Secrets of the Deep

by Gordon R. Dickson

  It was a dry voice, with a strange accent which seemed to be mainly Scottish, although it appeared that there might be traces of other tongues flavoring it as well. Mainly, there was a crisp, burring sound to it, like that of a buzz saw rasping its way in businesslike fashion through a dry log. The kind of voice that stands no nonsense—but neither utters any. A comforting voice to hear at night on a deserted barge with possible trouble about.

  “But how did you know I was here?” demanded Robby now.

  “I did not,” replied Mr. Lillibulero.

  “But . . .” Robby stared. “What are you doing here?”

  Mr. Lillibulero pushed back his black hood, revealing his brown hair, curled close to his head, almost like a skull cap.

  “Robertson,” he said, “Y’have th’most extraordinary notion of y’r own importance. Do y’think it can only be concern for y’rself that sends me to any location where y’may be?”

  “Oh,” said Robby, his spirits somewhat dampened. “I guess not.”

  “Indeed not!” replied Mr. Lillibulero. “M’duties as an employee of the International Bureau of Police concern me wi’the whole world, not merely wi’a thirteen-year-old boy,even though that boy happens to be th’son of m’old friend, James Hoenig.”

  “Excuse me,” sulked Robby. “I guess I didn’t think.”

  “Few people do,” said Mr. Lillibulero, sniffing again. “If more people thought before they spoke or acted, th’ crime rate would be cut to next t’nothing. And I could retire t’raise roses.”

  “Would you like to raise roses?” asked Robby, staring at the little man in surprise.

  “I would not,” said Mr. Lillibulero sharply. “It was merely a figure of speech, Robertson.”

  “Oh,” said Robby. He thought for a second. “If,” he asked politely, “concern for me didn’t send you here, what did?”

  “A computer,” replied Mr. Lillibulero.

  “A computer?” Robby stared again. “How could—I mean, why would a computer send you here?”

  “Because,” answered the little man, “on th’basis of certain statistical evidence about th’habits and methods of known criminals and about th’activities of Robert Clanson’s archeological team at this site, it computed that there was an eighty-six per cent probability of a crime being committed here at this time.”

  “A crime?” echoed Robby. “Not. . .” he hesitated, hardly daring to hope it, “not a crime about stealing some treasure . . . ?”

  “Y’r acuteness astounds me, Robertson,” said Mr. Lillibulero. “Th’crime anticipated did indeed concern a treasure here, which is in danger of being stolen by a criminal who’s been one jump ahead of me for some years, now.”

  “What kind of treasure? Where is it?” cried Robby.

  Mr. Lillibulero frowned at him.

  “Y’r ignorance, Robertson,” he said, “astounds me even more than th’acuteness y’just displayed. The treasure t’which I refer happens t’be the excavated eighteenth-century sloop beneath us at this moment. ”

  Robby blinked.

  “The Floridana?” he asked. “But that’s not treasure!”

  “Y’don’t say so, Robertson!” snapped Mr. Lillibulero. “Y’must forgive th’archeologists, historians, and others who’ve been so foolish as t'consider it so—not having th’noted expert Robertson Hoenig about t’set them right.” He sniffed. “It’s a pity y’cannot get this very valuable information particularly t’Red Carswell in time t’save us all a deal of trouble.”

  “Red Carswell?”

  “Th’criminal and art thief of whom I was speaking a moment ago. And who is probably within a half mile of us at this minute.”

  Robby looked about at the peaceful sea surface surrounding the barge.

  “He is? Is he dangerous?” Robby asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Lillibulero replied, a little grimly, “he is. He is, in fact, one of the few really dangerous men at large.”

  “Why?” asked Robby, fascinated. He had a sudden vision of this Red Carswell, standing eight feet tall, his beard stuck full of lighted candles, as Blackbeard the pirate had been known to do to his beard.

  “Because,” answered Mr. Lillibulero, “he is extremely capable. And because he believes he has a right t’hate the world and all honest people in it.”

  “Has he?” asked Robby. “Did somebody wrong him, or something?”

  “He thinks so,” said Mr. Lillibulero. “He believes fate wronged him by not making him as large and handsome as he is bright. Therefore he attempts t’tear down anyone or anything better or bigger than himself.”

  “How big is he?”

  “He is not big,” answered Mr. Lillibulero, dryly.

  Robby’s vision of a large, red-bearded pirate-like man popped and dwindled sadly into nothingness like a dream made of soap bubbles would explode.

  “He can’t be very dangerous then,” muttered Robby.

  “Indeed?” said Mr. Lillibulero, gazing down at Robby from his own scant two-inch advantage of height. “Th’many big men he has beaten up and even hurt badly would not agree with you.”

  Robby’s interest was revived. Now his imagination pictured a small, but tough, sort of buccaneer with a mop of flaming hair, beating up large pirates.

  “How many big men,” Robby asked, “ever attacked him at one time?”

  “None,” replied Mr. Lillibulero. “Y’seem to be getting th’notion, Robertson, that there is something admirable about this Carswell. There is not. He is not attacked by men larger than himself—he attacks them. And only when he is sure that he can win. His purpose is t’prove he is better than they are, in spite of his small size. But he is not particular. He would just as soon prove himself better than you, y’rself, though y’are a boy, and smaller than he is.”

  Robby felt a shiver run down his back.

  “But why?” he burst out. “How could it prove anything if he was bigger than I was and grown up?”

  “Are y’aware,” asked Mr. Lillibulero, “of th’fact that a weasel or a ferret in a hen house will, after killing one hen for food, go on killing for th’sheer excitement of it?”

  Robby nodded.

  “At Point Loma,” he remarked, “we had a ferret that got in with some guinea pigs—”

  “Then perhaps y’can imagine what kind of a man is Red Carswell,” interrupted Mr. Lillibulero. “Th’word vicious describes him; and who he does not wish to or canna hurt physically, he loves to terrify. There is only one thing he, himself, is mortally afraid of.”

  “What’s that?” asked Robby.

  “A man,” answered Mr. Lillibulero, “as small and smaller than himself who could outdo him in a fair encounter. If that should happen, Carswell’s image of himself as a giant-killer,which he has worked his whole life at building, would crumble. That is why you will always find him surrounded by big men, who—if one of them should ever get the better of him—can be said to have had an unfair advantage over him to start with. That is also why I have never laid eyes on him since I first found myself on his trail.”

  “He’s afraid of you?” asked Robby.

  “He is not physically afraid of me,” said Mr. Lillibulero, “because th’man has courage in his own way. But he is deathly afraid of being conquered or captured by me. He has, in fact, several times tried to kill me. But always from a distance, or by the hand of someone else.”

  Robby looked around the peaceful ocean once more, but this time with a cold feeling, as if someone unseen were watching him.

  “Where do you think he is now?” Robby asked.

  “Doubtless,” answered Mr. Lillibulero, calmly, “somewhere out beyond the reef, where th’waters are deep enough t’float a craft capable of transporting a waterlogged hulk, liket he one under us.” He looked around. But around the barge, not around the sea, as Robby had. “Tell me, Robertson,” he said, “where is th’watchman that must be here with you? I had m’self dropped off after dark by copter-parachute so’s t’approach th’site by swimming underwa
ter without being seen. But it was not m’intention t’keep my presence a secret from th’man left on guard here. I’ve been expecting him t’respond t’the sound of our voices by showing up ever since I climbed up here on the barge. But it appears he’s occupied. Where is he?”

  “He’s gone! That’s what I was worried about just before you showed up—” and, as swiftly as possible, he told Mr. Lillibulero about the disappearance of Cal.

  Even before Robby finished, the little man turned with the speed of movement characteristic of him; and Robby had to run to catch up with him at the door of the radio shack. Mr. Lillibulero slipped inside the shack, turned on the light and tried the radiophone. After a second, he grimly laid the phone back down.

  “Dead!” he announced, and glanced over at Robby. “I sincerely hope,” he added, “that y’r friend Cal is not an honest man.”

  “He’s not my friend. I don’t even like him very much,”said Robby. “But I’d think you’d want him to be an honest man. Why shouldn’t he be?”

  “Because,” the little man replied, “if he is one of Red Carswell’s dishonest henchmen, he is safe at this moment, having put this phone out of action and abandoned th’barge. But if he is honest, someone else has disordered th’phone and disposed of him. He may be as dead as this instrument.” And he gestured at the phone.

  “Do you think he’s—” Robby began. But he got no further. At that moment he was interrupted by the distant bark of a sea lion. With one motion he and Mr. Lillibulero turned and raced out of the radio shack.

  For a moment they both stared around at the moonlit sea. But they did not have to look far. Something broke water just above the gap in the reef. There was a white streak in the waves and at the front of it was Mac, coming at top speed.

  “Mac!” shouted Robby, happily. He turned quickly to Mr. Lillibulero. “Better stand back,” Robby warned. “He’s liable to dive and come out in a jump that’ll bring him right upon top of us, here.”

  But Robby was wrong. At the last minute, Mac did not dive, but swerved around in a half circle, hoisting himself high in the water. He barked loudly, and Robby saw that apiece of rope was tied around Mac’s neck, a frayed end flipping over the waves.

  “What is it? Is the beast yours?” demanded Mr. Lillibulero. “And what ails him t’act like that?”

  “Yes, he’s mine!” cried Robby, though in reality Mac was not his, but the property of the International Department of Fisheries, Salt Water Division, for which his father worked. But Robby was too wound up to think of that, now. “Someone’s had him tied up. That’s why he didn’t come back all this time!” He explained Mac’s earlier disappearance and the fact that he had been left behind to recapture the sea lion.

  “But,” said Mr. Lillibulero, “why’s he rushing about like that?”

  “Maybe he thinks we’re in trouble and wants to rescue us—” began Robby hopefully, and then checked. Mac was clearly less interested in them than he was in something out beyond the reef. “He’s found something he wants me to see,” said Robby, glumly. “That’s all. He acts that way at home all the time when he’s discovered something interesting—hey!” Robby cried, struck by a wonderful thought. “It must be whoever had him tied up so that he couldn’t come back here all this time. It’s the way Steller’s do when they see a killer whale. I’ve got my trunks on—”

  “Y’will not go, Robertson!” ordered Mr. Lillibulero.

  Robby looked at his friend in outrage, ready to argue.

  “I will go,” said Mr. Lillibulero, “if th’beast will take me.”

  “But he’s my sea lion!” shouted Robby. “I understand him—”

  “Y’r protests,” interrupted the little man coolly, “are duly noted. However, whoever’s tied up y’r sea lion is almost undoubtedly th’man and crew I’m after. And they are not th’sort of criminals I will allow you t’swim merrily into the hands of, under any circumstances.”

  “I wouldn’t swim merrily—” Robby was beginning to growl, but a glance from Mr. Lillibulero cut him short. The little man was already pulling the hood over his head and the face plate up over his face.

  “If the beast and I do not return,” came the little man’s voice from the diaphragm of his mask, “y’are to sit tight here until your father, the archeologists, or other help arrives.”

  And with that, Mr. Lillibulero walked off the barge practically on top of Mac. He went under in a flurry of foam but came up holding the end of the rope around Mac’s neck. Mac barked at him in surprise and then turned to bark at Robby. It was plain that it was not Lillibulero he wanted for a passenger, but Robby himself.

  “Can y’not make the beast take me?” demanded Mr. Lillibulero impatiently. For a moment Robby was tempted to say he could not, but the little man would find out differently later from Robby’s father, and Robby could not actually bring himself to lie to Mr. Lillibulero.

  “I guess so,” he grumbled. He made himself think of adventure . . . exciting adventure . . . pirates . . . treasure . . .

  Mac barked. The rapport cap on his head was pouring Robby’s adventure feelings into him. It was too much for the sea lion. He swung about abruptly and began to tow Mr. Lillibulero toward the gap in the reef to the open sea waters beyond. They vanished under the surface of the waves, and Robby was left alone.

  He scowled at the nighttime sea. No adventure for him, he thought. No Mac. No treasure.

  The thought of treasure nudged at the back of his mind.Hey, it said, remember me?

  What about you? thought Robby.

  Well, didn’t you want a chance to go down by the sunken ship and look around to see if there wasn't, after all, some of me there?

  Three minutes later, water lung, face plate, and weight belt in place, Robby was sinking down through the darkly moon-lit, mysterious waters.

  Below him, like a black ghost of itself, La Floridana lay against the white sand bottom that reflected the moonlight and made it possible for Robby to see. Even at that, the rocks, the ship, the corals, and sea fans were dimly altered shapes of their daytime selves.

  It was not the first time Robby had been underwater at night. At home, at the Point Loma Station, he had gone out, even when quite young, with his father to observe the fish of the coral reef families who would be attracted to a small light underwater. He remembered them all—their identical cousins would be below him now. Angelfish with their wavery, gossamer fins like delicate veils, butterfly fish, and triggerfish (otherwise known as filefish). And spine-covered little pufferfish, ready at the first sign of danger to blow themselves up into a spiky ball. Flounders and bumpers and the small, but powerful-jawed wrasse who crush shells to get at the shellfish inside for their food. These and many others were old friends;as was the underwater nighttime sea at home. This sea wouldbe no different.

  But it was different, somehow. As Robby landed on the sea bottom and began swimming and peering around with the aid of the brilliant reflection of moonlight, a slight shiver ran up his spine. He forced it to go away, and kept on looking.

  So it was, a little while later, that a sudden loud underwater thrumming noise and thrust of water almost scared him out of his sea senses. Startled, he caught hold of a heavy rock, having sense enough not to grab some coral closer to him which would have cut his hands badly. He turned about to look.

  The white sand of the bottom was being stirred up under the propellers of the two small electric motors Cal had attached to the sides of La Floridana back near her square stem. And, under their push, the ship was already lifting from its cradle of metal supports and beginning to move toward the gap in the reef and the open sea beyond.

  Robby stared, wondering how motors like that could start themselves. Perhaps Cal had set a timing device to warm them up at a certain time, and the timing device had gone wrong? He let go of his rock and swam strongly after the ship, which was gaining speed as the motors gradually overcame the dead weight of the waterlogged hull. If he could catch up with it, he could turn the motors of
f, or at least disconnect them. But it looked as if the ship would get away before he could overtake it.

  But he finally did reach the sloop. His fingers closed over the heavy wood edge of her square stem and he started to pull himself up and over that edge on to the deck. But then, he froze.

  Out from the dark hatchway of the ship’s stem cabin emerged a figure Robby had seen before. There was a high-crowned hat on its head, a tight-waisted coat with wide sleeves on its upper part, and a sword pushing out the edges of the coat behind. On its legs were high leather boots.

  It was the figure of the ghost. Quickly, Robby ducked below the heavy, flat wall of the ship’s stem, hoping he had not been seen. His first thought was to let go and allow the ghost captain to sail his dead La Floridana to whatever strange deep-sea watery harbor was the final resting place of drowned ships and long-gone captains.

  But just in time, he renewed his grasp on the ship’s planking. Abruptly, Robby noticed that the ship had passed through the gap in the reef and turned to its right, leaving the reef behind. Robby cast a frantic glance around. But above was only the watery moon, and around, below, and on every side there was nothing to be seen but ocean darkness.

  They were headed out through deep water along the outside of the reef, and he dared not let go because he did not know the way back to the safety inside the reef and shallow water.

  He clung helplessly to the stem planking. And on they sailed into the deep-sea darkness under the moonlit waves—the drowned ship, the ghost captain, and Robby, clinging like a pilot fish to the shark that swims them both onward to an unknown fate.

  Grabbed by the Ghost

  I have to keep my head. Even if I am scared, I have to think straight, Robby kept repeating to himself as he was carried off into the chartless waters of the underseas by the sunken ship run by a ghost captain. I mustn’t lose my head and make things worse.

  It was what his father had always trained him to do. And Mr. Lillibulero had made the same point, once long before when he and Robby had been trapped in the Point Loma Station, with the Vandals trying to get in through the door and through the roof over their heads, and all had seemed lost.