The Spy Who Spoke Porpoise

by Philip Wylie

  It was evident to Grove that the substitute pilot had intended to kill him, first, or throw him out alive, but not offshore where Grove had parachuted. He was to be jettisoned on the summit of the razor-sharp mountains where his body would never be found. If it had been sent hurtling into the sea, bullet in its brain, it might eventually have washed ashore; but dropped a mile or even a half mile inland, it would lie somewhere on the heights, jungle-covered, so the chances of his bones being found would be a million to one over the time span that bones would remain discoverable at all.

  As it was, he would be trapped for an unguessable period, though he was sure the pilot had reported some version of what had happened—a true one not being likely, considering Solentor’s way of dealing with people who failed to carry out their assignments. Most probably the false Bob would report that Grove was indeed tricky and that, in some imaginary scuffle, both the chute and his gun had gone overboard before he flung the finally subdued American through the door to his planned death; a yaw of the chopper at the critical moment would credibly account for the minor losses. The pilot would be fairly confident that Grove would never reappear.

  However, though trapped, Grove was not without resources. He had food, weapons and means to light fire as well as to make various signals, among many other items; his case did not provide mountain-scaling gear at this time. But how to get out of and away from the Na Pali Coast would be a problem for daylight, in any event.

  After a careful survey of the sea and the overcast he decided a fire could be risked. He gathered driftwood and dug a place in the sand for the blaze he then started. The sand he piled around the hole would serve for smothering the fire quickly and he felt that he would hear any searching chopper or sight any reconnoitering vessel in time to douse the fire before one could descend through the overcast or the other could get near enough by water to prohibit the risk. Strangers at sea would attribute the fire to campers who had been carried in by chopper for an eerie night’s adventure; a few hardy souls did that. At worst, only a small boat would venture close, owing to the reefs and rocks—and he could defend himself from excellent cover in that case.

  It seemed far more probable that by now Solentor believed his most dangerous opponent was dead.

  Grove warmed himself at the small fire and ate some of his compressed rations. He drank from the bottle in his case although he believed each of these secretive gorges had a supply of water from the mountains; they intercepted the trade-carried clouds here to make the center of the island that rainiest-place-on-earth. He built a barricade of driftwood and stones which would help to hide him from the sea and he curled up on ember-warmed sand to rest, not daring to sleep.

  The sun rose. His eyes took in the towering mountains on two sides and squinted into the sun high over an empty sea. Memory of the past night returned and he sat up, yawning, dazed and hungry again.

  The overcast had lifted but not dissipated. It made a ceiling into which the mountains vanished. He found water at the upper end of the notch—a pool in a brook that ran to sea and was fed by a series of waterfalls of which only the lowest could be seen. Others, higher up, were lost in the clouds that supplied them.

  Nothing was visible at sea. There was no sign of anybody aloft—always assuming anybody was looking for him, which was very doubtful.

  At twelve-thirty by his wrist watch his usual early muddle began to clear and he said aloud, “Nunc consideremus quid agendum sit.”

  The Latin was not classic—not, perhaps, even correct—a sentence made up by a friend, in high school days, which had kept recurring to Grove under appropriate conditions. This was certainly one of them:

  Now let’s consider what should be done.

  Grove tried to do so.

  The sun, aided by the wind, began tearing the clouds apart—dissolving them from the bottom upward. In two hours the pali was wholly revealed and Grove stared up at the majesty that held him prisoner. On two sides, the knife-edge mountains soared to the sky and where they merged he saw the first of the series of waterfalls. As he stared, a few pebbles started and came down, gathering speed. Their rattle crescendoed until they struck bottom—reminders of the hopelessness of a climb.

  He wondered if the Lost Tribes had been afraid here, even killed occasionally by rockfall. It would be a good idea to keep away from the base of these near cliffs. Thinking that, he made a slow tour of the once-inhabited triangle, which had an area, he guessed, of a hundred acres. There were signs of people, recent and ancient.

  On the sand verge was a ring of stones, blackened by fires of visitors who didn’t know how to make a fireplace and had probably burned hot dogs or hamburgers at this bad job. Beyond, in the tough grass and stunted trees, were stone walls that had once retained patches of earth for the cultivation of taro. Looking up from a new angle, he also saw what remained of more human handiwork: a broken platform with a few neatly placed stones still visible. Grove recalled the history of these people and shivered: a torture temple, he guessed—a temple for inflicting agony, for sacrifices of men or maidens to barbaric gods.

  He could picture a Hawaiian noble on the pinnacle, a huge man in a feather cloak, wearing a helmet shaped like an old Roman’s and carrying a magnificent staff. They had climbed these heights, even for fun, taking up fire spears to hurl down at night in blazing arcs for public entertainment. Grove traced the course and thought he could throw such a missile hard enough for a flaming descent of two thousand feet, clearing the steep edge so the sea would snuff it out.

  He knew such imagining was a waste of time. He was not—had never been—capable of avoiding it. Born, he thought, with a wandering mind—or was it a mind that wandered more now, owing to age? He couldn’t say. Then he could: daydreaming has uses.

  If the people who had lived here so long ago could climb these sheer escarpments carrying spears and for fun, couldn’t he? Did they make safe routes to follow? Probably, because they visited each other across the barricades—one group signaling it had a good catch of fish and the group beyond coming across to join the feast—bringing plantains, fruit or some other contribution over the high escarpments … men and women and children.

  Grove knew it but decided a try at climbing would be a last resort.

  Swim away?

  If a spell of kona weather hushed the shattering seas, perhaps—by swimming out far enough to see where, in the miles of similar valleys, he had descended. He could find a plank to float his case and swim from point to point until past the last barrier’s edge. But that would require ideal weather and a long swim.

  Meanwhile?

  He thought of how Polynesians talked from valley to valley: sending smoke signals. Easy; but who’d respond? Solentor?

  He was preparing a late lunch when he heard the helicopter. It was much nearer than he’d thought possible. The mountain swallowed sound, apparently. There was just enough time to bury his fire, grab his case and duck before the chopper rounded the nearest sea-laved precipice. He had chosen this position as the first act of his morning survey. It was behind a dense sea grape tree where the green, flat leaves kept moving stiffly in the wind—leaves the size of dessert plates. Through them he could watch, as he could part them without giving himself away, and there were boulders behind the tree trunk as a rude fortification.

  The tree was low, about ten feet in diameter, and weeds grew under its twisted boughs, a sea grape that stood above the spot where choppers could and had put down, grassy and flat. When the snackering insect appeared, he was ready.

  They would circle first but see nothing; then land—and come out fast. He would throw one grenade.

  Suppose the people were tourists—or seemed to be? Women—or men dressed as women? The craft came in and circled as expected. It was identical to the one from which he had parachuted. At least, it bore Bob Barker’s Island Sky Tour emblem.

  He would not throw a grenade till the passengers had stepped down and, possibly, could disperse, before he was sure about them.


  That might be fatal; the alternative might be murder, however.

  Grove waited, horrified.

  15

  Dilemma

  Shortly after 2 A.M. and after Grove had dived into the overcast, an outside phone bell rang in Sea Life Park. It rang several times before Jerry could reach the nearest extension; he had been hiding out ever since he’d acted when Grove’s station wagon roared by, its horn braying.

  “Sea Life Park. Watchman speaking.” He reached up and unscrewed the light bulb.

  “Jerry, you bastard!” The voice was enraged or pained and also hoarse.

  “Who’s talking?”

  “Bob Barker, you son!”

  Jerry’s big body hardened. “Okay. What happened?”

  “He clobbered me.”

  “Who?”

  “This guy who paid for the standby! Grove! The show you set up. I liked the dough but I don’t like a bust in the head, not to mention having my chopper swiped.”

  “Wait a minute! He drove up in a station wagon—”

  “The hell he did. He was there. I took less than fifteen minutes—dressing, warming up my chopper and flying it over to the spot. Just where you told me. I cut the lights and set her down. There’s a car close, but no station wagon. You mean—?”

  “Yeah. I mean.” Jerry’s voice was flat. “It wasn’t your guy. Go on.”

  “Try and stop me! Must have been two guys wanting the ride, then, and the other one—”

  “There wasn’t any other.”

  “So who conked me?”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m trying! So I’m out cold! And when I came around—nothing. Chopper’s gone. No sign of your pal. Any pal. I took a while, God knows how much of a while—”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Damn it! What does that matter? Okay. Across the road and up a few blocks—where there’s a booth—and lucky to have the change. So I phone you and ask why your guy steals my chopper after he conks me.”

  “You okay?”

  “Who’s okay, with a fractured skull?”

  Jerry thought for a moment.

  The other man began to say, irritatedly, “Hello? You still there? Hello?”

  “Go back to the field and wait. See a station wagon around?”

  “No. I didn’t look—I scrammed. And next time I would get my brains totally knocked out. So no going back for me!”

  “Okay. Stay around where you are. I’ll be with you when I can get loose. Because my man got shanghaied—to where, God knows. But the chopper might—barely might—come back. Wait, Bob, for God’s sake!”

  “Oke.” It was forlorn and grudging.

  Jerry hung up. “Goddamn fool!” That was for himself. He turned on his flash and dialed. His number rang until a sleep-thick, female voice said a curt “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Abbott?”

  She was good at voices, and she woke fast. “Jerry? Something wrong at the park?”

  “Tack there?”

  “Wait!” In seconds, Tack Abbott came on. “Yes, Jerry?”

  “I gotta leave the park. Can you send somebody?”

  A moment. “Sure. What’s the matter?”

  Jerry had decided to say as much as he could. “Mr. Grove! Your friend?”

  “Yes. He there? Hurt, or something?”

  “Look, Tack.” He fleetingly realized he’d never called the founder anything but Mr. Abbott. But he could almost feel Tack tensing with that familiarity. “You ever know all about Mr. Grove? I mean, that he works for some outfit in the government?”

  Tack’s interruption was calm. “He used to, Jerry—OSS. Long ago—”

  “I’m telling you! He still does! Lately I’ve been helping him, in the park, nights. Got the porpoises trained to spot intruders. And there’ve been several. That mob on the pali—it was arranged to cover something and we know what. Stealing juice—”

  “Stealing what?”

  Jerry forced calmness and explained. After a bit Tack said quietly, “I see. And now?” He was told more things about Grove. Enough to bring sharp exclamations. Jerry added in an urgent tone, “Ring tore by, tonight, blasting his horn and being chased. I phoned Bob. He just rang me. Grove wasn’t the first out where the development’s stalled, below Aina Haina.”

  Tack was getting the picture. “He was trying to catch a chopper? There? To get away from spies?”

  “Yes. The chopper and Grove are gone. Bob was conked and just came to. I’m taking off—with your permission—to be there, in case the chopper comes back.”

  Tack was more than awake. “I’ll be over at the park myself, right away!”

  “Not that!” Jerry moaned the words. “This phone could be tapped! Get out of your house with the family, fast! To some safe place and another phone. Then try to get a call through, somehow, to the President, if that’s possible. If it’s not—”

  “What!”

  Jerry realized he had to be clearer. “Look,” he said. “Grove’s been here on a job for the President of United States. Remember that Reef Tank body?”

  “I certainly—”

  “Part of what’s behind things. Grove’s been trying to get answers. Something—very big—is happening here. Soviet. Chinese. Or both. What, God knows! Ring didn’t know either. Only, it might blackmail USA.”

  “Right!” Crisp, now, attentive: military. Tack had been an Air Force captain—that was how he’d first seen Hawaii.

  “Ring must have found out the answer today. I mean yesterday,” Jerry said. “He was out with Sapphire and the porpoises—so it could be out there he learned.” Jerry’s voice caught, became a brief whisper. “They’re coming in! Beat it with the family, Tack! Fast! Then call—”

  The urgent words were broken off. Tack could imagine a phone left dangling in darkness. He could not know why Jerry had done that but only guess.

  Jerry had heard the special talk of the porpoises, the big hello. That saved his life. As he left the darkened phone stall he saw the high splash that signaled the presence of strangers. The watchman started a long crawl toward the parking yard but not by a direct route.

  Tack had hung up first, aware that any more talk from him might be bad news for Jerry. He looked at Sapphire. She stood steadily, waiting to hear or be told.

  “Where’d you take the porpoises yesterday, and Ring?”

  She said, “You know. Where Ring lost that money belt. He told us, at dinner at Canlis’. We didn’t find it.”

  “What’s there?”

  “I don’t—it’s beyond the big reef—Oh! The lava tube?”

  Tack nodded. “Go on.”

  She did. He thought briefly. “Wake the children. We’re leaving. Don’t dress them. No time.”

  She studied his face a moment and left the room. Their biggest car was on the way to Kailua before Jerry got to his own sedan, which was after he’d seen three men make sure he wasn’t hidden in it or near it. They had gone away, angry and in a hurry. Because he’d unscrewed the light bulb they missed the dangling telephone receiver. When they moved behind the institute’s main laboratory building Jerry went to his car like a hawk’s shadow. They ought to have put it out of action but he watched and they had not; which meant that the other side wasn’t working at its calmest and most efficient levels.

  The car was parked facing out and on a slight slope that led to the one unchained exit or entrance, a standard position. He shoved it and jumped in, steered as he did that, and coasted down the road till he swung into the Kalan. From there it was a short run on a curving pitch past the Makai Range property where the road lifted. There he braked to a stop on the shoulder. Minutes passed before he heard a car moving and he started his motor as it drowned that noise. He drove a short distance beyond the first hill ahead, turned around, and came back at a fast but not spectacular speed.

  Nobody shot. Probably nobody paid any attention. Cars passed there in both directions, once in a while. They had a walkie-talkie, however, and when they found his car was gone they’d
relay the fact.

  As soon as he got beyond their line of sight on the promontory called Makapuu, he speeded up. He had no idea what Grove had learned or even that he had learned anything. Tack and Sapphire would have even less of a notion and probably wouldn’t do any calling till morning. Jerry felt he had sounded and been hysterical and Tack would know that. Well, he was still hysterical, he told himself grimly as he roared toward the place whre he hoped Bob was waiting.

  Jerry was wrong about Attack Abbott, and about himself too.

  Tack left his home with his wakened three youngsters and his wife just because Jerry had been, not hysterical, but so incredibly shook: because of that, on account of the phone presumed abandoned, because of the blue, deep water where Sapphire had said the big lava tube was apparently opened by collapse and for related reasons. If whatever—rather, whoever—made Jerry leave the phone had overheard the call, maybe the Abbotts had minimal time to get clear. If the horror now blackly growing in Tack’s mind and Sapphire’s had substance, the situation was desperate.

  Between them, Tack and Sapphire reached the concept of Makai Range heavy construction as a mask for enemy labors—the vast lava tube as a site, and other extrapolations at least possible. Tack used the rear-view mirror often; and when they turned onto Pali Drive toward Kailua he said, “I’m going to take a few fancy ploys in town. You check, to be sure.”

  He made the quick cornerings. She was sure, in time.

  They pulled up at the Hedges home presently. It was dark. The door was locked and Tack pounded. Three young Abbotts in blankets moved up and Tack made a violent and almost mirthful sound that wasn’t a word when he saw that his oldest son was carrying his .22 rifle: guarding their rear. The boy caught onto things fast, Tack thought.

  Lights came on. Mrs. Hedges—Frances—opened the door.