. Out of destruction—historically, over long periods of time—comes progress. And this idea, this theeeeory, is called…what?”
    Jim-Jim’s hand shot up: “The Big Bang Theory!”
    “Right.” Maybe teaching wasn’t so bad.
     
    Tym adjusted the mirror again. She cursed the incorrigible spin it seemed to have, dangling as it did from the overhead cross brace of her tent. When the mirror seemed nearly still, she dragged her stool a few inches to the left to follow the reflection. This repeated action had left several sets of zigzagging lines in the dirt.
    She raised the straight razor again, head dipped, eyes on the glass, and proceeded to shave her head in short scrapes. She winced, slapped her hand into the pot of boar fat, smeared it onto her bristly dome, then started anew.
    This could take half an hour, she knew, maybe more. Shave a little patch, stop the spin, drag the stool, shave. One of the