“Did he have any more bad ones?” I asked.
“I think so,” he said. “I don’t really know.”
And that was all he had to say on the subject. I wanted to ask him more things, of course, but our acquaintanceship was still such that I knew I would need an opening to get through, and he didn’t give me any.
So we finished up, returned to Station One, went our separate ways. I stopped by and told Davies I wanted a boat later. He assigned me one, and I returned to my cottage and waited until I saw him leave for dinner. Then I went back to the docks, threw my diving gear into the boat, and took off. This elaboration was necessary because of the fact that solo diving was against the rules, and also because of the safety precautions Barthelme had enunciated to me that first day. True, they applied only inside the area and the ship lay outside it, but I did not care to explain where I was going either.
The thought had of course occurred to me that it might be a trap, set to spring in any of a number of ways. While I hoped my friend in the museum still had his lower jaw in place, I did not discount the possibility of an underwater ambush. In fact, I had one of the little death rods along with me, all loaded and primed. The photos had been quite clear. I did not forget. Nor did I discount the possibility of a booby trap. I would simply have to be very careful in my poking about.
While I did not know what would happen if I were spotted solo-diving with company gear, I would have to count on my ability to talk or lie my way out of it, if catching me in this breach of domestic tranquillity was what the note’s author had had in mind.
I came to what I thought to be the spot, anchored there, slipped into my gear, went over the side and down.
The cool smoothness held me and I did my dance of descent, curious, wary, with a heightened feeling of fragility. Toward the bottom then, with steady, sweeping movements down, I passed from cool to cold and light to dark. I switched on my torch, shot the beam about.
Minutes later, I found it, circled it, hunting about the vicinity for signs of fellow intruders.
But no, nothing. I seemed to be alone.
I made my way toward the hulk then, casting my light down the splintered length of the short-snapped mainmast. Small fish appeared, staging an unruly demonstration in the neighborhood of the gunwale. My light fell upon the layer of ooze at the base of the mast. It appeared undisturbed, but then I have no idea as to how long it takes ooze to settle.
Coming up beside/above it then, I probed it with a thin rod I had brought along. After several moments, I was satisfied that there was a small, oblong object, probably metallic, about eight inches beneath the surface.
Drawing nearer, I scooped away a layer. The water muddied, fresh material moving to fill the site of my excavation. Cursing mentally, I extended my left hand, fingers at full flex, slowly, carefully, down into the mud.
I encountered no obstacles until I reached the box itself. No wires, strings, foreign objects. It was definitely metal, and I traced its outline: about six by ten by three inches. It was upended and held in place against the mast by a double strand of wire. I felt no connections with anything else, so I uncovered it—at least momentarily—for a better look.
It was a small, standard-looking strongbox, handles on both ends and on the top. The wires ran through two of these loops. I shook out a coil of plastic cord and knotted it through the nearest one. After paying out a considerable length of it, I leaned down and used the pliers I had carried with me to sever the wires that held the box to the mast. Upward then, playing out the rest of the line behind me.
Back in the boat and out of my gear, I hauled it, hand over hand, up from the depths. The movement, the pressure changes did not serve to set anything off, so I felt a little safer in handling it when I finally brought it aboard. I set it on the deck and thought about it as I unfastened and recoiled the line.
The box was locked, and whatever was inside shifted around when I moved it. I sprung the lock with a screwdriver. Then I went over the side into the water, and holding on, reaching from there, I used the rod to flip back the lid.
But for the lapping of the waves and the sounds of my breathing, there was silence. So I reboarded and took a look inside.
It contained a canvas bag with a fold-down flap that snapped closed. I unsnapped it.
Stones. It was filled with dozens of rather undistinguished-looking stones. But since people generally have a reason for going to that much trouble, there had to be a decent intrinsic value involved. I dried off several of them, rubbing them vigorously with my towel. Then I turned them around every which way. Yes, there were a few glints, here and there.
I had not been lying to Cashel when he had asked me what I knew about minerals and I had said, “A little.” Only a little. But in this instance it seemed that it might be enough. Selecting the most promising specimen for the experiment, I chipped away at the dirty minerals that sheathed the stone. Several minutes later, an edge of the material I had exposed exhibited great scratching abilities with the various materials on which I tested it.
So someone was smuggling diamonds and someone else wanted me to know about it. What did my informant expect me to do with this information? Obviously, if he had simply wanted the authorities informed he would have done it himself.
Knowing that I was being used for purposes I did not yet understand, I decided to do what was probably expected of me, inasmuch as it coincided with what I would have done anyhow.
I was able to dock and unload the gear without encountering any problems. I kept the bag of stones wrapped in my towel until I was back in my cottage. No more messages had been slipped beneath the door, so I repaired to the shower stall and cleaned myself up.
I couldn’t think of anyplace really clever to hide the stones, so I stuffed the. bag down into the garbage-disposal unit and replaced the drain cover. That would have to do. Before stashing it, though, I removed four of the ugly ducklings. Then I dressed and took a walk.
Strolling near, though, I saw that Frank and Linda were eating out on their patio, so I returned to my place and made myself a quick, prefabricated meal. Afterward, I watched the sun in its descending for perhaps twenty minutes. Then, what seemed an adequate period having passed, I made my way back again.
It was even better than I had hoped for. Frank sat alone, reading, on the now-cleared patio. I moved up and said, “Hello.” He turned toward me, smiled, nodded, lowered his book. “Hello, Jim,” he said. “Now that you’ve been here a few days, how do you like it?”
“Oh, fine,” I said. “Just fine. How is everything with you?” He shrugged.
“Can’t complain. We were going to ask you over to dinner. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
“Come by about six?”
“All right.”
“Have you found any interesting diversions yet?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I took your advice and resurrected my old rock-hounding habits.”
“Oh? Come across any interesting specimens?”
“It just happens that I did,” I said. “It was really an amazing accident. I doubt whether anybody would have located them except by accident. Here. I’ll show you.”
I dug them out of my pocket and dumped them into his hand. He stared. He fingered them. He shifted them around. For perhaps half a minute.
Then, “You want to know what they are, is that it?” he asked. “No. I already know that.”
“I see.”
He looked at me and smiled.
“Where did you find them?”
I smiled, very slowly.
“Are there more?” he asked.
I nodded.
He moistened his lips. He returned the stones.
“Well, tell me this if you will—what sort of deposit was it?”
Then I thought faster than I had at any time since my arrival. It was something about the way he had asked it that put my mind to spinning. I had been thinking purely in terms of a diamond-smuggling opera
tion, with him as the natural disposer of the contraband stones. Now, though, I reviewed what scanty knowledge I did possess on the subject. The largest mines in the world were those of South Africa, where diamonds were found embedded in that rock known as kimberlite, or “blue ground.” But how did they get there in the first place? Through volcanic action—as bits of carbon that had been trapped in streams of molten lava, subjected to intense heat and pressure that altered their structure to the hard, crystalline form of a girl’s best friend. But there were also alluvial deposits—diamonds that had been cut free from their resting places by the actions of ancient streams, often borne great distances from their points of origin, and accumulated in offshore pockets. That was Africa, of course, and while I did not know much offhand as to New World deposits, much of the Caribbean island system had been built up by means of volcanic activity. The possibility of local deposits—of the volcanic-pipe variety or alluvial—was not precluded.
In view of my somewhat restricted area for activity since my arrival, I said, “Alluvial. It wasn’t a pipe, I’ll tell you that.”
He nodded.
“Have you any idea as to the extent of your find?” he inquired.
“Not really,” I said. “There are more where these came from. But as to the full extent of their distribution, it is simply too early for me to tell.”
“Most interesting,” he said. “You know, it jibes with a notion I’ve long held concerning this part of the world. You wouldn’t care to give me just a very rough, general sort of idea as to what part of the ocean these are from, would you?”
“Sorry,” I said. “You understand.”
“Of course, of course. Still, how far would you go from here for an afternoon’s adventure?”
“I suppose that would depend on my own notions on this matter—as well as available air transportation, or hydrofoil.” He smiled.
“All right. I won’t press you any further. But I’m curious. Now that you’ve got them, what are you going to do with them?”
I took my time lighting a cigarette.
“Get as much as I can for them and keep my mouth shut, of course,” I finally said.
He nodded.
“Where are you going to sell them? Stop passers-by on the street?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t thought that much about it yet. I suppose I could take them to some jeweler’s.”
He chuckled.
“If you’re very lucky. If you’re lucky, you’ll find one willing to take a chance. If you’re very lucky, you’ll find one willing to take a chance and also willing to give you a fair deal. I assume you would like to avoid the creation of a record, the crediting of extra income to your master account? Taxable income?”
“As I said, I would like to get as much as I can for them.”
“Naturally. Then am I correct in assuming that your purpose in coming to me over this might somehow be connected with this desire?”
“In a word, yes.”
“I see.”
“Well?”
“I am thinking. To act as your agent for something like this would not be without risks of its own.”
“How much?”
“No, I’m sorry,” he said then. “It is probably too risky altogether. After all, it is illegal. I’m a married man. I could jeopardize my job by getting involved in something like this. If it had come along perhaps fifteen years ago…well, who knows? I’m sorry. Your secret is safe. Don’t worry about that. But I would just as soon not be party to the enterprise.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Positive. The return would have to be quite high for me even to consider it.”
“Twenty percent?” I said.
“Out of the question.”
“Maybe twenty-five…” I said.
“No. Twice that would scarcely—”
“Fifty percent? You’re crazy!”
“Please! Keep your voice down! You want the whole station to hear?”
“Sorry. But that’s out of the question. Fifty percent! No. If I can find a willing jeweler, I’ll still be better off—even if he does cheat me. Twenty-five percent is tops. Absolutely.”
“I am afraid I can’t see it.”
“Well, I wish you would think about it anyway.”
He chuckled.
“It will be difficult to forget,” he said.
“Okay. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Tomorrow, at six.”
“Right. Good night.”
“Good night.”
So I began walking back, reflecting on the possible permutations of people and events leading up to and culminating in the killings. But there were still too many gaps in the picture for me to come up with anything I really liked.
I was most troubled, of course, by the fact that there was someone who was aware that my presence actually represented more than its outward appearance. I searched my mind again and again for possible giveaways, but I did not see where I could have slipped up. I had been quite careful about my credentials. I had encountered no one with whom I had ever been familiar. I began wishing, not for the first time—nor, I was certain, the last—that I had not accepted this case.
I considered then what I ought to be about next, to push the investigation further along. I supposed I could inspect the place where the bodies had been found. I had not been there yet, mainly because I doubted there would be anything to be learned from it. Still…I put that on my list for the morrow, if I could hit it before dinner with the Cashels. If not, then the next day.
I wondered whether I had done the expected thing as to the stones. I felt that I had, and I was very curious as to the repercussions—almost, but not quite, as curious as I was concerning the motives of my informant. Nothing I could do at the moment, though, but wait.
Thinking these thoughts, I heard myself hailed by Andy Deems from where he stood near his cottage, smoking his pipe. He wondered whether I was interested in a game of chess. I wasn’t, really, but I went over anyhow. I lost two and managed to stalemate him on the third one. I felt very uncomfortable around him, but at least I didn’t have to say much.
The following day, Deems and Carter were sent over to Station Six, while Paul and I took our turn at “miscellaneous duties as assigned” in and about the equipment shed. Another time-marking episode, I had decided, till I got to my real work once more.
And so it went, until late afternoon, when I was beginning to wonder what sort of cook Linda Cashel might be. Barthelme hurried into the shed.
“Get your gear together,” he said. “We have to go out.”
“What’s the matter?” Paul asked him.
“Something is wrong with one of the sonic generators.”
“What?”
He shook his head.
“No way of telling till we’ve brought it back and checked it over. All I know is that a light’s gone out on the board. I want to pull the whole package and put in a new unit. No attempt at underwater repair work on this one, even if it looks simple. I want to go over it very carefully in the lab.”
“Where is it situated?”
“To the southwest, at about twenty-eight fathoms. Go look at the board if you want. It will give you a better picture. But don’t take too long, all right? There are a lot of things to load.”
“Right. Which vessel?”
“The Mary Ann.”
“The new deepwater rules…?”
“Yes. Load everything. I’m going down to tell Davies now. Then I’m going to change clothes. I’ll be back shortly.”
“See you then.”
“Yes.”
He moved away and we set to work, getting our own gear, the shark cage, and the submersible decompression chamber ready to go. We made two trips to the Mary Ann then, took a break to go see the map, learned nothing new from it, and returned for the DC, which was stored on a cart.
“Ever been down in that area before?” I asked Paul as we began maneuvering the cart along.
<
br /> “Yes,” he said. “Some time back. It is fairly near to the edge of a submarine canyon. That’s why there’s a big bite out of that corner of the ‘wall.’ It plunges pretty sharply right beyond that section of the perimeter.”
“Will that complicate things any?”
“It shouldn’t,” he said, “unless a whole section broke loose and carried everything down with it. Then we would have to anchor and hook up a whole new housing, instead of just switching the guts. That would take us somewhat longer. I’ll review the work with you on the unit we’ll be taking out.”
“Good.”
Barthelme rejoined us about then. He and Davies, who would also be going along, helped get everything stowed. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way.
The winch was rigged to lower both the shark cage and the decompression chamber tandem-fashion and in that order. Paul and I rode the DC down, keeping the extra lines from tangling, playing our lights about as we descended. While I had never had to use one, I had always found the presence of a decompression chamber on the bottom a thing of comfort, despite its slightly ominous function for the sort of work we would be doing. It was good to know that if I were injured I could get inside, signal, and be hauled directly to the top with no delays for decompression stops, the bottomside pressure being maintained in the bell’s chamber on the way up and gradually returned to normal as they rushed me back to the dispensary. A heartening thought for all that, timewise.
Bottomside, we positioned the cage near to the unit, which we found still standing, exhibiting no visible signs of damage, and we halted the illuminated DC a couple of fathoms up and off to the east. We were indeed on the edge of a steep cliff. While Paul inspected the sonic-broadcast unit, I moved nearer and flashed my light downward.
Jutting rocky pinnacles and twisting crevices…Reflexively, I drew back from the edge of the abyss, turned my light away. I returned and watched Paul work.
It took him ten minutes to disconnect the thing and free it from its mountings. Another five saw it secured and rising on its lines.
A bit later, in the periodic sweep of our beams, we caught sight of the replacement unit on the way down. We swam up to meet it and guided it into place. This time, Paul let me go to work. I indicated by pantomime that I wanted to, and he wrote on his slate: go ahead see what you remember.
An Exaltation of Stars (1973) Anthology Page 12
