Bicycles Don’t Bathe

© 2017 by Walter Reimer



The waters of the Nimitz Sea undulated like a sea of oil under a moonless night sky, the stars reflecting off the water as the liner SS Ocean Majestic made its way among the scattered islands and atolls of the area. A trail of slightly greenish phosphorescence trailed behind the big liner, now two weeks outbound from San Francisco and two days out from Spontoon, headed for Tokyo.

The past fifteen days had been completely uneventful, the bridge crew receiving frequent updates from the Naval Syndicate regarding the movements of any pirates in the area.

“Don’t like it one damned bit,” the ship’s captain groused, the avian’s wattle wagging in emphasis. “The Company’s lost two ships in this area in the past three months, and the Syndicate says there’s nothing to be found! Something’s up, I’m sure of it.”

“Sez you,” the First Officer sneered under his breath. The Captain was known for jumping to conclusions. The Syndicate was thorough, the otter thought confidently; if they said there was no pirate activity in the area, there wasn’t any. It was 1937, for goodness sake, not the heyday of piracy.

Which was rather sad, as the Captain was right this time and the First Officer was dreadfully wrong.

For unknown to them a lone pirate, having overpowered the engineer on watch in the ship’s ventilation room, was preparing to act according to a carefully-laid plan!

Making sure that nose plugs were snugly fitted to his nostrils, the canine opened the main ventilation plenum that spread fresh, machine-cooled air throughout the ship. From there it was the work of mere moments to pour in a greasy-looking yellow substance with the consistency of good-quality library paste, then to secure the huge duct and turn on the heat!

When he had finished his task the pirate agent picked his pistol up and he seated himself against the ventilator facing the only door to the compartment, ready to repel any and all comers until his compatriots could come to help him. As he settled back, he checked his watch.

Right on time.


***


The ship’s orchestra brought the tune to a stop with a flourish, and the musicians acknowledged the applause of the crowd in the main salon. Some couples began to exit the dance floor, while others took their place as a jazz soloist began to play something with a bit of swing to it.

A tall, square-jawed vulpine attired in the shipping company’s formal mess uniform and the insignia of Third Officer finished remarking to his dinner companion, “So that’s how my spastic colon cleared up. Would you like to dance?”

The vixen he was addressing, a fine specimen of her species dressed in a dark green silk evening gown, smiled graciously and set her drink aside. She’d been drinking more over the past few days. “No, Henry, but I think the view from the windows would be lovely.”

She didn’t want to dance with him, not after the previous night when he’d stepped on her foot. In fact, as she thought of and discarded various plans to get away from him, the lug didn’t seem willing to take a hint.

Not even when she’d stepped down hard on his instep with her stiletto heels.

“Of course, Marie,” Henry Patafuerte said, trying hard not to show his eagerness or his happiness at squiring around none other than Marie Chienne-Furieuse, heiress to the Cleveland industrial combine of CF, Limited! Golly, what a catch! And she seemed quite taken with him – hanging on his every word as he recounted the tale of his run-in with intestinal influenza the previous summer.

It was a pity she was such a poor dancer, though. He thought he’d be laid up for a day or two after she missed a step and hit his foot, but he was right as rain after a good night’s sleep and the judicious application of ice. He smiled, recalling her surprised expression when he’d shown up for lunch the next day.

She was inhaling to speak as he gazed into her beautiful green eyes, and as he watched he noted a sudden change. Her eyes grew glassy and moist, the exposed skin of her ears semaphored bright red, and her rapidly flicking tail began to flick more to one side than the other.

His initial reaction was one of hope that she was finding him attractive.

That spastic colon story never fails.

Instead, he glanced quickly to his right and his eyes went wide.

Without warning, deliberately not breathing in despite his lungs yearning for air, he grabbed Marie around the waist and threw her through the nearest window. He took three leaping strides toward the salon door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him before walking over to her. He dragged her away from the shattered window and toward the rail.

Marie shook her head groggily and murred as he lifted her and draped her over the rail. The sound of the seam on her right sleeve parting sounded terribly distant over the roaring in her ears.

The smack across the back of her head didn’t, however.

“Wha – “

“Fresh air,” Henry growled, his tone of voice harsh and commanding – nothing like the earnest young Third Officer had been just seconds earlier. After making sure she was breathing and wouldn’t fall over the side he ran for the nearest emergency phone to the bridge.

He used the key in his dress uniform pocket to open the box, punched a button and spun the small paw crank. “Bridge! Open the windows and shut off the vents, quick!”

“Code?”

“Tiger Stripe!” he rapped out, and hung up the phone. The code was used for extreme emergencies, so the bridge crew would act first and find out later if the caller had gone nuts or not.

He walked back to Marie and took off his uniform coat, settling it around her shoulders as she slowly recovered. She coughed and looked up at him. “What the hell was that?” she rasped.

Patafuerte’s muzzle bore a grim expression. “There’s a few words for it, most of them unprintable – but the pirates have taken to calling it ‘yellowcake.’ It’s illegal everywhere.”

“P-Poison?”

“In a way,” he replied as he reached behind him and removed a small, flat pack from his belt. He slipped two objects into his nostrils. “Take a look,” and he nodded back toward the salon.

The vixen looked up at him, then at the tableau inside and her eyes went wide in shock.

Inside, the affected denizens of the Ocean Majestic’s main salon had thrown decorum to the winds and were now engaged in what looked like a frenzied group wrestling match. Without their clothes, which were lying strewn in tatters throughout the room. Even the band members and waiters seemed to be affected.

Strange, Marie thought. I didn’t know you could use an oboe like that. She looked up at him. “How come you weren’t affected like me?”

“I had just finished breathing out, and you were inhaling,” he explained as he fitted several parts from his kit together. The parts, when assembled, revealed a one-shot derringer. “Like I said, the stuff’s illegal everywhere.”

“But what is it?”

“Basically a huge concentration of musks,” came the curt answer. “Turns into vapor in warm air and guaranteed to make any fur almost mindlessly yiffy. We’d had a rumor the pirates were using it as a distraction before they attack and take a ship. Suspicions confirmed – we have a spy on board.”

“Is – is there anyone – “

“Unaffected? I called the bridge right after I rescued you. Hopefully they sealed the vents and opened the windows. I just hope the Captain didn’t get a lungful. He’s sweet on the Chief Purser.”

Marie’s muzzle twisted in distaste. “I – I didn’t want to know that. But why heave me out a window? Sure, it looks odd - old Mrs. Fortescue looks pretty energetic for eighty - but if you say mindlessly yiffy it might not be so bad – “

“Skip it,” he said. “You’re Marie Chienne-Furieuse, heiress to your father’s company. And his money, too. You’d be taken and ransomed the instant you were identified – if the pirates didn’t just sell you to a slave merchant on Kuo Han out of spite.” That earned him a horrified look as she drew his mess jacket tighter around her. “Now, sit tight here and stick these up your nose,” and he proffered her a spare set of nose plugs. “Remember, breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. Now, stay here - I’m going to kill that spy.”

“Be careful,” she called after him, and watched him nearly trip as the salon door banged open and someone’s leg protruded. “Moron,” she added in an acid tone.




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