Celebration Banquet

Curiosity killed the cat. It was a lesson Henry had known even before he transmigrated. The cautionary tales of gossiping until you wet yourself, or helping someone only to become the culprit, had left far too deep an impression.

Besides, he had spent the first twenty years of his life in this world locked inside an underground research facility, and he had only been in Alaska for a little over two months. Henry refused to believe he had offended anyone.

Only the town sheriff had never let down his guard around him. But he had also kept himself in check and had not done anything too overtly aggressive.

So the chances that Old Tom's guest had come after him were less than one in ten thousand.

Under such circumstances, there was no need to let paranoia take over and insist on investigating what the other party was doing, suspecting them of plotting against him.

That would be no different from a Black side character in an eighties or nineties horror thriller insisting on going against the main group, splitting off, and acting alone.

If the killer did not brutally slaughter someone like that next, then the director would have wasted all that effort establishing such a character and giving him so much screen time.

If his curiosity really got the better of him and he chased after them, only to expose himself again, that would be as idiotic as seeing a whirlpool right in front of him and jumping into it anyway.

After finishing his conversation with Tom, Henry drove back to the northern town, to Old John's bar.

The next two days passed peacefully and without incident. Nothing about those two strangers he had met once ever reached this town.

The townsfolk still only came to Old John's place for a drink at night. The rest of the time, Henry remained engrossed in the classic movie channel.

Before the king crab season ended, he went out with Old George three more times.

On the final trip, they were only out for a few days before heading back without filling the hold. They had to get their catch of king crabs back to port before the season ended.

If they returned late, the fines would be high enough to make the entire trip a waste, or even force them to pay out of pocket. In serious cases, having their licenses revoked was not impossible.

So for this last trip, no one received a fixed wage. Instead, they shared the profits after costs were deducted from the catch.

Fortunately, king crabs sold for enough that everyone still made money, just a little less than they would have on a normal voyage. But the working hours were shorter too, so no one complained.

The end of November did not mean the end of crab season. It only meant they were no longer allowed to catch king crabs.

Next, they could still catch Armored Deep-Sea Crabs in different areas. However, most crab boats did not fish continuously, because parts of the Bering Sea froze in December, making navigation difficult for smaller crab boats.

Captains planning to catch Armored Deep-Sea Crabs would wait until January of the following year before setting out. That gave them roughly two months to work, just like with king crabs.

Of course, there were also boats like Old George's that specialized in king crabs. After all, if they worked hard and nothing went wrong, they could earn enough to support the entire family for a year and still live comfortably.

But after the final voyage, Old George was still full of energy thanks to the shorter work hours, so he dragged everyone straight to the club to have some fun.

It also served as a celebration banquet for the end of this year's crab season. They celebrated both the good catch and everyone returning safely without any serious accidents. Other boats had not been so fortunate.

Drunk, Old George could not help slinging an arm around Henry's neck and complaining, "You were right not to stay. Making a living in the crab business is getting harder and harder.

"Those old bastards already limit the fishing season, and I heard they're going to start setting individual catch quotas too. They say it's to prevent overfishing and protect the ecosystem.

"King crabs are practically overflowing. If the Bering Sea hadn't protected them, they would've gone extinct a hundred years ago. What's there to fear about overfishing?"

Tom complained while breathing alcohol fumes, carrying himself with all the righteous fury of a man cursing heaven and earth.

Henry suspected it was because everyone else had gone over to the strippers' stage, while he was the only fool still sitting at an outer table drinking with George. That was why the drunk man had caught him and started spilling all the things he had been holding inside.

Remembering what Old Tom had said, Henry smiled. "Maybe it's because more and more people are entering the business, buying boats to catch king crabs. If they don't impose some limits, do you think one day you'll see crab boats covering the entire Bering Sea?"

George shuddered and cursed, "Fuck, that really could happen."

But George continued, "Do you really think catching crabs is that easy? Just a few people getting a boat and heading out to the Bering Sea to make a fortune?"

Henry agreed. "The lesson we learned from history is that we never learn any lessons. Unless they smash their own heads bloody, how many people would believe you if you told them that crabbing in the Bering Sea is dangerous work?"

George kept complaining. "Yeah. Tell them the truth, and no one believes it. Ignore them, and the families of the victims accuse us of being heartless. You know what it's like at sea. If something really happens, who would dare rescue them?"

"Use the radio to notify the shore-based air rescue team. Other than large helicopters, who could get close enough to a boat to rescue anyone?"

Looking mysteriously secretive, George said, "Give me a break. I'll let you in on a secret: our air rescue teams are useless in this kind of weather.

"No one who falls overboard can last until the helicopter arrives. We lost several boats again this year, and more than ten people never came back. And that's just here, not counting other areas."

"So I was pretty smart to avoid everyone else's boats and stick with you, Boss. Wasn't I?" Henry flattered him.

Apparently, that praise hit Old George right where it counted. He burst out laughing, then started muttering more drunken nonsense. It was so incoherent that even Henry's Super Brain was useless; he could not understand a word of it.

In the end, George's wife found them with the ease of someone familiar with the routine and took him away.

All Henry could say was that she truly deserved to be called a woman capable of living in a place like Alaska. Her fierceness did not lose out in the slightest to the tough northeastern girls back home.

George had been drunkenly throwing a fit and resisting to the bitter end. Then one slap made him behave, and he obediently followed her away, half dragged and half carried.

Neither the club's bouncers nor George's crew dared go up to save him. After all, everyone could tell whether it was revenge, troublemaking, or a wife coming to take her husband home.

Trying to help at a time like that would just be asking for trouble.

The girls needed no mention. Sharp-eyed as they were, they had already moved far away from the dangerous area, terrified of getting caught up in it.

With the captain gone, no one was paying for the next round. Some people left after finishing their drinks.

Of course, some had been making eyes at the strippers and hoping for a round of hand-to-hand combat after work. Those people stayed behind.

Henry left as well. Since alcohol could not get him drunk, drinking had become a very boring activity. And the girls here were all...

Well, in short, having eyesight that was too good was not always a good thing.