Did you miss out on that big football game last week? Can't get rid of that head cold? Want to get away from it all? PBS offers you Escape. You are groping your way slowly through the dark hold of a ship at sea, moving carefully step by step, searching intently for something you dread to find, because you know that this ship carries a cargo of death. The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations presents Escape, produced and directed by William N. Robson, and carefully plotted to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape to a harbor front in Venezuela, and a grim voyage that started there, as told by Martin Storm in his gripping story, A Shipment of Mute Fate. I stopped on the wharf at La Guaira and looked up the gangplank toward the Liner Chan cave, standing quietly there at her moorings. The day was warm under a bright tropic sun, and the harbor beyond the ship lay drowsy and silent. But all at once in the midst of these peaceful surroundings, a cold chill gripped me, and I shivered with sudden dread. Dread of the thing I was doing and was about to do. But too much had happened to turn back now. I'd gone too far to stop. So I set the box down on the edge of the wharf, placed it carefully so as to be in plain sight, and within gunshot of the captain's bridge. And then I turned and started up the gangplank. I knew what I was going to do, but I couldn't forget that a certain pair of beady eyes were watching every move I made. Eyes that never blinked and never closed, just watched and waited. Oh, that biggie pot. Why, it's Mr. Warner. Hello, Mother Willis. How's the best looking stewardess on the seven seas? Well, I'm fine, Mr. Warner. Why, I guess I better run along now and get on with my show. Now, wait a minute. That's a fine greeting after two months. Well, it's just that I'm so busy. I don't believe a word of it. Sailing day's tomorrow. You're simply avoiding me. That's all. Oh, no, really I'm not. And on the trip down from New York, you said I was your favorite passenger. But I'm only... Here, wait a minute. What's that you're carrying in your apron there? Oh, it's nothing. Just supplies. Supplies? Well, let's have a look. No, please. What do you know? It's a cat. It's Clara, Mr. Warner. Mr. Bowman said I had to leave her ashore. And I just couldn't. Who's Mr. Bowman? The new chief steward. Oh. Clara's been aboard with me for two years. And I just can't leave her here in a foreign country, especially with her condition. It's a delicate knoll. Yeah, I see what you mean. Well, I hope you get away with it. You won't tell anyone? Not a soul. As a matter of fact, if things don't work out right, we may both end up smuggling. Well, I'm happy to have you on board on the trip down two months ago, Christopher. I'm very glad you're coming along with us on the run back to New York. Thanks, Captain Wood. There is one thing, though. I'm having a little trouble with the customs men here, and I wondered if you might... I can't do it, Christopher. I just cabled your father this morning. I told him I'd done it for you if I possibly could. He sent a request to New York, you know. Yeah, I thought he would. I wired him from upriver last week. I hate to refuse, but it's absolutely out of the question. What happened, Wood? I'm afraid I don't follow you there. Responsibility to the passenger, son. We'll have women and children aboard. On a liner, the safety of the passengers comes ahead of anything. But with proper precautions... Something might happen. I don't know what, but something might. You've carried worse things. There isn't anything worse. And any skipper afloat will bear me out. No, Christopher, I simply can't take the chance, and that's final. Final? Well, it wasn't final if I could do anything about it. I hadn't come down here to spend two months in that stinking back country and then be stopped on the edge of the wharf. Two months of it. Heat, rain, insects, malaria. We've gone clear in past the headwaters of the Oranoco. Traveled through country where every step along the jungle trail might be the last one. Oh, Sanchez. Si, señor Warner. We better start looking for a place to camp. It'll be dark in a little while. Si, señor. Very soon we turn to river. Camp on rocks by water. This very bad country. This very bad country. You've been saying that for 10 days now. Very bad country. Si, señor Warner. This very bad country. Yeah, let's skip it. For all the luck we've had so far, it might as well be Central Park. Central Park? I don't understand. Oh, never mind. If we don't find something... Hey, hey, what's the matter? Quiet now. Sanchez, what's wrong? They're in the path. Si, Bushmaster. Bushmaster. The deadliest snake in the world. Bushmaster. Its Latin name was Lachesis muta. Mute fate. It lay there in the center of the path, a 10-foot length of silent death, coiled loosely in an undulant loop, ready to strike violently at the least movement. Here was the one snake that would go after any animal that walked, or any man. It lay there and watched us, not moving, not afraid, ready for anything. The splotch of its colors stood out like some horrible gaudy floor mat lying there on the brown background of the jungle, waiting for someone to step on it. Here was what I'd come 2,000 miles for, a Bushmaster. Sanchez! I didn't want that snake killed. No kill, senor. He gone. Bushmaster very smart, very quick. Must always see bullet in time to dodge. Well, anyway, he's gone, and the only one we've seen in five weeks. Oh, we find other. This very bad country. Well, lay off that gun the next time. Don't shoot, you understand? Why you say no shoot? You want Bushmaster. Sure, but I want it alive. Hombre sacristo. Senor Warner, you tell me you want Bushmaster, but you no say alive. You're getting $200 for it. For dead man, what is $200? Tomorrow we go back to Caracas. I'll make it 500, Sanchez. I catch water snake, rattlesnake, any other kind, but I no catch Bushmaster. Sanchez, I'll give you $1,000. We go back to Caracas. Well, it cost me $1,500 American dollars, but three days later, Sanchez brought me the snake in a rubber bag. It was shaking so hard, I thought for a moment the thing had struck him. One thing you make sure, Senor Warner, not turn him loose in Venezuela, because he know either one who catch him, and he know where I live. All right, Sanchez, I'll keep an eye on him. También he know you pay me to catch him. All the time he watch and wait. You no forget that, Senor Warner, because he no forget. Not ever. Well, after going through all that trouble and danger and laying out $1,500, I wasn't going to let a pigheaded ship captain stop me at the last minute. At least not as long as the cables were still in operation between LaGuardia and New York. Morning, Captain Wood. The boy at the hotel said you wanted to see me. That's right, Christopher. Sit down. Thank you. It seems you weren't willing to let matters stand the way we left them yesterday. I'm sorry to go over your head, Captain Wood, but I had to. The museum sent me all the way down here for it, and I'm not going to be stopped by red tape. This will be the only live Bushmaster ever brought to the United States. Yes, and if I had my way of it, well, orders are orders. I got a cable from the head office this morning. All right, I suppose we talk about precautions. I'll handle it any way you say. It's got to have a stronger box. That crate's too flimsy. Well, it's stronger than it looks, and that wire screen on top would hold a wildcat. But anyway, I bought a heavy sea chest this morning. We'll put the crate inside of it. Sounds all right. You got a lock on it? Heavy padlock. It's fixed so that the lid can be propped open to crack without unlocking it. The snake's got to have air. But in dirty weather, that lid stays shut. Take no chances. Fair enough. I will keep the thing in my inside cabin where I sleep. I can't have it in the baggage room, and nobody on board's to know about it. Whatever you say, Captain, but we won't have any trouble. After all, it's only an animal. It doesn't have any magical powers. I saw a Bushmaster in the zoo. It'd crack us once. Had it in a glass cage with double walls. It'd never move. Just lay there. Look at you as long as you were in sight. Gave a man the creeps. I didn't know they had a Bushmaster at the Caracas Zoo. They don't now. Found the glass broken one morning and the snake gone. Night watchman was dead. They never found out what happened. Well, the watchman must have broken the glass by accident some way. The way they figured it, the glass was broken from the inside. We sail in four hours. We steamed north into the Caribbean with perfect weather and a sea as smooth as an inland lake. The barometer dropped a little on the third day, but cleared up overnight and left nothing worse than a heavy swell. But in spite of the calm seas and the pleasant weather, I found myself feeling more and more often an ominous foreboding. I was developing an almost unnatural fear of that snake. Well, I stayed clear of the passengers pretty much. Got the habit of dropping into Captain Wood's quarters several times a day. He kept the heavy box underneath his berth. I'd approach it quietly and shine my flashlight through the open crack. Never once could I catch that 12-foot devil asleep or even excited. He'd be lying there half coiled, his head raised a little, staring out of those beady black eyes, waiting. He'd still be like that when I'd turn away to leave. Maybe that's what bothered me, that horrible and constant watchful waiting. What in the name of heaven was he waiting for? Well, hello there, Mr. Warner. Oh, how are you, Mother Willis? Why, but you and the captain spend an awful lot of time around this cabin. I'm beginning to think the two of you must have some guilty secret. Oh, no, nothing like that, Mother Willis. I don't know about Captain Wood, but I... Well, I certainly don't have any guilty secret. Well, she's running quite a swell out there, Mr. Bowman. Yeah, it's a little heavy all right, Mr. Warner. Guess a storm passed through to the west of us yesterday when the glass dropped. Think it missed us then, huh? Yeah, that's what the mate figures. Sure stirred up some water, though. This will put half the passengers in their bunks. Makes it great for my department. Two thirds of them will want a steward to hold their heads. They'll keep Mother Willis so busy she'll have... Wait, look at the size of that wave. Huh? A great geosophic. We're gonna take it on the port bound. Hang on! Well, that was a freak if there ever was one. Not another wave in sight. You see them like that sometimes, even in a calm sea. Well, I gotta get below, Mr. Warner. That water probably did some damage on the officer's deck. Yeah, I suppose it... What did you say? Uh, the wheel companionway was open on the port side. Bridge cabins must have taken a pretty bad smashing up. They're right below the, uh... Here, uh, is something wrong, Mr. Warner? No. No, nothing at all, Mr. Bowman. At least I hope not. I looked first for Captain Wood and couldn't find him. Of course, I knew it was only one chance in a thousand, but the chances against that freak wave were one in a thousand, too. Well, I couldn't waste any more time, so I stumbled down the companionway and along the passage to the captain's cabin. Oh, oh, come on in, Mr. Warner. Mother Willis. Why, isn't this cabin a mess? I'm trying to get some of these things out to dry. Yeah, well, I just wanted to check. Where's that box that was under the captain's bunk? Screwed out on that, Mr.... But where? We didn't know. It was nearly dark when we met together again on a chart room. I don't get the thing at all. No other way around it. We've risked all the time we can. We've got to warn the passengers. Well, we do it, Captain. Call them all together in the lounge? No, if we did anything like that, we'd be asking for a panic. We'll get one, whether we ask for it or not. Pick a few men and go through the cabin decks. Tell them individually, inside their cabins, watch for any act that looks as though it might cause trouble. And we'll keep an eye on them. Handle the crew the same way. All right, Captain. We'll take care of it. As soon as you finish, arm all the deck officers and start searching again. Our only chance of preventing a riot is to find that damnable snake. The slow nightmare that followed grew worse by the hour. None of us slept. All the ship's officers not on duty kept on with that endless search. Passengers locked themselves in their cabins or huddled together in the lounges, knowing all the time that no spot on board could be called safe. Fear was a heavy fog in the lungs of all of us, and every light on the vessel burned throughout the night. Morning came and brought no relief. Terror and tension mounted by the hour. There now, Mrs. Crane, stop getting yourself all worked up and go back to your cabin. The horrid things probably crawled overboard anyway. You're just saying that. You're paid to say it. You don't know. Nobody does. Now, now, everything's going to be all right. Oh, if you could only do something, if all of us could only get off the ship, they could fumigate it. Yes, that's what we've got to do. We've got to get off the ship. Now, wait. Mr. Bowman. Mr. Bowman, she's going to jump off the ship. No, you don't, lady. Let me go. Let me go. Oh, nice work. Let me go. Nice work, Mr. Bowman. Let me go. Get her down to her cabin. Whatever you do, don't turn her loose. No. You never know when it might strike you. You can't put on a coat or move a chair without risking your life. Now, something's got to be done. It might be right here in this lounge. All right, Miss Steve. You better quiet down. Take it easy. Take it easy, huh? Well, you're a great officer. Why don't you do something about it? That thing might be crawling around here right under our feet somewhere. Look, I said shut up. Are you trying to start a panic attack? I got a right to talk. I don't want to die. Nobody's going to tell me what to do. Okay. I'll go. The second night passed and morning came around again. A gray and rainy day, just as grim and tense, dragged past, and the night came down again, third night of the terror. Again every light burned and the whole ship seethed in the throes of incipient panic. Faced by a horror they'd never met on the sea before, crew and officers alike were on the verge of revolt. Passengers sat huddled in a trance-like stupor, ready to scream at the slightest unknown sound. At seven bells I made my way forward to the chart room and found Captain Wood bent over a desk. Oh. Hello, Christopher. Come on in. Sit down. Well, it's got to be somewhere, Captain Wood. It's got to be. I don't know. You could search this ship for six months and never touch all the places aboard. We can only hold out for two more days. We'll be in. What's the home office say? Oh, here's the latest wireless from them. Keep quiet and keep coming. What else can we do? How is it on the decks? Pretty bad. Anything could happen. That's why I took the guns away from the men. One pistol shot and we'd have a riot on our hands. Oh, the whole thing's my fault, Captain Wood. That's what I can't forget. Take it easy, lad. There was only some way I could pay for it myself, alone. Now, I know how you feel, but it's no more your fault than mine, not the man who asked you to bring the snake back alive. Nobody planned this. You'd better try and get a little sleep. Sleep? Mr. Bowman made some coffee down in the Steward's Galley a while ago. You'd better go down and get yourself a cup and then rest up for a couple of hours. Rest? I can't rest. Christopher, it's no good going. What are you going to do? You can't help anything. You'd be stumbled through a hatch, half asleep, and break your neck. Go on and get some coffee. One way or another, we've got to hold out for two more days. The light was on in the Steward's Galley and the coffee pot was standing on the stove. It was still warm, so I didn't bother to heat it. I poured out a cup, carried it over and set it on the porcelain table top in the center of the room. I started to light a cigarette. The door of the pan cupboard beneath the sink was standing slightly ajar, and I happened to glance down toward it. Out from the dark interior of the cupboard shone two glittering points of light two inches apart. I dropped the cigarette and moved slowly backward. I'd found the Bushmaster. As I moved, the snake slid out of the cupboard in a single, sinuous glide and drew back into a loose coil on the galley floor, never taking his eyes off me. I moved slowly back, waiting any moment for that deadly, slithering strike. How had he known it was me? He'd stayed quiet when Bowman was here. How did he know to pick the first time in three days when I didn't have a gun? My hands touched the wall behind me and I stopped. Only then I realized in terror what I'd done. The call button and the door were on the far side of the room. I'd backed into a dead end. I stared at the snake in fascination, expecting any moment the ripping slash of those poisoned fangs. The horrid coils tightened a little and then were still again. Ten million years of evolution to produce this moment. Homo sapiens versus Lachesis muta, man against mute fate, and all the odds were on fate. I knew then that I was going to die. I could feel the sweat run down between the painted wall and the palms of my hands pressed against it. My skin crawled and twisted and the pit of my stomach was as cold as ice. There was no sound but the rush of blood in my ears. The snake shifted again, drawing into a tighter coil, always tighter. Why the devil didn't he get it over with? And then for just an instant his head veered away. Something moved over by the stove. I didn't dare turn to look at it. Slowly it moved out into my line of vision. There was a cat, that scrawny cat Clara that Mother Willis had sneaked aboard in LaGuaira. Its back was arched and every hair stood on end. It moved stiff-legged now, walking in a half circle around the snake. The Bushmaster shifted slowly and kept watching the cat. He tightened. He was going to strike at any second. He struck and missed. The cat was barely out of reach. Now she was walking back and forth again. She was asking to die. Missed again by a fraction of an inch. He was striking now without even going to a full coil. Missed again and again, always missing but the barest margin. Each time the cat danced barely out of reach and each time she countered with one precise spat of a dainty paw, bracing her skinny frame on three stiff legs. And then suddenly I realized what she was doing. The Bushmaster was tiring and one strike was just an instant slow. But in that split second sharp claws raked across the evil head and ripped out both of the lidless eyes. That cat had deliberately blinded the snake. Well, he didn't bother to coil now but slid after in a fury, striking wildly and rapidly, always missing and every strike was a little slower than the last one until finally as the snake's neck stretched out at the end of a strike, the cat made one leap and sank her razor sharp teeth just back of the ugly head. Sank him in until he crunched bone. With tooth and claw she clung as the monster snake flailed and lashed on the floor, striving to get those hideous coils around her, trying to break her hold, to shake off the slow and certain paralyzing breath that gradually crept over him and at last stilled his struggles forever. Well, I took a deep breath, the first in minutes. The cat lay on her side on the floor panning, resting from the fight just over. I mean she had a right to rest. That mangy, brave, beautiful alley cat had just saved my life and maybe others as well. But as I turned toward the stove, I suddenly became very humble and I knew all at once what a small thing a human being really is. I and others aboard were still alive only by the merest accident. There were three reasons why that cat had fought and killed the world's deadliest snake and those three reasons came tottering out from under the stove on shaky little legs. Three kittens with their eyes bright with wonder and their tails stiff as pokers. Up on the decks, hundreds of passengers were waiting for the news that the days and nights of terror were ended. Well, I could wait a little longer. I pulled open the doors of the cabinet, found a can of milk and then I dropped down on my knees on the floor of the galley. Escape is produced and directed by William N. Robson and tonight brought you A Shipment of Mute Fate by Martin Storm adapted for radio by Les Crutchfield with Jack Webb as Chris Warner, Raymond Lawrence as Captain Wood and DJ Thompson as Mother Willis. The special musical score was conceived and conducted by Cy Fure. Next week. At the same time when you're tired from a hard day at the office or leaning over a hot stove all day when you want to get away from it all, CBS again offers you Escape. Good night then until this same time next week when CBS again brings you Escape. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
