My Name is Legion

by Roger Zelazny

  There haven't been any equipment failures for a long while.

  Do you think it was a dolphin?

  He shrugged. Then, I'm a chemist, he said, not a dolphin specialist. But it strikes me, from everything I've read, that there are dolphins and there are dolphins. The average dolphin seems to be quite pacific, with an intelligence possibly equivalent to our own. Also, they should follow the same old normal distribution curve, the bulk of them in the middle, a few morons on one end, a few geniuses on the other. Perhaps a feebleminded dolphin who was not responsible for his actions did it. Or a Raskolnikov dolphin. Most of what is known about them comes from a study of average specimens. Statistically, in the relatively brief while such investigations have been going on, this has to be so. What do we know of their psychiatric abnormalities? Nothing, really. He shrugged again. So yes, I think it is possible, he finished.

  I was thinking then of a bubble city and some people I had never met, and I wondered whether dolphins ever felt rotten, guilty, and miserable as hell over anything they had done. I sent that thought back where it had come from, just as he said, I hope you are not worried ... ?

  Curious, I said. But concerned, too. Naturally.

  He turned and, as I followed him to the door, said, Well, you have to remember first that it was a good distance to the northeast, in the park proper. We have nothing operating over there, so your duties should not take you anywhere near the place where it occurred. Second, a team from the Institute of Delphinological Studies is searching the entire area, including our annex here, with underwater detection equipment. Third, until further notice there will be a continuing sonar scan about any area where one of our people has to submerge himself, and a shark cage and submersible decompression chamber will go along on all deep dives, just in case. The locks have all been closed until this is settled. And you will be given a weapon, a long metal tube carrying a charge and a shell, that should be capable of dispatching an angry dolphin or a shark.

  I nodded.

  Okay, I said, as we headed toward the next cluster of buildings. That makes me feel a lot better.

  I was going to get around to that in a little while anyway, he said. I was looking for the best way to get into it, though. I feel better, too, this part is offices. Should be empty now.

  He pulled open the door and I followed him through: desks, partitions, filing cabinets, office machines, water cooler, nothing unusual, and, as he had said, quite deserted. We passed along its center aisle and out the door at its far end, where we crossed the narrow breezeway that separated it from the adjacent building. We entered there.

  This is our museum, he said. Sam Beltrane thought it would be nice to have a small one to show visitors. Full of sea things as well as a few models of our equipment.

  Nodding, I looked about. At least the model equipment did not dominate, as I would have expected. The floor was covered with green indoor-outdoor carpeting, and a miniature version of the station itself occupied a tablelike frame near the front door, all of its underside equipment exposed. Shelves on the wall behind it held larger-scale versions of some of the more important components, placarded with a paragraph or two of explanation and history. There were an antique cannon, two lantern frames, several belt buckles, a few corns, and some corroded utensils displayed nearby, salvaged from a centuries-old vessel that still lay on the bottom not very far from the station, according to the plaque. On the opposite wall, with several of the larger ones set up on frames before it, was a display of marine skeletons accompanied by colored sketches of the fully fleshed and finned versions, ranging from tiny spinefish to a dolphin, along with a full-sized mock-up of a shark, which I determined to come back and compare a little more carefully on my own time. There was a large section containing Frank Cashel's mineral display, neatly mounted and labeled, separated from the fish by a window and overlooked by a slightly awkward but still attractive watercolor titled Miami Skyline, with the name Cashel scrawled in its lower comer. Oh, Frank paints, I said. Not bad.

  No, that's his wife, Linda's, he replied. You will meet her in just a minute. She should be next door. She runs the library and takes care of all our clerical work.

  So we passed through the door that led to the library and I saw Linda Cashel. She was seated at a desk, writing, and she looked up as we entered. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair was long, sun-bleached, pulled back, held with a jeweled clip. Blue eyes, in a longish face with a cleft chin, a slightly upturned nose, a sprinkling of freckles, and some very even, very white teeth were displayed as Barthelme greeted her and introduced us.

  ... Anytime you want a book, she said.

  I looked around at the shelves, the cases, the machines.

  We keep good copies of the standard reference works we use a lot, she said. I can get facsimile copies of anything else on a day's notice. There are some shelves of general fiction and light stun over there. She indicated a rack beside the front window. Then there are those banks of cassettes to your right, mostly undersea noises, fish sounds and such, for part of a continuing study we do for the National Science Foundation, and the last bank is music, for our own enjoyment. Everything is catalogued here. She rose and slapped a file unit, indicated an index key taped to its side. If you want to take something out and nobody's around, I would appreciate it if you would record its number, your name, and the date in this book. She glanced at a ledger on the comer of her desk. And if you want to keep anything longer than a week, please mention it to me. There is also a tool chest in the bottom drawer, in case you ever need a pair of pliers. Remember to put them back. That covers everything I can think of, she said. Any questions?

  Doing much painting these days? I asked.

  Oh, she said, reseating herself, you saw my skyline. I'm afraid next door is the only museum I'll ever get into. I've pretty much quit. I know I'm not that good.

  I rather liked it.

  She twisted her mouth.

  When I'm older and wiser and somewhere else, maybe I'll try again. I've done everything I care to with water and shorelines.

  I smiled because I couldn't think of anything else to say, and she did the same. Then we left, and Barthelme gave me the rest of the morning off to get settled in my cottage, which had been Michael Thomley's quarters. I went and did that.

  After lunch, I went to work with Deems and Carter in the equipment shed. As a result, we finished early. Since it was still too soon to think of dinner, they offered to take me for a swim, to see the sunken ship.

  It was about a quarter mile to the south, outside the wall, perhaps twenty fathoms down, what was left of it, and eerie, as such things always are, in the wavering beams we extended. A broken mast, a snapped bowsprit, a section of deck planking and smashed gunwale visible above the mud, an agitated horde of little fish we had disturbed at whatever they were about within and near the hulk, a partial curtain of weeds drawn and redrawn by the currents, and that was all that remained of someone's hopes for a successful voyage, some shipbuilders' labors, and possibly a number of people whose last impressions were of storm or sword, and then the gray, blue, green, sudden springs uncoiling, cold.

  Or maybe they made it over to Andros and dinner, as we did later. We ate in a red-and-white-checked-tablecloth sort of place near to the shore, where just about everything man-made clung, the interior of Andros being packed with mangrove swamps, mahogany and pine forests, doves, ducks, quail, pigeons, and chickcharnies. The food was good; I was hungry.

  We sat for a time afterward, smoking and talking. I still had not met Paul Vallons, but I was scheduled to work with him the following day. I asked Deems what he was like.

  Big fellow, he said, around your size, only he's good-looking. Kind of reserved. Fine diver. He and Mike used to take off every weekend, go belling around the Caribbean. Had a girl on every island, I'll bet.

  How's he taking things?

  Pretty well, I guess. Like I said, he's kind of reserved, doesn't show his feelings much. He and Mike had been frie
nds for years.

  What do you think got Mike?

  Carter broke in then.

  One of those damned dolphins, he said. We should never have started fooling with them. One of them came up under me once, damn near ruptured me.

  They're playful, Deems said. It didn't mean any harm.

  I think it did ... And that slick skin of theirs reminds me of a wet balloon. Sickening!

  You're prejudiced. They're friendly as puppies. It probably goes back to some sexual hangup.

  Crap! Carter said. They ...

  Since I had gotten it started, I felt obligated to change the subject. So I asked whether it was true that Martha Millay lived nearby.

  Yes, Deems said, taking hold of the opportunity. She has a place about four miles down the coast from here. Very neat, I understand, though I've only seen it from the water. Her own little port. She has a hydrofoil, a sailboat, a good-sized cabin cruiser, and a couple little power launches. Lives alone in a long, low building right smack on the water. Not even a road out that way.

  I've admired her work for a long while. I'd like to meet her sometime.

  He shook his head.

  I'll bet you never do. She doesn't like people. Doesn't have a listed phone.

  That's a pity. Any idea why she's that way?

  Well ...

  She's deformed, Carter said. I met her once, on the water. She was at anchor and I was going past on my way to one of the stations. That was before I knew about her, so I went near, just to say hello. She was taking pictures through the glass bottom of her boat, and when she saw me she started to scream and holler for me to get away, that I was scaring the fish. And she snatched up a tarp and pulled it over her legs. I got a look, though. She's a nice, normal-looking woman from the waist up, but her hips and legs are all twisted and ugly. I was sorry I'd embarrassed her. I was just as embarrassed myself, and I didn't know what to say. So I yelled, 'Sorry,' and waved and kept going.

  I heard she can't walk at all, Deems said, though she is supposed to be an excellent swimmer. I've never seen her myself.

  Was she in some sort of accident, do you know?

  Not as I understand it, he said. She is half Japanese, and the story I heard is that her mother was a Hiroshima baby. Some sort of genetic damage.

  Pity.

  Yes.

  We settled up and headed back. Later, I lay awake for a long while, thinking of dolphins, sunken ships, drowned people, half people, and the Gulf Stream, which kept talking to me through the window. Finally, I listened to it, and it took hold of me and we drifted away together into the darkness to wherever it finally goes.

  Paul Vallons was, as Andy Deems had said, around my size and good-looking, in a dark, clothing-advertisement sort of way. Another twenty years and he would probably even look distinguished. Some guys win all the way around. Deems had also been right about his reserve. He was not especially talkative, although he managed this without seeming unfriendly. As for his diving prowess, I was unable to confirm it that first day I worked with him, for we pulled shore duty while Deems and Carter got sent over to Station Three. Back to the equipment shed ...

  I did not think it a good idea to ask him about his late buddy, or dolphins, which pretty much confined me conversation-wise to the business at hand and a few generalities. Thus was the morning passed.

  After lunch, though, as I began thinking ahead, going over my plans for that evening, I decided he would be as good as anyone when it came to getting directions to the Chickcharny.

  He lowered the valve he had been cleaning and stared at me.

  What do you want to go to that dive for? he asked.

  Heard the place mentioned, I said. Like to see it.

  They serve drugs without a license, he told me. No inspection. If you like the stuff, you have no guarantee you won't be served some crap the village idiot cooks up in an outhouse.

  Then I'll stick to beer. Still like to see the place.

  He shrugged.

  Not that much to look at. But here ...

  He wiped his hands, tore an old leaf from the back of the wall calendar, and sketched me a quick map. I saw that it was a bit inland, toward the birds and mangroves, muck and mahogany. It was also somewhat to the south of the place I had been the previous evening. It was located on a stream, built up on pilings out over the water, he said, and I could take a boat right up to the pier that adjoined it.

  Think I'll go over tonight, I said.

  Remember what I said.

  I nodded as I tucked away the map.

  The afternoon passed quickly. There came a massing of clouds, a brief rainfall, about a quarter hour's worth, and then the sun returned to dry the decks and warm the just-rinsed world. Again, the workday ended early for me, by virtue of our having run out of business. I showered quickly, put on fresh clothes, and went to see about getting the use of a light boat.

  Ronald Davies, a tall, thin-haired man with a New England accent, said I could take the speedboat called Isabella, complained about his arthritis, and told me to have a good time. I nodded, turned her toward Andros, and sputtered away, hoping the Chickcharny included food among its inducements, as I did not want to waste time by stopping elsewhere.

  The sea was calm and the gulls dipped and pivoted, uttering hoarse cries, as I spread the wings of my wake across their preserve. I really had no idea what it was that I was going after. I did not like operating that way, but there was no alternative. I had no real line of attack. There was no handle on this one. I had determined, therefore, to simply amass as much information as I could as quickly as possible. Speed always seems particularly essential when I have no idea what it is that might be growing cold.

  Andros enlarged before me. I took my bearings from the place where we had eaten the previous evening, then sought the mouth of the stream Vallons had sketched for me.

  It took me about ten minutes to locate it, and I throttled down and made my way slowly up its twisting course. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a rough roadway running along the bank to my left. The foliage grew denser, however, and I finally lost sight of it completely. Eventually, the boughs met overhead, locking me for several minutes into an alley of premature twilight, before the stream widened again, took me around a corner, and showed me the place as it had been described.

  I headed to the pier, where several other boats were moored, tied up, climbed out, and looked around. The building to my right, the only building, outside of a small shed, did extend out over the water, was a wood-frame job, and was so patched that I doubted any of its original materials remained. There were half a dozen vehicles parked beside it, and a faded sign named the place THE CHICKCHARNY. Looking to my left as I advanced, I could see that the road which had accompanied me was in better shape than I would have guessed.

  Entering, I discovered a beautiful mahogany bar about fifteen feet ahead of me, looking as if it might have come from some ship. There were eight or ten tables here and there, several of them occupied, and a curtained doorway lay to the right of the bar. Someone had painted a crude halo of clouds above it.

  I moved up to the bar, becoming its only occupant. The bartender, a fat man who had needed a shave yesterday as well as the day before, put down his newspaper and came over.

  What'll it be?

  Give me a beer, I said. And can I get something to eat?

  Wait a minute.

  He moved farther down, checked a small refrigerator.

  Fish-salad sandwich? he said.

  Okay.

  Good. Because that's all we've got.

  He put it together, brought it over, drew me my beer.

  That was your boat I heard, wasn't it? he asked.

  That's right.

  Vacationing?

  No. I just started work over at Station One.

  Oh. Diver?

  Yes.

  He sighed.

  You're Mike Thomley's replacement, then. Poor guy.

  I prefer the word successor to replacement in these si
tuations, because it makes people seem less like spark plugs. But I nodded.

  Yeah, I heard all about it, I said. Too bad.

  He used to come here a lot.

  I heard that, too, and that the guy he was with worked here.

  He nodded.

  Rudy. Rudy Myers, he said. Worked here a couple years.

  They were pretty good friends, huh?

  He shook his head.

  Not especially, he said. They just knew each other ... Rudy worked in back. He glanced at the curtain.

  You know.

  I nodded.

  Chief guide, high medical officer, and head bottle washer, he said, with rehearsed levity. You interested ... ?

  What's the specialty of the house?

  Pink Paradise, he said. It's nice.

  What's it got?

  Bit of a drift, bit of an up, the pretty lights.

  Maybe next time, I said. Did he and Rudy go swimming together often?

  No, that was the only time ... You worried?

  I am not exactly happy about it. When I took this job nobody told me I might get eaten. Did Mike ever say anything about unusual marine activity or anything like that?

  No, not that I can recall.

  What about Rudy? Did he like the water?

  He peered at me, working at the beginnings of a frown.

  Why do you ask?

  Because it occurs to me that it might make a difference. If he was interested in things like that and Mike came across something unusual, he might take him out to see it.

  Like what?

  Beats the hell out of me ... But if he found something and it was dangerous, I'd like to know about it.

  The frown went away.

  No, he said. Rudy wouldn't have been interested. He wouldn't have walked outside to look if the Loch Ness monster was swimming by.

  Wonder why he went, then?

  He shrugged.

  I have no idea.

  I had a hunch that if I asked him anything else I just might ruin our beautiful rapport. So I ate up, drank up, paid up, and left.

  I followed the stream out to the open water again and ran south along the coast. Deems had said it was about four miles that way, figuring from the restaurant, and that it was a long, low building right on the water. All right. I hoped she had returned for that trip Don had mentioned. The worst she could do was tell me to go away. But she knew an awful lot that might be worth hearing. She knew the area and she knew dolphins. I wanted her opinion, if she had one.