The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  The past had been forsaken, and now what did she have in its stead? A volcanic isle, a patch of land and jungle, so lost in a mighty sea that it was not on any map. A people, a culture, so strange that it knew nothing of a policeman, a ballot, an electric lamp, a Ford, a motion picture, a washing machine, an evening gown, a Martini, a supermarket, a Literary Guild, a fire hydrant, a caged zoo, a Christmas carol, an uplift brassiere, a polio shot, a football, a corsage, a hi-fi set, a New York Times, a telephone, an elevator, a Kleenex, a social security card, a Phi Beta Kappa key, a TV dinner, a corn plaster, a Diner’s Club membership, a deodorant, a nuclear bomb, a crayon, a Caesarian section. All these, all this, had vanished from her life, and there was left on the desolate sand, on a speck of Oceania, only the five feet four inches and 112 pounds and twenty-five years of her own oversheltered, overcivilized, underprotected, unprepared self. Not more than thirty-two hours stood between the comfortable gadget paradise of her United States and the rude primitive islands of The Three Sirens. She had bridged the time and distance in body. Could she bridge them in her mind and heart?

  Despite the glare of the sun beating upon her head, she shivered. After one more lengthy puff of the cigarette, she buried it in the sand, and pushed herself to her feet. She stared across the beach. The entire group was gathering near the piles of luggage beside the canoe, and she knew that Maud would need her as well as the inventory in her purse. More energetically than before, she waded through the sand, remembering the Chicago lake front of her childhood, and soon she was once more part of the company formed by her mother-in-law, husband, and the members of the team.

  While each of the group had been permitted to retain his personal effects, to the limit of forty pounds, in his own suitcase, the scientific supplies had been pooled and packed in wooden crates. After Maud assisted each member in identifying his lightweight luggage, she summoned Claire and asked for the inventory of the supplies.

  Claire, list in hand, stood behind Maud, while she examined the outside of the crates. “They seem in good shape,” announced Maud. “Let’s see if they’re all here. You read the list aloud, just enough for me to identify each one.”

  “One carton of sleeping bags, lamps, batteries for lamps, and portable tape recorder,” Claire read. “Also—”

  “I have it,” said Maud.

  “One carton with Dr. Karpowicz’ drying cabinet, plant presses—”

  “Check.”

  “One carton of Dr. Karpowicz’ photographic equipment—motion picture camera, two still cameras, tripods, portable developing equipment, film—”

  “Check.”

  “One carton—no, two cartons—of Miss Bleaska’s first-aid kits, other medications, insect repellents—”

  “Yes, here they are, Claire.”

  “Then six cartons of assorted foods—canned goods, powdered milk—”

  “Wait, Claire, I’ve located only two—three of them—hold on—”

  Watching Maud kneel and search the crates, Claire remembered how odd she had thought it was to bring their own food along. Maud had explained that, for the most, they would share what the natives on the Sirens ate, but a limited larder of their own food might be useful. For one thing, Maud had said, sometimes you came upon people when they were in the midst of a famine or shortage, and by eating out of your own cans, you did not deprive them. Another reason for importing American staples was that some members of the team might not take well to bizarre native dishes, and prefer to starve rather than eat what revolted them or disagreed with them. Maud had a scarred memory of one field trip with Adley when she had been forced to eat boiled wood rat rather than insult her hosts or, indeed, starve.

  “All right, Claire, go on,” Maud called.

  Claire consulted her list. “Let me see. Here, I have it. One carton of office supplies—portable typewriter, reams of paper, Dr. Pence’s projective tests, your own notebooks and pencils—”

  Maud nodded as she hunted through the crates. “Yes, Adley always liked to say, ‘All I really need on a field trip are pencils and shaving cream.’ … Check, I’ve found it.”

  “Books,” said Claire, “one carton of books.”

  She had personally assembled and packed the several dozen volumes of basic works—The Outline of Cultural Materials, Kennedy’s Field Notes, the British Museum’s Notes and Queries for Anthropologists, Merck’s Manual (owned by Miss Bleaska), Malinowski’s Argonauts of the Western Pacific, Lowie’s Primitive Society, Mead’s Male and Female (owned by Dr. Pence), were the ones that came immediately to mind—but team members had carried their own recreational reading. Orville Pence had brought along some pornographic novels, explaining that he was making a study of them. Harriet Bleaska had packed half a dozen paperback mysteries. Claire, herself, had taken with her Melville’s Typee, Gauguin’s Noa Noa, Hakluyt’s Voyages, Frederick O’Brien’s White Shadows in the South Seas, each chosen as being appropriate reading for the journey.

  “Found the books,” said Maud.

  Hastily, Claire went on with the inventory. The remaining crates contained such a diversity of goods as surveying equipment, soap, water purifiers, steel tape measures, color charts, photographic albums of natives in other cultures, maps, fishing tackle, children’s toys, all items earmarked for use in specific studies.

  Maud had finally straightened, and was massaging the small of her back, and Claire was tucking the inventory into her purse, when Tom Courtney loomed between them.

  “Everything in order?” he inquired.

  “It’s all here and we’re all here,” said Maud cheerfully. “What’s the next step, Mr. Courtney?”

  “The next step, Dr. Hayden, is dogged ambulation.” He smiled. “It’s really not too forbidding. The distance is short, but in some spots the going is treacherous. There’s one gradual climb to the plateau, then a descent, another climb, rather steep, and a last descent to the village. About five hours, I’d say, allowing for three or four breaks along the way.” He indicated the crates and luggage. “Don’t worry about any of that. There’ll be a dozen more young men coming from the village to help these nine. They’ll carry the stuff by another route, a short cut, but a little too rugged for many of you, unless you’re in shape.”

  “We’ll take the slow, less taxing route,” decided Maud.

  By this time, Marc had appeared alongside Claire and his mother, and the majority of the team had banded themselves behind Courtney to listen. They were like so many new infantrymen, gathered around their sergeant, eager for any tidbit of information that would dispel the unknown and give them reassurance about their near futures.

  Lisa Hackfeld had held up her hand, and when Courtney noticed it, she inquired tremulously, “The route we’re now taking—is there any danger from wild animals?”

  “None whatsoever,” Courtney promised her. “Like many of these small Pacific islands, the fauna is limited, and most of it is marine life concentrated about the shores. You know, turtles, crabs, some harmless lizards. As we go inland, you may see a few goats, short-haired dogs, chickens and roosters, descendants of domesticated animals brought here by Daniel Wright in 1796. They’re allowed to roam freely. The sheep are now extinct. Then the island itself has some wild hogs and skinny pigs, fairly docile. It is tabu to kill any of them, except for the Chief’s feasts and during festival week.”

  As Courtney spoke, a beautiful, long-legged bird had swooped down from a cliff to a sodden tree trunk, and peered at them. “What kind of bird is that?” inquired Claire.

  “The golden plover,” said Courtney. “You’ll also see, from time to time, a variety of terns, Noah’s doves, crowned pigeons, and that’s about it.” His gaze went back to Lisa Hackfeld. “No, there’s nothing to be concerned about, except sunstroke.”

  “It sounds safe as a picnic outing,” said Maud, cheerfully.

  “I guarantee you, it is,” said Courtney. Yet, scanning his audience, he perceived a lingering anxiety. He seemed to consider what more to say, and then he added
, “Well, now that the supplies are in order, and you know the route we’re taking, and you know something of the fauna, there’s not much else to add at this time. I can guess this is all strange to you, and there’s a good deal more you’d like to know, but I don’t think the open beach is the place for it. The sun is becoming hotter every minute, and there’s little shelter. I don’t want you roasted before we begin. I’ll answer, through Dr. Maud Hayden, or directly, any other questions once we’re in the comfort of the village.”

  “Comfort of the village?” said Marc mockingly.

  Courtney was startled. “Why, yes, Dr. Hayden. I meant relative comfort, of course. It’s not an American community, no hot and cold running water or electric light bulbs or drugstore, but it’s not this lonely beach, either. You’ll find huts prepared for you, places to sit and to lie down and to eat, and good company, too.”

  Maud, who had been frowning at her son, faced Courtney with a forced smile. “I am sure it w T ill be agreeable, Mr. Courtney. A number of us have been in the field before. We know it’s not home. If that’s what we wanted, we wouldn’t have come here. And, as I told you, we’re honored—feel privileged—to be permitted to come here and to be accepted by Chief Paoti.”

  “Good,” said Courtney with a perfunctory bob of his head. He surveyed the faces of the others, his eyes coming to rest on Claire’s intent features. “Some of you may feel bewilderment, a sense of isolation from the world. I wouldn’t be surprised. It was exactly how I felt when I first set foot on the Sirens four years ago. From experience, I can assure you that the feeling will disappear by tomorrow. What I really want to say is this—you are not quite so isolated as you may think. Captain Rasmussen has agreed to step up his contact with us, to come here once a week. I believe Professor Easterday will be holding your incoming mail. Well, the Captain will bring it weekly, and take out any mail you wish sent from Papeete. Also, if you find a lack of certain supplies, portable facilities, the Captain will buy anything for you that you need and can be acquired in Tahiti, and he will deliver that weekly, too. I believe that should—”

  “Hey, Tom!” Rasmussen’s unmistakable grating bellow came from down on the beach.

  Courtney whirled around, and all of the others looked behind them. Rasmussen and Hapai were pointing at Sam Karpowicz. The botanist was wide-legged, in the wet sand at the water’s edge, with a diminutive silver camera aimed at the seaplane in the water.

  “The joker’s takin’ pictures!” Rasmussen shouted.

  Immediately, Courtney broke free of the group, pushed past Pence and Lisa Hackfeld, and ran toward Sam Karpowicz, who was not many yards away. Rasmussen’s last outburst had penetrated the botanist, and he lowered his camera, confused by the disturbance and the approach of Courtney. Quickly, Maud, followed by Marc and Claire, and then the others, crowded after Courtney.

  “What in the devil do you think you’re doing?” Courtney demanded.

  “Why—why—I—” Befuddled, Sam could not find words without an effort. “I’m only taking a few pictures. I carry this Minox in my pocket. It’s just for—”

  “How many have you taken?”

  “What do you mean? You mean here?”

  “Yes, here.”

  Observing this prosecution, Courtney’s stern, accusing expression, the sudden harshness of his voice, Claire was disturbed. She had thought him gentle, only gentle and amusing, too good-natured for temper, and this scene frightened her. She wondered what had got into him.

  “I—I—” Sam Karpowicz had fallen into stuttering again. “I was only trying to get a complete record. I took two or three shots of the beach—and one of the plane now—and—”

  Courtney held out his hand. “Give me the film.”

  Sam hesitated. “But—you’ll—it’ll expose the—”

  “Give it to me.”

  Sam dug a nail into the back of the Minox and jerked it wide-open. He shook the tiny roll of negative into his palm, and gave it to Courtney.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Sam asked.

  “I’m going to throw it away.”

  Sam’s myopic eyes, behind the rimless square spectacles, were those of a wounded doe. “You can’t, Mr. Courtney—those—there are fifty frames on those rolls—and I’ve got twenty shots of Papeete.”

  “I’m sorry.” Courtney swung away, reared back, and pitched the tiny metal roll in the great arc across the water. It fell, hit, with a miniscule splash, and sank from sight.

  Sam stared at the water, shaking his head. “But—but why—?”

  Courtney came around, glancing at the botanist, then at the others. His face no longer held stern anger, but it was serious. “I convinced Paoti, the entire tribe, to allow you to come here. I gave my pledge that you would do nothing, nothing whatsoever, to give away their location or endanger their security.”

  Marc protested. “Really, Mr. Courtney, I hardly think a few harmless scenic stills of a primitive beach—it looks like hundreds of others—”

  “It doesn’t,” said Courtney firmly. “Not to a South Seas hand. Every inch of every atoll has its characteristics, its individuality, to experienced eyes. Each is distinctive. These shots of the beach, the area around, once shown and published, might give some old pro a clue—a definite clue—”

  Sam had Maud by the arm, appealing to her as if she were the higher court. “They agreed we could take pictures—”

  “Of course, you can,” Courtney interrupted. He, too, was addressing Maud. “Dr. Hayden, I have some understanding of your—your work—what you require—the importance of photographic evidence. I have a blanket agreement from Chief Paoti that you may shoot what you wish inland—anything and everything—scenery—the inhabitants—all flora, fauna, dances, daily activities—everything except what might give them away. I’m sure you understand. There is risk for them if you record film of the outer perimeter of the island. There is risk if you shoot identifiable landmarks—the remains of the volcanic peak, for example, or long-shots of the two small atolls nearby—but as for the rest—this is your studio, do as you wish.”

  Maud had nodded through the last, and she looked up at Sam Karpowicz. “He’s perfectly right, Sam,” she said. “They’ve laid down certain rules, and we must abide by them.” She returned to Courtney. “You’ll find no one more cooperative than Dr. Karpowicz. His mistake—I’m sure we’ll all make ours in turn—was one of ignorance of the limitations. As soon as possible, Mr. Courtney, you will have to inform me of the tabus, and I will pass them on to every member of the team.”

  As he listened, Courtney’s countenance had entirely lost its severity, and once again Claire, studying him, liked him.

  “Fair enough, Dr. Hayden,” Courtney was saying. He yanked a handkerchief from the hip of his dungarees and wiped his forehead. “Now I think we’d better get off the beach and head inland.”

  He called an order in Polynesian to the natives at the canoe, and one of them responded in a gesture that was a salute of assent. Then, detaching himself from the team, Courtney took several steps toward Rasmussen and Hapai.

  “Captain, thanks,” Courtney said. “You, too, Dick. See you here the usual time next week.”

  “Yeh, next week,” said Rasmussen. He looked past Courtney at Maud and Claire, grinned, and winked. “Here’s hopin’ they got your fit in grass skirts.”

  Maud ignored this. “On behalf of all of us. Captain, we appreciate your cooperation.”

  Courtney clapped his hands for attention. “All right, everyone! Off we go to the village!”

  He waited for Maud to reach him, and then turned his back to the others and to the sea, and started through the sand, toward a cleft in the giant boulders. Raggedly, the other nine fell in behind the pair, and soon they had reached the narrow footpath that led upward between the rock walls to the interior of the island.

  With Marc beside her. Claire brought up the rear. She felt her husband’s hand on her elbow.

  “What do you think, Claire?”
/>   She halted, and shifted the strap of her purse so that it was more secure on her shoulder. “About what?”

  “This whole setup—the place—that fellow Courtney?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all so different. I’ve never seen anything like it before—beautiful but so away from everything.”

  “It’s isolated all right.” Marc agreed. His gaze went to the path the others were slowly ascending. “So’s our new friend there.”

  “Who? Mr. Courtney?”

  “Yes. He baffles me completely. I hope he’ll make a dependable informant.”

  “He seems educated and sensible.”

  “No doubt about his being educated,” said Marc. “As to being sensible, it depends on what you mean. He’s practical and efficient, that’s evident, so why this self-imposed exile? If he were a leper, or a cripple, or an obvious fugitive from the law, or even a shirtless bum, I could understand it. But he appears normal—”

  “I don’t know, Marc, but I’m sure there are some very real personal reasons for his being here.”

  “Maybe…maybe not,” said Marc, meditatively. “I thought I should establish an open, forthright relationship with him right off, so I asked him what he was doing in a place like this. You know what he said? He said, ‘Staying alive.’ I must admit that threw me. What kind of person would hole up a thousand miles from nowhere among naked primitives, and just sit and vegetate?”

  Claire did not answer. But she wondered, too. Then, as March entered the footpath, she turned for one last look at the beach and the ocean. And then she wondered something else. The next time she saw this scene, would anything or any one of them be different?