My Name is Legion

PART TWO. Kjwalll'kje'koothai'lll'kje'k

After everyone had departed, the statements been taken, the remains of the remains removed, long after that, as the night hung late, clear, clean, with its bright multitudes doubled in their pulsing within the cool flow of the Gulf Stream about the station, I sat in a deck chair on the small patio behind my quarters, drinking a can of beer and watching the stars go by.

My feelings were an uncomfortable mixture, and I had not quite decided what to do with what was left.

It was awkward. I could make things neat and tidy again by deciding to forget the small inexplicables. I had accomplished what I had set out to do. I needed but stamp CLOSED on my mental file, go away, collect my fee and live happily, relatively speaking, ever after.

No one would ever know or, for that matter, care about the little things that still bothered me. I was under no obligation to pursue matters beyond this point.

Except ...

Maybe it is an obligation. At least, at times it became a compulsion, and one might as well salve one's notions of duty and free will by using the pleasanter term.

It? The possession of a primate forebrain, I mean, with a deep curiosity wrinkle furrowing it for better or worse.

I had to remain about the station a while longer anyway, for appearances' sake. I took another sip of beer.

Yes, I wanted more answers. To dump into the bottomless wrinkle up front there.

I might as well look around a bit more. Yes, I decided, I would.

I withdrew a cigarette and moved to light it. Then the flame caught my attention.

I stared at the flowing tongue of light, illuminating my palm and curved fingers of my left hand, raised to shield it from the night breeze. It seemed as pure as the starfires themselves, a molten, buttery thing, touched with orange, haloed blue, the intermittently exposed cherry-colored wick glowing, half-hidden, like a soul. And then the music began ...

Music was the best term I had for it, because of some similarity of essence, although it was actually like nothing I had ever experienced before. For one thing, it was not truly sonic. It came into me as a memory comes, without benefit of external stimulus, but lacking the Lucite layer of self-consciousness that turns thought to recollection by touching it with time, as in a dream. Then, something suspended, something released, my feelings began to move to the effect. Not emotions, nothing that specific, but rather a growing sense of euphoria, delight, wonder, all poured together into a common body with the tide rising. What the progressions, what the combinations., what the thing was, truly, I did not know. It was an intense beauty, a beautiful intensity, however, and I was part of it. It was as if I were experiencing something no man had ever known before, something cosmic, magnificent, ubiquitous yet commonly ignored.

And it was with a peculiarly ambiguous effort, following a barely perceptible decision, that I twitched the fingers of my left hand sufficiently to bring them into the flame itself.

The pain broke the dream momentarily, and I snapped the lighter closed as I sprang to my feet, a gaggle of guesses passing through my head. I turned and ran across that humming artificial islet, heading for the small, dark cluster of buildings that held the museum, library, offices.

But even as I moved, something came to me again. Only this time it was not the glorious, musiclike sensation that had touched me moments earlier. Now it was sinister, bringing a fear that was none the less real for my knowing it to be irrational, to the accompaniment of sensory distortions that must have caused me to reel as I ran. The surface on which I moved buckled and swayed; the stars, the buildings, the ocean, everything, advanced and retreated in random, nauseating patterns of attack. I fell several times, recovered, rushed onward. Some of the distance I know that I crawled. Closing my eyes did no good, for everything was warped, throbbing, shifting, and awful inside as well as out.

It was only a few hundred yards, though, no matter what the signs and portents might say, and finally I rested my hands against the wall, worked my way to the door, opened it, and passed within.

Another door and I was into the library. For years, it seemed, I fumbled to switch on the light.

I staggered to the desk, fought with a drawer, wrestled a screwdriver out of it.

Then on my hands and knees, gritting my teeth, I crossed to the remote-access terminal of the Information Network. Slapping at the console's control board, I succeeded in tripping the switches that brought it to life.

Then, still on my knees, holding the screwdriver with both hands, I got the left side panel off the thing. It fell to the floor with a sound that drove spikes into my head. But the components were exposed. Three little changes and I could transmit, something that would eventually wind up in Central. I resolved that I would make those changes and send the two most damaging pieces of information I could guess at to the place where they might eventually be retrieved in association with something sufficiently similar to one day cause a query, a query that would hopefully lead to the destruction of that for which I was currently being tormented.

I mean it! I said aloud. Stop right now! Or I'll do it!

... And it was like taking off a pair of unfamiliar glasses: rampant reality.

I climbed to my feet, shut down the board.

The next thing, I decided, was to have that cigarette I had wanted in the first place.

With my third puff, I heard the outer door open and close.

Dr. Barthelme, short, tan, gray on top and wiry, entered the room, blue eyes wide, one hand partly raised.

Jim! What's wrong? he said.

Nothing, I replied. Nothing.

I saw you running. I saw you fall.

Yes. I decided to sprint over here. I slipped. Pulled a muscle. It's all right.

Why the rush?

Nerves. I'm still edgy, upset. I had to run or something, to get it out of my system. Decided to run over and get a book. Something to read myself to sleep with.

I can get you a tranquilizer.

No, that's all right. Thanks. I'd rather not.

What were you doing to the machine? We're not supposed to fool with ...

The side panel fell off when I went past it. I was just going to put it back on. I waved the screwdriver. The little set-screws must have jiggled loose.

Oh.

I stooped and fitted it back into place. As I was tightening the screws, the telephone rang. Barthelme crossed to the desk, poked an extension button, and answered it.

After a moment, he said, Yes, just a minute, and turned. It's for you.

Really?

I rose, moved to the desk, took the receiver, dropping the screwdriver back into the drawer and closing it. Hello? I said.

All right, said the voice. I think we had better talk. Will you come and see me now?

Where are you?

At home.

All right, I'll come. I hung up.

Don't need that book after all, I said. I'm going over to Andros for a while.

It's pretty late. Are you certain you feel up to it?

Oh, I feel fine now, I said. Sorry to have worried you.

He seemed to relax. At least, he sagged and smiled family.

Maybe I should go take the trank, he said. Everything that's happened ... You know. You scared me.

Well, what's happened has happened. It's all over, done.

You're right, of course ... Well, have a good time, whatever.

He turned toward the door and I followed him out, extinguishing the light as I passed it.

Good night, then.

Good night

He headed back toward his quarters, and I made my way down to the docking area, decided on the Isabella, got in. Moments later, I was crossing over, still wondering. Curiosity may ultimately prove nature's way of dealing with the population problem.

It was on May Day, not all that long ago, though it seems so, that I sat to the rear of the bar at Captain Tony's in Key West, to the right, near to the fireplace, drinking one of my seasonal beers. It was a little after eleven, and I had about decided that this one was a write-off, when Don came in through the big open front of the place. He glanced around, his eyes passing over me, located a vacant stool near the forward corner of the bar, took it, and ordered something. There were too many people between us, and the group had returned to the stage at the rear of the room behind me and begun another set, with a loud opening number. So, for a time, we just sat there, wondering, I guess.

After ten or fifteen minutes, he got to his feet and made his way back to the rest room, passing around the far side of the bar. A short while later, he returned, moving around my side. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

Bill! he said. What are you doing down here?

I turned, regarded him, grinned.

Sam! Good Lord! We shook hands. Then, Too noisy in here to talk, he said. Let's go someplace else.

Good idea.

After a time, we found ourselves on a dim and deserted stretch of beach, smelling the salty breath of the ocean, listening to it, and feeling an occasional droplet.

We halted, and I lit a cigarette.

Did you know that the Florida current carries over two million tons of uranium past here every year? he said.

To be honest, no, I told him.

Well, it does ... What do you know about dolphins?

That's better, I said. They are beautiful, friendly creatures, so well adapted to their environment that they don't have to mess it up in order to lead the life they seem to enjoy. They are highly intelligent, they're cooperative, and they seem totally lacking in all areas of maliciousness. They ...

That's enough, and he raised his hand. You like dolphins. I knew you would say that. You sometimes remind me of one, swimming through life, not leaving traces, retrieving things for me.

Keep me in fish. That's all.

He nodded.

The usual arrangement. But this one should be a relatively easy, yes-or-no thing, and not take you too long. It's quite near here, as a matter of fact, and the incident is only a few days old.

Oh! What's involved?

I'd like to clear a gang of dolphins of a homicide charge, he said.

He expected me to say something, and he was disappointed. I was thinking, recalling a news account from the previous week. Two scuba-clad swimmers had been killed in one of the undersea parks to the east, at about the same time that some very peculiar activity on the part of dolphins was being observed in the same area. The men had been bitten and chewed by something possessing a jaw configuration approximating that of Tursiops truncatus, the bottle-nosed dolphin, a normal visitor and sometime resident of these same parks. The particular park in which the incident occurred had been closed until further notice. There were no witnesses to the attack, as I recalled, and I had not come across any follow-up story.

I'm serious, he finally said.

One of those guys was a qualified guide who knew the area, wasn't he?

He brightened, there in the dark.

Yes, he said. Michael Thomley. He used to do some moonlighting as a guide. He was a full-time employee of the Beltrane Processing people. Did underwater repair and maintenance at their extraction plants. Ex-Navy. Frogman. Extremely qualified. The other fellow was a landlubber friend of his from Andros. Rudy Myers. They went out together at an odd hour, stayed rather long. In the meantime, several dolphins were seen getting the hell out, fast. They leaped the 'wall,' instead of passing through the locks. Others used the normal exits. These were blinking on and off like mad. In a matter of a few minutes, actually, every dolphin in the park had apparently departed. When an employee went looking for Mike and Rudy, he found them dead.

Where do you come into the picture?

The Institute of Delphinological Studies does not appreciate the bad press this gives their subject. They maintain there has never been an authenticated case of an unprovoked attack by a dolphin on a human being. They are anxious not to have this go on record as one, if it really isn't.

Well, it hasn't actually been established. Perhaps something else did it. Scared the dolphins, too.

I have no idea, he said, lighting a cigarette of his own. But it was not all that long ago that the killing of dolphins was finally made illegal throughout the world, and that the pioneer work of people like Lilly came to be appreciated, with a really large-scale project set up for the assessment of the creature. They have come up with some amazing results, as you must know. It is no longer a question of trying to demonstrate whether a dolphin is as intelligent as a man. It has been established that they are highly intelligent, although their minds work along radically different lines, so that there probably never can be a true comparison. This is the basic reason for the continuing communication problems, and it is also a matter of which the general public is pretty much aware. Given this, our client does not like the inferences that could be drawn from the incident, namely, that powerful, free-ranging creatures of this order of intelligence could become hostile to man.

So the Institute hired you to look into it?

Not officially. I was approached because the character of the thing smacks of my sort of investigation specialties as well as the scientific. Mainly, though, it was because of the urgings of a wealthy little old lady who may someday leave the Institute a fortune: Mrs. Lydia Bames, former president of the Friends of the Dolphin Society, the citizen group that had lobbied for the initial dolphin legislation years ago. She is really paying my fee.

What sort of place in the picture did you have in mind for me?

Beltrane will want a replacement for Michael Thomley. Do you think you could get the job?

Maybe. Tell me more about Beltrane and the parks.

Well, he said, I guess it was a generation or so back that Dr. Spencer at Harwell demonstrated that titanium hydroxide would create a chemical reaction that separated uranyl ions from seawater. It was costly, though, and it was not until years later that Samuel Beltrane came along with his screening technique, founded a small company, and quickly tamed it into a large one, with uranium-extraction stations all along this piece of the Gulf Stream. While his process was quite clean, environmentally speaking, he was setting up in business at a time when public pressure on industry was such that some gesture of ecological concern was pretty much de rigueur. So he threw a lot of money, equipment, and man-hours into the setting up of the four undersea parks in the vicinity of the island of Andros. A section of the barrier reef makes one of them especially attractive. He got a nice tax break on the deal. Deserved, though, I'd say. He cooperated with the dolphin studies people, and labs were set up for them in the parks. Each of the four areas is enclosed by a sonic 'wall', a sound barrier that keeps everything outside out and everything inside in, in terms of the larger creatures. Except for men and dolphins. At a number of points, the 'wall' possesses 'sound locks', a pair of sonic curtains, several meters apart, which are operated by means of a simple control located on the bottom. Dolphins are capable of teaching one another how to use it, and they are quite good about closing the door behind them. They come and go, visiting the labs at will, both learning from and, I guess, teaching the investigators.

Stop, I said. What about sharks?

They were removed from the parks first thing. The dolphins even helped chase them out. It has been over a decade now since the last one was put out.

I see. What say does the company have in running the parks?

None, really. They service the equipment now, that's all.

Do many of the Beltrane people work as park guides too?

A few, part-time. They are in the area, they know it well, they have all the necessary skills.

I would like to see whatever medical reports there were.

I have them here, complete with photos of the bodies.

What about the man from Andros, Rudy Myers? What did he do?

He'd trained as a nurse. Worked in several homes for the aged. Taken in a couple of times on charges of stealing from the patients. Charges dropped once. A suspended sentence the second time. Sort of blackballed from that line of work afterward. That was six or seven years back. Held a variety of small jobs then and kept a clean record. He had been working on the island for the past couple of years in a sort of bar.

What do you mean 'sort of bar'?

It has only an alcohol license, but it serves drugs, too. It's way out in the boonies, though, so nobody's ever raised a fuss.

What's the place called?

The Chickcharny.

What's that mean?

A piece of local folklore. A chickcharny is a sort of tree spirit. Mischievous. Like an elf.

Colorful enough, I guess ... Isn't Andros where Martha Millay, the photographer, makes her home?

Yes, it is.

I'm a fan of hers. I like underwater photography, and hers is always good. In fact, she did several books on dolphins. Has anyone thought to ask her opinion of the killings?

She's been away.

Oh. Hope she gets back soon. I'd like to meet her.

Then you will take the job?

Yes, I need one just now.

He reached into his jacket, withdrew a heavy envelope, passed it to me.

There you have copies of everything I have. Needless to say ...

Needless to say, I said, the life of a mayfly will be as eternity to them.

I slipped it into my own jacket and turned away.

Be seeing you, I said.

Leaving already?

I've a lot to do.

Good luck, then.

Thanks.

I went left and he went right, and that was that for then.

Station One was something of a nerve center for the area. That is, it was larger than the other extraction plants and contained the field office, several laboratories, a library, a museum, a dispensary, living quarters, and a few recreational features. It was an artificial island, a fixed platform about seven hundred feet across, and it monitored and serviced eight other plants within the area. It was within sight of Andros, largest of the Bahama Islands, and if you like plenty of water about you, which I do, you would find the prospect peaceful and more than a little attractive.

After the tour and introductions that first day, I learned that my duties were about one-third routine and two-thirds response to circumstances. The routine part was inspection and preventive maintenance. The rest was unforeseen repair, retrieval, and replacement work, general underwater handyman stuff whenever the necessity arose.

It was Dr. Leonard Barthelme, the Area Director, who met me and showed me around. A pleasant little fellow who seemed to enjoy talking about his work, muddle-aged, a widower, he had made his home at Station One for almost five years. The first person to whom be introduced me was Frank Cashel, whom we found in the main laboratory, eating a sandwich and waiting for some test to run its course.

Frank swallowed and smiled, rose, and shook hands with me as Barthelme explained, This is the new man, James Madison.

He was dark, with a touch of gray here and there, a few creases accentuating a ruggedness of jawline and cheekbone, the beginnings of a bulge above his belt.

Glad to have you around, he said. Keep an eye out for pretty rocks, and bring me a branch of coral every now and then. Well get along fine.

Frank's hobby is collecting minerals, Barthelme said. The display in the museum is his. We'll pass that way in a few minutes and you can see it. Quite interesting.

I nodded.

Okay. I'll remember. See what I can find you.

Know anything about the subject? Frank asked me.

A little. I used to be something of a rock hound.

Well, I'd appreciate it.

As we walked away, Barthelme remarked, He makes some money on the side selling specimens at gem shows. I would bear that in mind before I gave him too much in the way of my spare time, or samples.

Oh.

What I mean is, if you feel like going in for that sort of thing on a more than occasional basis, you ought to make it clear that you want a percentage.

I see. Thanks.

Don't misunderstand me, he said. He's a fine fellow. Just a little absentminded.

How long has he been out here?

Around two years. Geophysicist. Very solid.

We stopped by the equipment shed then, where I met Andy Deems and Paul Carter: the former, thin and somewhat sinister in appearance because of a scribbling of scars on his left cheek, which a full beard did not completely conceal; the latter, tall, fair, smooth-faced, and somewhere between husky and fat. They were cleaning some tanks when we entered, and wiped their hands, shook mine, and said they were glad to meet me. They both did the same sort of work I would be doing, the normal staffing calling for four of us, working in pairs. The fourth man was Paul Vallons, who was currently out with Ronald Davies, the boatmaster, replacing an instrument package in a sampler buoy. Paul, I learned, had been Mike's partner, the two of them having been friends since their Navy days. I would be working with him much of the time.

You will soon be reduced to this miserable state yourself, Carter said cheerfully, as we were leaving. Enjoy your morning. Gather rosebuds.

You are miserable because you sweat most obscenely, Deems observed.

Tell it to my glands.

As we crossed the islet, Barthelme observed that Deems was the most capable underwater man he had ever met. He had lived in one of the bubble cities for a time, lost his wife and daughter in the RUMOKO II disaster, and come topside to stay. Carter had come across from the West Coast about five months ago, immediately following a divorce or separation he did not care to talk about. He had been employed by Beltrane out there and had requested a transfer.

Barthelme took me through the second lab, which was vacant just then, so that I could admire the large, illuminated map of the seas about Andros, beads of light indicating the disposition and well-being of the devices that maintained the sonic 'walls' about the parks and stations. I saw that we were enclosed by a boundary that took in the nearest park also.

In which one was the accident? I asked. He turned and studied my face, then pointed, indicating our own.

It was farther in, over there, he said. Toward the northeast end of the park. What have you heard about it?

Just the news report, I said. Has anything new been discovered?

No. Nothing.

With my fingertip, I traced the reversed L of lights that outlined the area.

No holes in the 'wall'? I asked.

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 friends 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 situations, 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.

There was still a lot of daylight left in the sky, though the air seemed to have cooled a bit, when I spotted a small cove at about the proper distance, throttled down, and swung toward it. Yes, there was the place, partway back and to the left, built against a steep rise and sporting a front deck that projected out over the water. Several boats, one of them a sailboat, rode at rest at its side, sheltered by the long, white curve of a breakwater.

I headed in, continuing to slow, and made my way around the inward point of the breakwall. I saw her sitting on the pier, and she saw me and reached for something. Then she was lost to sight above me as I pulled into the lee of the structure. I killed my engine and tied up to the handiest piling, wondering each moment whether she would appear the next, boathook in hand, ready to repel invaders.

This did not happen, though, so I climbed out and onto a ramplike staging that led me topside. She was just finishing adjusting a long, flaring skirt, which must have been what she had been reaching after. She wore a bikini top, and she was seated on the deck itself, near to the edge, legs tucked out of sight beneath the green, white and blue print material. Her hair was long and very black, her eyes dark and large. Her features were regular, with a definite Oriental cast to them, of the sort I find exceedingly attractive. I paused at the top of the ramp, feeling immediately uncomfortable as I met her gaze.

My name is Madison, James Madison, I said. I work out at Station One. I'm new there. May I come up for a minute?

You already have, she said. Then she smiled, a tentative thing. But you can come the rest of the way over and have your minute.

So I did, and as I advanced she kept staring at me. It made me acutely self-conscious, a condition I thought I had mastered shortly after puberty, and as I was about to look away, she said, Martha Millay, just to make it a full introduction, and she smiled again.

I've admired your work for a long while, I said, although that is only part of the reason I came by. I hoped you could help me to feel safer in my own work.

The killings, she said.

Yes, Exactly ... Your opinion. I'd like it.

All right. You can have it, she said. But I was on Martinique at the time the killings occurred, and my intelligence comes only from the news reports and one phone conversation with a friend at the IDS. On the basis of years of acquaintanceship, years spent photographing them, playing with them, knowing them, loving them, I do not believe it possible that a dolphin would kill a human being. The notion runs contrary to all my experience. For some peculiar reason, perhaps some delphinic concept as to the brotherhood of self-conscious intelligence, we seem to be quite important to them, so important that I even believe one of them might rather die himself than see one of us killed.

So you would rule out even a self-defense killing by a dolphin?

I think so, she said, although I have no facts to point at here. However, what is more important, in terms of your real question, is that they struck me as very undolphinlike killings.

How so?

I don't see a dolphin as using his teeth in the way that was described. The way a dolphin is designed, his rostrum, or beak, contains a hundred teeth, and there are eighty-eight in his lower jaw. But if he gets into a fight with, say, a shark or a whale, he does not use them for purposes of biting or slashing. He locks them together, which provides a very rigid structure, and uses his lower jaw, which is considerably undershot, for purposes of ramming his opponent. The anterior of the skull is quite thick and the skull itself sufficiently large to absorb enormous shocks from blows administered in this fashion, and they are tremendous blows, for dolphins have very powerful neck muscles. They are quite capable of killing sharks by battering them to death. So even granting for the sake of argument that a dolphin might have done such a thing, he would not have bitten his victims. He would have bludgeoned them.

So why didn't someone from the dolphin institute come out and say that?

She sighed.

They did. The news media didn't even use the statement they gave them. Apparently nobody thought it an important enough story to warrant any sort of followup.

She finally took her eyes off me and stared out over the water.

Then, I believe their indifference to the damage caused by running only the one story is more contemptible even than actual malice, she finally said.

Acquitted for a moment by her gaze, I lowered myself to sit on the edge of the pier, my feet hanging down over the side. It had been an added discomfort to stand, staring down at her. I joined her in looking out across her harbor.

Cigarette? I said.

I don't smoke.

Mind if I do?

Go ahead.

I lit one, drew on it, thought a moment, then asked, Any idea as to how the deaths might have occurred?

It could have been a shark.

But there hasn't been a shark in the area for years. The 'walls' ...

She laughed.

There are any number of ways a shark could have gotten in, she said. A shift on the bottom, opening a tunnel or crevice beneath the 'wall.' A temporary short circuit in one of the projectors that didn't get noticed, or a continuing one, with a short somewhere in the monitoring system. For that matter, the frequencies used in the 'wall' are supposed to be extremely distressing to many varieties of marine life, but not necessarily fatal. While a shark would normally seek to avoid the 'wall', one could have been driven, forced through by some disturbance, and then found itself trapped inside,

That's a thought, I said. Yes ... Thank you. You didn't disappoint me.

I would have thought that I had.

Why?

All that I have done is try to vindicate the dolphins and show that there is possibly a shark inside. You said that you wanted me to tell you something that would make you feel safer in your work.

I felt uncomfortable again. I had the sudden, irrational feeling that she somehow knew all about me and was playing games at that moment.

You said that you are familiar with my work, she said suddenly. Does that include the two picture books on dolphins?

Yes. I enjoyed your text, too.

There wasn't that much of it, she said, and it has been several years now. Perhaps it was too whimsical. It has been a long while since I've looked at the things I said ...

I thought them admirably suited to the subject, little Zen-like aphorisms for each photograph.

Can you recall any?

Yes, I said, one suddenly coming to me, I remember the shot of the leaping dolphin, where you caught his shadow over the water and had for a caption, 'In the absence of reflection, what gods ... '

She chuckled briefly.

For a long while I thought that that one was perhaps too cute. Later, though, as I got to know my subject better, I decided that it was not.

I have often wondered as to what sort of religion or religious feelings they might possess, I said. It has been a common element among all the tribes of man. It would seem that something along these lines appears whenever a certain level of intelligence is achieved, for purposes of dealing with those things that are still beyond its grasp. I am curious as to the forms it might take among dolphins, but quite intrigued by the notion. You say you have some ideas on it?

I have done a lot of thinking as I watched them, she said, attempting to analyze their character in terms of their behavior, their physiology. Are you familiar with the writings of Johan Huizinga?

Faintly, I said. It has been years since I read Homo Ludens, and it struck me as a rough draft for something he never got to work out completely. But I recall his basic premise as being that culture begins as a sort of sublimation of a play instinct, elements of sacred performances and festal contests continuing for a time in the evolving institutions, perhaps always remaining present at some level, although his analysis stopped short of modem times.

Yes, she said. The play instinct. Watching them sport about, it has often seemed to me that as well adapted as they are to their environment, there was never a need for dolphins to evolve complex social institutions, so that whatever it was they did possess along those lines was much closer to the earlier situations considered by Huizinga, a life condition filled with an overt indulgence in their version of festal performances and contests.

A play-religion?

Not quite that simple, though I think that is part of the picture. The problem here lies in language. Huizinga employed the Latin word ludus for a reason. Unlike the Greek language, which had a variety of words for idling, for competing in contests, for passing the time in different fashions, Latin reflected the basic unity of all these things and summarized them into a single concept by means of the word ludus. The dolphins' distinctions between play and seriousness are obviously different from our own, just as ours are different from the Greeks'. In our understanding of the meaning of ludus, however, in our ability to realize that we may unify instances of activity from across a broad spectrum of behavior patterns by considering them as a form of play, we have a better basis for conjecture as well as interpretation.

And in this manner you have deduced their religion?

I haven't, of course. I only have a few conjectures. You say you have none?

Well, if I had to guess, just to pull something out of the ah , I would say some form of pantheism, perhaps something akin to the less contemplative forms of Buddhism.

Why 'less contemplative'? she asked.

All that activity, I said. They don't even really sleep, do they? They have to get topside quite regularly in order to breathe. So they are always moving about. When would they be able to drift beneath the coral equivalent of a bo tree for any period of time?

What do you think your mind would be like if you never slept?

I find that rather difficult to conceive. But I imagine I would find it quite distressing after a while, unless ...

Unless what?

Unless I indulged in periodic daydreaming, I suppose.

I think that might be the case with dolphins, although with a brain capacity such as they possess I do not feel it need necessarily be a periodic thing.

I don't quite follow you.

I mean they are sufficiently endowed to do it simultaneously with other thinking, rather than serially.

You mean always dreaming a little? Taking their mental vacations, their reveries, sidewise in time as it were?

Yes. We do it too, to a limited extent. There is always a little background thinking, a little mental noise going on while we are dealing with whatever thoughts are most pressing in our consciousness. We learn to suppress it, calling this concentration. It is, in one sense, a process of keeping ourselves from dreaming.

And you see the dolphin as dreaming and carrying on his normal mental business at the same time?

In a way, yes. But I also see the dreaming itself as a somewhat different process.

In what way?

Our dreams are largely visual in nature, for our waking lives are primarily visually oriented. The dolphin, on the other hand ...

... is acoustically oriented. Yes. Granting this constant dreaming effect and predicating it on the neurophysiological structures they possess, it would seem that they might splash around enjoying their own sound tracks.

More or less, yes. And might not this behavior come under the heading of ludus?

I just don't know.

One form of ludus, which me Greeks of course saw as a separate activity, giving it the name diagoge, is best translated as mental recreation. Music was placed in this category, and Aristotle speculated in his Politics as to the profit to be derived from it, finally conceding that music might conduce to virtue by making the body fit, promoting a certain ethos, and enabling us to enjoy things in me proper way, whatever that means. But considering an acoustical daydream in this light, as a musical variety of ludus, I wonder if it might not indeed promote a certain ethos and foster a particular way of enjoying things?

Possibly, if they were shared experiences.

We still have no proper idea as to the meanings of many of their sounds. Supposing they are vocalizing some part of this experience?

Perhaps, given your other premises.

Then that is all I have, she said. I choose to see a religious significance in spontaneous expressions of diagoge. You may not.

I don't. I'd buy it as a physiological or psychological necessity, even see it, as you suggested, as a form of play, or ludus. But I have no way of knowing whether such musical activity is truly a religious expression, so for me the ball stops rolling right there. At this point, we do not really understand their ethos or their particular ways of viewing life. A concept as alien and sophisticated as the one you have outlined would be well-nigh impossible for them to communicate to us, even if the language barrier were a lot thinner than it is now. Short of actually finding a way of getting inside them to know it for oneself, I do not see how we can deduce religious sentiments here, even if every one of your other conjectures is correct.

You are, of course, right, she said. The conclusion is not scientific if it cannot be demonstrated. I cannot demonstrate it, for it is only a feeling, an inference, an intuition, and I offer it only in that spirit. But watch them at their play sometime, listen to the sounds your ears will accept. Think about it. Try to feel it.

I continued to stare at the water and the sky. I had already learned everything I had come to find out and the rest was just frosting, but I did not have the pleasure of such desserts every day. I realized then that I liked the girl even more than I had thought I would, that I had grown quite fascinated as she had spoken, and not entirely because of the subject. So, partly to prolong things and partly because I was genuinely curious, I said, Go ahead. Tell me the rest. Please.

The rest?

You see a religion or something on that order. Tell me what you think it must be like.

She hesitated. Then, I don't know, she said. The more one compounds conjectures the sillier one becomes. Let us leave it at that

But that would leave me with little to say but Thank you and Good night. So I pushed my mind around inside the parameters she had laid down, and one of the things that came to me was Barthelme's mention of the normal distribution curve with reference to dolphins.

If, as you suggest, I began, they constantly express and interpret themselves and their universe by a kind of subliminal dreamsong, it would seem to follow that, as in all things, some are better at it than others. How many Mozarts can there be, even in a race of musicians? Champions, in a nation of athletes? If they all play at a religious diagoge, it must follow that some are superior players. Would they be priests or prophets? Bards? Holy singers? Would the areas in which they dwell be shrines, holy places? A dolphin Vatican or Mecca? A Lourdes?

She laughed.

Now you are getting carried away, Mister, Madison.

I looked at her, trying to see something beyond the apparently amused expression with which she faced me.

You told me to think about it, I said; to try to feel it.

It would be strange if you were correct, would it not?

I nodded.

And probably well worth the pilgrimage, I said, standing, if only I could find an interpreter ... I thank you for the minute I took and the others you gave me. Would you mind terribly if I dropped by again sometime?

I am afraid I am going to be quite busy, she said.

I see. Well, I appreciate what you have given me. Good night, then.

Good night.

I made my way back down the ramp to the speedboat, brought it to life, guided it about the breakwall and headed toward the darkening sea, looking back only once, in hopes of discovering just what it was that she called to mind, sitting there, looking out across the waves. Perhaps the Little Mermaid, I decided.

She did not wave back to me. But then it was twilight, and she might not have noticed.

Returning to Station One, I felt sufficiently inspired to head for the office/museum/library cluster to see what I could pick up in the way of reading materials having to do with dolphins.

I made my way across the islet and into the front door, passing the shadow-decked models and displays of the museum and turning right. I swung the door open. The light was on in the library, but the place was empty. I found several books listed that I had not read, so I hunted them up, leafed through them, settled on two, and went to sign them out.

As I was doing this, my eyes were drawn toward the top of the ledger page by one of the names entered there: Mike Thomley. I glanced across at the date and saw that it happened to be the day before his death. I finished signing out my own materials and decided to see what it was he had taken to read on the eve of his passing. Well, read and listen to. There were three items shown, and the prefix to one of the numbers indicated that it had been a tape.

The two books turned out to be light popular novels. When I checked the tape, however, a very strange feeling possessed me. It was not music, but rather one from the marine-biology section. Verily. To be precise, it was a recording of the sounds of the killer whale.

Even my pedestrian knowledge of the subject was sufficient, but to be doubly certain, I checked in one of the books I had right there with me. Yes, the killer whale was undoubtedly the dolphin's greatest enemy, and well over a generation ago experiments had been conducted at the Naval Undersea Center in San Diego, using the recorded sounds of the killer whale to frighten dolphins, for purposes of developing a device to scare them out of tuna nets, where they were often inadvertently slaughtered.

What could Thomley possibly have wanted it for? Its use in a waterproof broadcasting unit could well have accounted for the unusual behavior of the dolphins in the park at the time he was killed. But why? Why do a thing like that?

I did what I always do when I am puzzled: I sat down and lit a cigarette.

While this made it even more obvious to me that things were not what they had seemed at the time of the killings, it also caused me once again to consider the apparent nature of the attack. I thought of the photos I had seen of the bodies, of the medical reports I had read.

Bitten. Chewed. Slashed.

Arterial bleeding, right carotid ...

Severed jugular; numerous lacerations of shoulders and chest ...

According to Martha Millay, a dolphin would not go about it that way. Still, as I recalled, their many teeth, while not enormous, were needle-sharp. I began paging through the books, looking for photographs of the jaws and teeth.

Then the thought came to me, with dark, more than informational overtones to it: there is a dolphin skeleton in the next room.

Mashing out my cigarette, I rose then, passed through the doorway into the museum, and began looking about for the light switch. It was not readily apparent As I sought it, I heard the door on the other side of the room open.

Turning, I saw Linda Cashel stepping across the threshold. With her next step, she looked in my direction, froze, and muffled the beginning of a shriek.

It's me. Madison, I said. Sorry I alarmed you. I'm looking for the light switch.

Several seconds passed. Then, Oh, she said. It's down in back of the display. I'll show you.

She crossed to the front door, groped behind a component model.

The lights came on, and she gave a nervous laugh.

You startled me, she said. I was working late. An unusual thing, but I got backed up. I stepped out for a breath of air and didn't see you come in.

I've got the books I was looking for, I said, but thanks for finding me the switch.

I'll be glad to sign them out for you.

I already did that, I said, but I left them inside because I wanted to take another look at the display before I went home.

Oh. Well, I was just going to close up. If you want to stay awhile, I'll let you do it.

What does it consist of?

Just turning out the lights and closing the doors, we don't lock them around here. I've already shut the windows.

Sure, I'll do that ... I'm sorry I frightened you.

That's all right. No harm done.

She moved to the front door, turned when she reached it, and smiled again, a better job this time.

Well, good night.

Good night.

My first thought was that there were no signs of any extra work having come in since the last time I had been around, my second one was that she had been trying a little too hard to get me to believe her, and my third thought was ignoble.

But the proof of the pudding would keep. I turned my attention to the dolphin skeleton.

The lower jaw, with its neat, sharp teeth, fascinated me, and its size came close to being its most interesting feature. Almost, but not quite. The most interesting thing about it had to be the fact that the wires which held it in place were clean, untarnished, bright and gleaming at their ends, as if they had just recently been cut, unlike their more oxidized brethren everyplace else where the specimen had been wired.

The thing I found interesting about the size was that it was just about right to make it a dandy hand weapon.

And that was all. That was enough. But I fingered the maxillary and premaxillary bones, running my hand back toward the blowhole; I traced the rostrum; I gripped the jaw once more. Why, I did not really know for a moment, until a grotesque vision of Hamlet filtered into my mind. Or was it really that incongruous? A phrase out of Loren Eiseley came to me then: ... We are all potential fossils still carrying within our bodies the crudities of former existences, the marks of a world in which living creatures flow with little more consistency than clouds from age to age. We came from the water. This fellow I gripped had spent his life there. But both our skulls were built of calcium, a sea product chosen in our earlier days and irrevocably part of us now; both were housings for large brains, similar, yet different; both seemed to contain a center of consciousness, awareness, sensitivity, with all the concomitant pleasures, woes, and available varieties of conclusions concerning existence which that entailed, passing at some time or other within these small, rigid pieces of carbonate of lime. The only really significant difference, I suddenly felt, was not that this fellow had been born a dolphin and I a man, but only, rather, that I still lived, a very minor point in terms of the time scale onto which I had wandered. I withdrew my hand, wondering uncomfortably whether my remains would ever be used as a murder weapon.

Having no further reason for being there, I collected my books, closed up, and cleared out.

Returning to my cottage, I deposited the books on my bed table and left the small light burning there. I departed again by means of the back door, which let upon a small, relatively private patio, pleasantly situated right at the edge of the islet with an unobstructed view of the sea. But I did not pause to admire the prospect just then. If other people might step out for a breath of air, so could I.

I strolled until I located a suitable spot, a small bench in the shadow of the dispensary. I seated myself there, fairly well hidden, yet commanding a full view of the complex I had but recently quitted. For a long while I waited, feeling ignoble, but watching anyway.

As the minutes continued their parade, I came near to deciding that I had been mistaken, that the margin of caution had elapsed, that nothing would occur.

But then the door at the far end of the office, the one through which I had entered on my initial tour of the place, opened, and the figure of a man emerged. He headed toward the nearest shore of the islet, then commenced what would have seemed but the continuance of a stroll along its edge to anyone just noticing him there. He was tall, around my height, which narrowed the field considerably, so that it was really almost unnecessary for me to wait and see him enter the cottage that was assigned to Paul Vallons, and after a moment see the light go on within.

A little while later, I was in bed with my dolphin books, reflecting that some guys seem to have it made all the way around; and pumling and wondering, with the pied typecase Don had handed me, that I was ever born to set it right.

The following morning, during the ambulatory, coffee-tropism phase of preconsciousness, I stumbled across the most damnable, frightening, item in the entire case. Or rather, I stepped over it, perhaps even on it, before its existence registered itself. There followed an appreciable time lag, and then its possible significance occurred to me.

I stooped and picked it up: an oblong of stiff paper, an envelope, which had apparently been pushed in beneath the back door. At least, it lay near to it.

I took it with me to the kitchenette table, tore it open, extracted and unfolded the paper it contained. Sipping my coffee, I read over the block-printed message several times;

AFFIXED TO THE MAINMAST OF THE WRECK, ABOUT A FOOT BENEATH THE MUD

That was all. That was it.

But I was suddenly fully awake. It was not just the message, as intriguing as I naturally found it, but the fact that someone had selected me as its recipient. Who? And why?

Whatever it was, and I was certain there was something, I was most disturbed by the implication that someone was aware of my extraordinary reasons for being there, with the necessary corollary that that person knew too much about me. My hackles rose, and the adrenaline tingles came into my extremities. No man knew my name; a knowledge of it jeopardized my existence. In the past, I had even killed to protect my identity.

My first impulse was to flee, to throw over the case, dispose of this identity and lose myself in the manner in which I had become adept. But then I would never know, would never know when, where, how, why, and in what fashion I had been tripped up, found out. And most important, by whom.

Also, considering the message again, I had no assurance that flight would be the end of things for me. For was there not an element of coercion here? Of tacit blackmail in me implied imperative? It was as if the sender were saying, I know. I will assist. I will keep silent. For there is a thing you will do for me.

Of course I would go and inspect the wreck, though I would have to wait until the day's work was done. No use speculating as to what I would find, although I would handle it most gingerly. That gave me the entire day in which to consider what I might have done wrong, and to decide upon the best means of defending myself. I rubbed my ring, where the death spores slept, then rose and went to shave.

Paul and I were sent over to Station Five that day. Standard inspection and maintenance work. Dull, safe, routine. We scarcely got wet.

He gave no indication of knowing that I was on to anything. In fact, he even started several conversations. In one, he asked me, Did you get over to the Chickcharny?

Yes, I said.

What did you think of it?

You were right. A dive.

He smiled and nodded, then, Try any of their specialities? he asked.

Just had a few beers.

That was safest, he said. Mike, my friend who died, used to go there a lot.

Oh?

I used to go with him at first. He'd take something and I'd sit around and drink and wait for him to come down.

You didn't go in for it yourself?

He shook his head.

Had a bad experience when I was younger. Scared me. Anyway, so did he, there, I mean, several times, at the Chickcharny. He used to go in back, it's a sort of ashram back there. Did you see it?

No.

Well, he had a couple bad ones in there and we got in an argument about it. He knew the damn place wasn't licensed, but he didn't care. I finally told him he ought to keep a safe supply at the station, but he was worried about the damn company regulations against it. Which I think was silly. Anyhow, I finally told him he could go by himself if he wanted to go that badly and couldn't wait till the weekend to go someplace else. I stopped going.

Did he?

Only recently, he said. The hard way.

Oh.

So if you do go in for it, I'm telling you the same thing I told him: Keep your own around if you can't wait to go someplace farther and cleaner than that.

I'll remember, I said, wondering then whether he might, perhaps, be on to something about me and be encouraging my breaking the company rules for purposes of getting rid of me. That seemed kind of far-out, though, a little too paranoiac a reaction on my part. So I dismissed it.

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 want 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 tranquility 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 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.

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. 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, 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 operation, 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 passersby 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.

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 comer 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, time-wise.

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 REMEMB.

So I fastened it in place, and this took me about twenty minutes. He inspected the work, patted me on the shoulder, and nodded. I moved to connect the systems then, but stopped to glance at him. He indicated that I should go ahead.

This only took a few minutes, and when I was finished I had a certain feeling of satisfaction thinking of that light going on again on the big board back at the station. I turned around to indicate that the job was done and that he could come admire my work.

But he was no longer with me.

For a few seconds I froze, startled. Then I began shining my light around.

No, no. Nothing ...

Growing somewhat panicky, I moved to the edge of the abyss and swept downward with the light Luckily, he was not moving very quickly. But he was headed downward, all right. I took off after him as fast as I could move.

Nitrogen narcosis, deepwater sickness, or rapture of the deep does not usually hit at depths above 200 feet. Still, we were at around 170, so it was possible, and he certainly seemed to be showing the symptoms.

Worrying then about my own state of mind, I reached him, caught him by the shoulder, turned him back. Through his mask, I could see the blissful expression that he wore.

Taking him by the arm and shoulder, I began drawing him back with me. For several seconds he accompanied me, offering no resistance.

Then he began to struggle. I had anticipated this possibility and shifted my grips into a kansetsu-waza position, but quickly discovered that judo is not exactly the same underwater, especially when a tank valve is too near your mask or mouthpiece. I had to keep twisting my head away, pulling it back. For a time, it became impossible to guide him that way. But I refused to relinquish my grip. If I could just hold him a while longer and did not get hit by narcosis myself, I felt that I had the advantage. After all, his coordination was affected as well as his thinking.

I finally got him to the DC, a wild antenna of bubbles rising from his air hose by then, as he had spat out his mouthpiece and there was no way I could get it back in without letting go. Still, it might have been one of the reasons he became easier to manage near the end there. I don't know.

I stuffed him into the lighted chamber, followed, and got the hatch sealed. He gave up about then and began to sag. I was able to get his mouthpiece back into place, and then I threw the pull-up switch.

We began to rise almost immediately, and I wondered what Barthelme and Davies were thinking at that moment.

They got us up very quickly. I felt a slight jarring as we came to rest on the deck. Shortly afterward, the water was pumped out. I don't know what the pressure was up to, or down to, at that point, but the communicator came alive and I heard Bartheleme's voice as I was getting out of my gear.

We'll be moving in a few minutes, he said. What happened, and how serious is it?

Nitrogen narcosis, I'd say. Paul just started swimming out and down, struggled with me when I tried to bring him back.

Were either of you hurt?

No, I don't think so. He lost his mouthpiece for a little while. But he's breathing okay now.

What shape is he in otherwise?

Still rapturing, I'd guess. Sort of collapsed, drunken look to him.

All right. You might as well get out of your gear ...

I already have.

... and get him out of his.

Just starting.

We'll radio ahead and have a medic hop out and be waiting at the dispensary, just in case. Sounds like what he really needs most is the chamber, though. So we'll just take it slow and easy in getting him back to surface pressure. I'm making an adjustment right now ... Do you have any rapture symptoms yourself?

No.

Okay, there. We'll leave it at this setting for a little while ... Is there anything else I should know?

Not that I can think of.

All right, then. I'm going forward to radio for the doctor. If you want me for anything, whistle into the speaker. That should carry.

Right.

I got Paul out of his rig then, hoping he would start coming around soon. But he didn't. He just sat there, slouched, mumbling, eyes open but glassy. Every now and then he smiled.

I wondered what was wrong. If the pressure was indeed diminished, the recovery should have been almost instantaneous. Probably needed one more step, I decided.

But could he have been down much earlier that morning, before the workday began?

Decompression time does depend upon the total amount of time spent underwater during about a twelve-hour period, since you are dealing with the total amount of nitrogen absorbed by the tissues, particularly the brain and spinal cord. Might he have been down looking for something, say, in the mud, at the base of a broken mast, amid the wreckage of a certain old vessel? Perhaps down for a long while, searching carefully, worried? Knowing that he had shore duty today, that there should be no more nitrogen accumulated during this workday? Then, suddenly, an emergency, and he has to chance it. He takes it as easy as possible, even encouraging the new man to go ahead and finish up the job. Resting, trying to hang on ...

It could well be. In which case, Barthelme's decompression values were off. The time is measured from surface to surface, and the depth is reckoned from the deepest point reached in any of the dives. Hell, for all I knew he might have visited several caches spotted at various points along the ocean's bottom.

I leaned over, studied the pupils of his eyes, catching his attention, it seemed, in the process. How long were you down this morning? I asked.

He smiled. Wasn't, he said.

It doesn't matter what was involved. It's your health we're worried about now ... How long were you down? What depths?

He shook his head. Wasn't, he said.

Damn it! I know you were! It was the old wreck, wasn't it? That's maybe twenty fathoms. So how long? An hour? Were you down more than once?

Wasn't down! he insisted. Really, Mike! I wasn't.

I sighed, leaned back. Maybe, possibly, he was telling the truth. People are all different inside. Perhaps his physiology was playing some other variation of the game than the one I had guessed at It had been so neat, though. For a moment, I had seen him as the supplier of the stones and Frank as the fence. Then I had gone to Frank with my find, Frank had mentioned this development to him, and Paul, worried, had gone off while the station slept to make certain that things were still where they were supposed to be. His tissues accumulated a lot of nitrogen during his frantic searching, and then this happened. It certainly struck me as logical. But if it were me, I would have admitted to having been down. I could always come up with some lie as to the reason later.

Don't you remember? I tried again.

He commenced an uninspired stream of curses, but lost his enthusiasm before a dozen or so syllables. His voice trailed off, then, Why don't you b'lieve me, Mike? I wasn't down ...

All right, I believe you, I said. It's okay. Just take it easy.

He reached out and took hold of my arm.

It's all beautiful, he said.

Yeah.

Everything is just, like it's never been before.

What did you take? I asked him.

... Beautiful.

What are you on? I insisted.

You know I never take any, he finally said.

Then what's causing it, whatever it is? Do you know?

Damn fine ... he said.

Something went wrong on the bottom. What was it?

I don't know! Go away! Don't bring it back ... This is how it should be. Always ... Not that crap you take ... Started all the trouble ...

I'm sorry, I said.

... That started it.

I know. I'm sorry. Spoiled things, I ventured. Shouldn't have.

... Talked, he said. ... Blew it.

I know. I'm sorry. But we got him, I tried.

Yeah, he said. Then, Oh, my God!

The diamonds. The diamonds are safe, I suggested quickly.

Got him ... Oh, my God! I'm sorry!

Forget it. Tell me what you see, I said, to get his mind back where I wanted it.

The diamonds ... he said.

He launched into a long, disjointed monologue. I listened. Every now and then I said something to return him to the theme of the diamonds, and I kept throwing out Rudy Myers' name. His responses remained fragmentary, but the picture did begin to emerge.

I hurried then, trying to learn as much as I could before Barthelme returned and decompressed us any further. I was afraid that it would sober him up suddenly, because decompression works that way when you hit the right point in nitrogen-narcosis cases. He and Mike seemed to have been bringing in the diamonds, all right, from where, I did not learn. Whenever I tried to find out whether Frank had been disposing of them for them, he began muttering endearments to Linda. The part I hammered away most at began to come clear, however.

Mike must have said something one time, in the ashram back of the Chickcharny. It must have interested Rudy sufficiently so that he put together a specialty of the house other than a Pink Paradise for him, apparently, several times. These could have been the bad trips I had heard about. Whatever Rudy served him, he got the story out of him and saw dollar signs. Only Paul proved a lot tougher than he had thought. When he made his request for hush money and Mike told Paul about it, Paul came up with the idea for the mad dolphin in the park and got Mike to go along with it, persuading Rudy to meet him there for a payoff. Then things got sort of hazy, because the mention of dolphins kept setting him off. But he had apparently waited at a prearranged point, and the two of them took care of Rudy when that point was reached, one holding him, the other working him over with the jawbone. It was not clear whether Mike was injured fighting with Rudy and Paul then decided to finish him off and make him look like a dolphin slashee also, or whether he had planned that part carefully too and simply turned on Mike afterward, taking him by surprise. Either way, their friendship had been declining steadily for some time and the blackmail business had driven the final nail into the lid.

That was the story I got, punctuated rather than phrased by his responses to my oblique questioning. Apparently, killing Mike had bothered him more than he had thought it would, also. He kept calling me Mike, kept saying he was sorry, and I kept redirecting his attention.

Before I could get any more out of him, Barthelme came back and asked me how he was doing.

Babbling, I replied. That's all.

I'm going to decompress some more. That might straighten him out. We're on our way now, and there will be someone waiting.

Good.

But it did not straighten him out. He remained exactly the same. I tried to take advantage, to get more out of him, specifically, the source of the diamonds, but something went wrong. His nirvana switched over to some version of hell.

He launched himself at my throat, and I had to fight him off, push him back, hold him in place. He sagged then, commenced weeping, and began muttering of the horrors he was witnessing. I talked slowly, softly, soothingly, trying to guide him back to the earlier, happier part of things. But nothing worked, so I shut up, stayed silent and kept my guard up.

He drowsed then, and Barthelme continued to decompress us. I kept an eye on Paul's breathing and checked his pulse periodically, but nothing seemed amiss in that area.

We were fully decompressed by the time we docked, and I undogged the hatch and chucked out our gear. Paul stirred at that, opened his eyes, stared at me, then said, That was weird.

How do you feel now?

All right, I think. But very tired and kind of shaky.

Let me give you a hand.

Thanks.

I helped him out and assisted him down the plank to a waiting wheelchair. A young doctor was there, as were the Cashels, Deems, and Carter. I could not help wondering what was going on at the moment inside Paul's head. The doctor checked his heartbeat, pulse, blood pressure, shined a light into his eyes and ears, and had him touch the tip of his nose a couple of times. Then he nodded and gestured, and Barthelme began wheeling him toward the dispensary. The doctor walked along part of the way, talking with them. Then he returned while they went on, and he asked me to tell him everything that had happened.

So I did, omitting only the substance I had derived from the babbling part. Then he thanked me and turned toward the dispensary once more.

I caught up with him quickly.

What does it look like? I asked.

Nitrogen narcosis, he replied.

Didn't it take a rather peculiar form? I said. I mean, the way he responded to decompression and all?

He shrugged.

People come in all shapes and sizes, inside as well as out, he said. Do a complete physical on a man and you still can't tell what he'd be like if he got drunk, say, loud, sad, belligerent, sleepy. The same with this. He seems to be out of it now, though.

No complications?

Well, I'm going to do an EKG as soon as we get him to the dispensary. But I think he's all right ... Listen, is there a decompression chamber in the dispensary?

Most likely. But I'm new here. I'm not certain.

Well, why don't you come along until we find out? If there isn't one, I'd like to have that submersible unit moved over.

Oh?

Just a precaution. I want him to stay in the dispensary overnight, with someone around to keep an eye on him. If there should be a recurrence, I want the machine handy so he can be recompressed right away.

I see.

We caught up with Barthelme at the door. The others were there also.

Yes, there is a unit inside, Barthelme told him, and I'll sit up with him.

Everyone volunteered, though, and the night was finally divided into three shifts, Barthelme, Frank, and Andy, respectively. Each of them, of course, was quite familiar with decompression equipment.

Frank came up and touched my arm.

Nothing much we can really do here now, he said.

Shall we go have that dinner?

Oh? I said, automatically glancing at my watch. So we eat at seven instead of six thirty, he said, chuckling.

Fine. That will give me time to shower and change.

Okay. Come right over as soon as you're ready. We'll still have time for a drink.

All right. I'm thirsty ... See you soon. I went on back to my place and got cleaned up. No new billets-doux, and the stones were still in the disposal unit. I combed my hair and started back across the islet.

As I neared the dispensary, the doctor emerged, talking back over his shoulder to someone in the doorway. Barthelme, probably. As I approached, I saw that he was carrying his bag.

He withdrew, began to move away. He nodded and smiled when he saw me.

I think your friend will be all right, he said.

Good. That is just what I was going to ask you.

How do you feel?

All right. Fine, actually.

You have had no symptoms at all. Correct?

That's right.

Fine. If you were to, you know where to go. Right?

Indeed.

Okay, then. I'll be going now.

So long.

He headed off toward a tiny hopper he had landed near the main lab. I continued on over to Frank's place.

Frank came out to meet me.

What did the doctor have to say? he asked.

That everything looks all right, I told him.

Uh-huh. Come on in and tell me what you're drinking.

He opened the door, held it.

A bourbon would be nice, I said.

With anything?

Just ice.

Okay. Linda's out back, setting things on the table.

He moved about, putting together a pair of drinks. I wondered whether he was going to say anything about the diamond business now, while we were alone. But he didn't.

He turned, passed me my drink, raised his in a brief salute, took a sip, Tell me all about it, he said.

All right

The telling lasted into dinner and out of it. again. I was very hungry, Linda was quite quiet, and Frank kept asking questions, drawing out every detail of Paul's discomfort, distress. I wondered about Linda and Frank. I could not see her keeping her affair secret on a small place like the station. What did Frank really know, think, feel about it? What was the true function of their triangle in this bizarre case?

I sat with them for a while after dinner, and I could almost feel the tension between the two of them, a thing he seemed set on dealing with by keeping the conversation moving steadily along the lines he had established, she by withdrawing from it. I had no doubt that it had been precipitated by Paul's mishap, but I came to feel more and more awkward in my role as a buffer against an approaching quarrel, a confrontation, or the renewal of an old one. Thanking them for the meal, I excused myself as soon as I could, pleading a weariness that was half real.

Frank got to his feet immediately.

I'll walk you back, he said.

All right.

So he did.

As we neared my place, he finally said it.

About those stones ...

Yes?

You're sure there are lots more where they came from?

Come this way, I said, leading him around me cottage to the patio and turning when we reached it. Just in time for me last couple of minutes of sunset. Beautiful. Why don't you watch it finish up? I'll be right back.

I let myself in through the rear door, moved to the sink, and got the disposal unit open. It took me a minute or so to work the bag out. I opened it, seized a double fistful, and carried them back outside.

Cup your hands, I said to him.

He did, and I filled them.

How's that?

He raised them, moved nearer the light spilling through the open door.

My God! he said. You really do!

Of course.

All right. I'll dispose of them for you. Thirty-five percent.

Twenty-five is tops. Like I said.

I know of a gem-and-mineral show a week from Saturday. A man I know could be there if I gave him a call. He'd pay a good price. I'll call him, for thirty percent.

Twenty-five.

It's a pity we are so close and can't quite come to terms. We both lose that way.

Oh, all right. Thirty it is.

I took back the stones and dumped them into my pockets, and we shook on it. Then Frank turned.

I'm going over to the lab now, he said. See what's the matter with that unit you brought back.

Let me know when you find out, will you? I'd like to know.

Sure.

He went away and I restashed the gems, fetched a dolphin book, and began to page through it. Then it struck me just how funny it was, the way things were working out. All the talk about dolphins, all my reading, speculating, including a long philosophical dissertation on their hypothetical dreamsongs as a religio-diagogical form of Indus, for what? To find that it was probably all unnecessary? To realize that I would probably get through the entire case without even seeing a dolphin?

Well, that was what I had wanted, of course, what Don and Lydia Bames and the Institute wanted, for me to clear the good name of the dolphin. Still, what a tangled mess it was turning out to be! Blackmail, murder, diamond smuggling, with a little adultery tossed in on the side ... How was I going to untangle it sweetly and neatly, clear the suspects, who were out practicing their ludus and not giving a damn about the whole business, and then fade from the picture, as is my wont, without raising embarrassing questions, without seeming to have been especially involved?

A feeling of profound jealousy of the dolphin came over me and did not entirely vanish. Did they ever create problem situations of this order among themselves? I strongly doubted it. Maybe if I collected enough green karma stamps I could put in for dolphin next time around ...

Everything caught up with me, and I dozed off with the light still burning.

A sharp, insistent drumming awakened me.

I rubbed my eyes, stretched. The noise came again, and I turned in that direction.

It was the window. Someone was rapping on the frame. I rose and crossed over, saw that it was Frank.

Yeah? I said. What's up?

Come on out, he said. It's important.

Okay. Just a minute.

I went and rinsed my face, to complete the waking-up process and give me a chance to think. A glance at my watch showed me that it was around ten-thirty.

When I finally stepped outside, he seized my shoulder.

Come on! Damn it! I told you it was important!

I fell into step with him.

All right! I had to wake up. What's the matter?

Paul's dead, he said.

What?

You heard me. Dead.

How'd it happen?

He stopped breathing.

They usually do ... But how did it happen?

I'd gotten to fooling with the unit you'd brought back. It's over there now. I moved it in when my time came to relieve Bartheime, so that I could keep working on it. Anyway, I got so involved that I wasn't paying much attention to him. When I finally did check on him again, he was dead. That's all. His face was dark and twisted. Some sort of lung failure, it seems. Maybe there was an air embolism ...

We entered the rear of the building, the nearest entrance, the water splashing softly behind us, a light breeze following us in. We passed the recently set-up workbench, tools and the partly dismantled sonic unit spread across its surface. Rounding the comer to our left, we entered the room where Paul lay. I switched the light on.

His face was no longer handsome, bearing now the signs of one who had spent his final moments fighting for breath. I crossed to him, felt for a pulse, knew in advance I would find none. I covered a fingernail with my thumb and squeezed. It remained white when I released it.

How long ago? I asked.

Right before I came for you.

Why me?

You were nearest.

I see., Was the sheet torn in this place before, I wonder?

I don't know.

There were no cries, no sounds at all?

I didn't hear anything. If I had, I would have come right away.

I felt a sudden desire for a cigarette, but there were oxygen tanks in the room and NO SMOKING signs all over the building. I turned and retraced my steps, pushed the door open, held it with my back, leaning against it, lit a cigarette, and stared out across the water.

Very neat, I said then. With the day's symptoms behind him, he'll warrant a 'natural causes' with a 'possible air embolism,' 'congestive lung failure,' or some damn thing behind it.

What do you mean? Frank demanded.

Was he sedated?, I don't know. It doesn't matter. I'd imagine you used the recompressor. Right? Or did you tough it out and just smother him?

Come off it. Why would I ...

In a way, I helped kill him, I said. I thought he was safe with you here because you hadn't done anything about him all this time. You wanted to keep her, to win her back. Spending a lot of money on her was one way you tried. But it was a vicious circle, because Paul was a part of your source of extra revenue. Then I came along and offered an alternative supply. Then today's accident, the whole setup here tonight ... You rose to the occasion, seized the opportunity, and slammed the barn door. Not to mention striking while the iron was hot ... Congratulations. I think you'll get away with it. Because this is all guesswork, of course. There is no real proof. Good show.

He sighed.

Then why go into all that? It's over. We will go see Barthelme now and you will talk because I will be too distraught.

But I'm curious about Rudy and Mike. I've been wondering all along. Did you have any part in it when they got theirs?

What do you know? he asked slowly. And how do you know it?

I know that Paul and Mike were the source of the stones. I know that Rudy found out and tried to blackmail them. They dealt with him, and I think Paul took care of Mike for good measure at the same time. How do I know? Paul babbled all the way back this afternoon and I was in the decompressor with him, remember? I learned about the diamonds, the murders, and about Linda and Paul, just by listening.

He leaned back against the workbench. He shook his head.

I was suspicious of you, he said, but you had the diamonds for proof. You came across them awfully fast, I'll admit. But I accepted your story because of the possibility that Paul's deposit was really somewhere quite near. He never told me where it was, either. I decided you had to have either stumbled across it or followed him to it and known enough to recognize it for what it was. Whichever way, though, it doesn't matter. I would rather do business with you. Shall we just leave the whole thing at that?

If you will tell me about Rudy and Mike.

I don't really know any more than what you've just said. That was none of my affair. Paul took care of everything. Answer one for me now: How did you find the deposit?

I didn't, I said. I haven't the least idea where he got them.

He straightened.

I don't believe you! The stones, where did they come from?

I found where Paul had hidden a bag of them. I stole it.

Why?

Money, of course.

Then why did you lie to me about where you got them?

You think I'd come out and say they were stolen? Now, though ...

He came forward very fast, and I saw that he had a large wrench in his hand.

I jumped backward, and the door caught him on the shoulder as it snapped inward. It only slowed him for an instant, though. He burst through and was at me again. I continued my retreat, falling into a defensive position.

He swung and I dodged to the side, chopping at his elbow. We both missed. His backstroke grazed my shoulder then, so that the blow I did land, seconds later, fell near his kidney with less force than I had hoped for. I danced back as he swung again, and my kick caught him on the hip. He dropped to one knee, but was up again before I could press in, swinging toward my head. I backed farther and he stalked me.

I could hear the water, smell it. I wondered about diving in. He was awfully close ...

When he came in again, I twisted back and grabbed for his arm. I caught hold near the elbow and hung on, hooking my fingers toward his face. He drove himself into me then and I fell, still clutching his arm, catching hold of his belt with my other hand. My shoulder smashed against the ground, and he was on top of me, wrestling to free his arm. As he succeeded in dragging it away, his weight came off me for an instant. Pulling free, I doubled myself into a ball and kicked out with both legs.

They connected. I heard him grunt. Then he was gone.

I heard him splashing about in the water. I also heard distant voices, calling, approaching us from across the islet.

I regained my feet. I moved toward the edge. Then he screamed, a long, awful, agonized wail. By the time I reached the edge, it had ceased. When Barthelme came up beside me, he stopped repeating What happened? as soon as he looked down and saw the flashing fins at the center of the turmoil. Then he said, Oh, my God! And then nothing.

In my statement, later, I said that he had seemed highly agitated when he had come to get me, that he told me Paul had stopped breathing, that I had returned with him to the dispensary, determined that Paul was indeed dead, said so, and asked him for the details; that as we were talking he seemed to get the impression that I thought he had been negligent and somehow contributed to the death; that he had grown further agitated and finally attacked me; that we had fought and he had fallen into the water. All of which, of course, was correct. Deponent sinneth only by omission. They seemed to buy it. They went away. The shark hung around, waiting for dessert perhaps, and the dolphin people came and anesthetized him and took him away. Barthelme told me the damaged sonic projector could indeed have been shorting intermittently.

So Paul had killed Ruby and Mike; Frank had killed Paul and then been killed himself by the shark on whom the first two killings could now be blamed. The dolphins were cleared, and there was no one left to bring to justice for anything. The source of the diamonds was now one of life's numerous little mysteries.

... So, after everyone had departed, the statements been taken, the remains of the remains removed, long after that, as the night hung late, clear, clean, with its bright multitudes doubled in their pulsing within the cool flow of the Gulf Stream about the station, I sat in a deck chair on the small patio behind my quarters, drinking a can of beer and watching the stars go by.

... I needed to stamp CLOSED on my mental file.

But who had written me the note, the note that had set the infernal machine to chugging?

Did it really matter, now that the job was done? As long as they kept quiet about me ...

I took another sip of beer.

Yes, it did, I decided. I might as well look around a bit more.

I withdrew a cigarette and moved to light it ...

When I pulled into the harbor, the lights were on. As I climbed to the pier, her voice came to me over a loudspeaker.

She greeted me by name, my real name, which I hadn't heard spoken in a long while, and she asked me to come in.

I moved across the pier and up to the front of the building. The door stood ajar. I entered.

It was a long, low room, completely Oriental in decor. She wore a green silk kimono. She knelt on the floor, a tea service laid before her.

Please come and be seated, she said.

I nodded, removed my shoes, crossed the room, and sat down.

O-cha do desu-ka?' she asked.

Itadakimasu.

She poured, and we sipped tea for a time. After the second cup I drew an ashtray toward me.

Cigarette? I asked.

I don't smoke, she said. But I wish you would. I try to take as few noxious substances into my own system as possible. I suppose that is how the whole thing began.

I lit one for me.

I've never met a genuine telepath before, I said, that I know of.

I'd trade it for a sound body, she said, any day. It wouldn't even have to be especially attractive.

I don't suppose there is even a real need for me to ask my questions, I said.

No, she said, not really. How free do you think our wills might be?

Less every day, I said.

She smiled.

I asked that, she said, because I have thought a lot about it of late. I thought of a little girl I once knew, a girl who lived in a garden of terrible flowers. They were beautiful, and they were there to make her happy to look upon. But they could not hide their odor from her, and that was the odor of pity. For she was a sick little girl. So it was not their colors and textures from which she fled, but rather the fragrance which few knew she could detect. It was a painful thing to smell it constantly, and so in solitude she found her something of peace. Had it not been for her ability she would have remained in the garden.

She paused to take a sip of tea.

One day she found friends, she continued, in an unexpected place. The dolphin is a joyous fellow, his heart uncluttered with the pity that demeans. The way of knowing that had set her apart, had sent her away, here brought her close. She came to know the hearts, the thoughts of her new friends more perfectly than men know those of one another. She came to love them, to be one of their family.

She took another sip of tea, then sat in silence for a time, staring into the cup.

There are great ones among them, she said finally, such as you guessed at earlier. Prophet, seer, philosopher, musician, there is no man-made word I know of to describe this sort of one, or the function he performs. There are, however, those among them who voice the dreamsong with particular subtlety and profundity, something like music, yet not, drawn from that timeless place in themselves where perhaps they look upon the infinite, then phrase it for their fellows. The greatest I have ever known ... and she clicked the syllables in a high-pitched tone ... bears something like Kjwalll'kje'koothai'lll'kje'k for name or title. I could no more explain his dreamsong to you than I could explain Mozart to one who had never heard music. But when he, in his place, came to be threatened, I did what must be done.

You see that I fail to see, I said, lowering my cup.

She refilled it, and then, The Chickcharny is built up over the water, she said, and a vision of it came clear, disturbingly real, into my mind. Like that, she said.

I do not drink strong beverages, I do not smoke, I seldom take medication, she said. This is not a matter of choice. It is a physiological rule I break at my own peril. But should I not enjoy the same things others of my kind may know, just as I now enjoy the cigarette we are smoking?

I begin to see ...

Swimming beneath the ashram at night, I could ride the mounting drug dreams of that place, know the peace, the happiness, the joy, and withdraw if it turned to something else ...

Mike ... I said.

Yes, it was he who led me to Kjwalll'kje'koothai'lll'kje'k, all unknowing. I saw there the place where they had found the diamonds. I see that you think it is near Martinique, since I was there just recently. I will not answer you on this. I saw there too, however, the idea of hurting dolphins. It seemed that they had been driven away from the place of their discovery, though not harmed, by dolphins. Several times. I found this so unusual that I was moved to investigate, and I learned that it was true. The place of their discovery was in the area of his song. He dwells in those waters, and others come to hear him there. It is, in this sense, a special place, because of his presence. They were seeking a way to ensure their own safety when they returned for more of the stones, she went on. They learned of the effects of the noises of the killer whale for this purpose. But they also obtained explosives, should the recording prove insufficient over a period of days.

The two killings occurred while I was away, she said. You are essentially correct as to what was done. I had not known they would take place, nor would my telling of Paul's thoughts ever be admissible in any court. He used everything he ever got his hands or mind around, that man, however poor his grasp. He took Frank's theory as well as his wife, learned just enough to find the stones, with a little luck. Luck, he had that for a long while. He learned just enough about dolphins to know of the effects of the sounds of the killer whale, but not how they would behave if they had to fight, to kill. And even there he was lucky. The story was accepted. Not by everybody. But it was given sufficient credence. He was safe, and he planned to go back to, the place. I sought a way to stop him. And I wanted to see the dolphins vindicated, but that was of secondary importance then. Then you appeared, and I knew that I had found it. I went to the station at night, crawled ashore, left you a note.

And you damaged the sonic, broadcast unit?

Yes.

You did it at such a time that you knew Paul and I would go down together to replace it.

Yes.

And the other?

Yes, that too. I filled Paul's mind with things I had felt and seen beneath the ashram of the Chickcharny.

And you could look into Frank's mind as well. You knew how he would react. You set up the murder!

I did not force him to do anything. Is not his will as free as our own?

I looked down into the tea, troubled by the thought. I gulped it. Then I stared at her.

Did you not control him, even a little, near the end, when he attacked me? Or, far more important, what of a more rudimentary nervous system? Could you control the actions of a shark?

She refilled my teacup.

Of course not, she said.

We sat for another silent time. Then, What did you try to do to me when I decided to continue my investigation? I asked. Were you not trying to baffle my senses and drive me to destruction?

No, she said quickly. I was watching you to see what you would decide. You frightened me with your decision. But what I did was not an attack, at first. I tried to show you something of the dreamsong, to sooth you, to put you at peace. I had hoped that such an experience might work some mental alchemy, would soften your resolve ...

You would have accompanied it with suggestions to that effect.

Yes, I would have. But then you burned yourself and the pain pulled you back. That was when I attacked you.

She suddenly sounded tired. But then, it had been a very busy day for her, all things considered.

And this was my mistake, she said. Had I simply let you go on, you would have had nothing. But you saw the unnatural nature of the attack. You associated it with Paul's raptures, and you thought of me, a mutant, and of dolphins and diamonds and my recent trip. It all spilled into your mind, and then the threat that I saw you could keep: alluvial diamonds and Martinique, into the Central Data Bank. I had to call you then, to talk.

What now? I asked. No court could ever convict you of anything. You are safe. I can hardly condemn you. My own hands are not free of blood, as you must know. You are the only person alive who knows who I am, and that makes me uncomfortable. Yet I have some guesses concerning things you would not like known. You will not try to destroy me, for you know what I will do with these guesses if you fail.

And I see that you will not use your ring unless you are provoked. Thank you. I have feared it.

It appears that we have reached something of a standoff.

Then why do we not both forget?

You mean, trust each other?

Is it so novel a thing?

You must admit you are possessed of a small edge in such matters.

True. But it is of value only for the moment. People change. It does not show me what you will be thinking on another day, in some other place. You are in a better position to know that, for you have known yourself far longer than I.

True, I suppose.

I, of course, really have nothing to gain by destroying the pattern of your existence. You, on the other hand, could conceivably be moved to seek an unrecorded source of income.

I can't deny that, I said. But if I gave you my word, I would keep it.

I know that you mean that. I also know that you believe much of what I have said, with some reservations.

I nodded.

You do not really understand the significance of Kjwalll'kje'koothai'lll'kje'k.

How could I, not being a dolphin or even a telepath?

May I show you what it is that I am seeking to preserve, to defend?

I thought about it for a time, recalling those recent moments back at the station when she had hit me with something out of William James. I had no way of knowing what manner of control, what sort of powers she might be able to exercise upon me if I agreed to some experiment along these lines. However, if things got out of control, if there was the least feeling of meddling with my mind, beyond the thing itself, I knew a way to terminate the experience instantly. I folded my hands before me, laying two fingers upon my ring.

Very well, I said.

And then it began again, something like music, yet not, some development of a proposition that could not be verbalized, for its substance was of a stuff that no man possessed or perceived, lying outside the range of human sensory equipment. I realized then that that part of me which experienced this had its place temporarily in the mind of the statement's creator, that this was the dreamsong of Kjwalll'kje'koothai'lll'kje'k, that I witnessed/participated in the timeless argument as he improvised, orchestrated it, drawing entire sections of previously constructed visions and phrasings, perfect and pure, from a memory so vital that its workings were barely distinguishable from the activities of the moment, and blending these into fresh harmonies to a joyous rhythm I comprehended only obliquely, through the simultaneous sensing of his own pleasure in the act of their formulation.

I felt the delight in this dance of thought, rational though not logical; the process, like all of art, was an answer to something, though precisely what, I did not know nor really care; for it was, in and of itself, a sufficiency of being, and if one day it were to provide me with an emotional weapon at a time when I would otherwise stand naked and alone, why this was one of the things none has the right to expect, yet sometimes discovers within the recollection of such fragments of existence cast by a special seer with a kind of furious joy.

I forgot my own being, abandoned my limited range of senses as I swam in a sea that was neither dark nor light, formed nor formless, yet knowing my way, subsumed, as it were, within a perpetual act of that thing we had decided to call ludus that was creation, destruction, and sustenance, patterned and infinitely repatterned, scattered and joined, mounting and descending, divorced from all temporal phenomena yet containing the essence of time. Time's soul it seemed I was, the infinite potentialities that fill the moment, surrounding and infusing the tiny stream of existence, and joyous, joyous, joyous ...

Spinning, my mind came away, and I sat, still clutching my death ring, across from the little girl who had fled from the terrible flowers, now clad in wet green and very, very wan.

O-cha do desu-ka? she asked.

Itadakimasu

She poured. I wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but I raised the teacup instead and sipped from it. She had my answer, of course. She knew. But she spoke, after a time: When my moment comes, who knows how soon?, I shall go to him, she said. I shall be there, with Kjwalll'kje'koothai'lll'kje'k. Who knows but that I shall continue, as a memory perhaps, in that tuneless place, as a part of the dreamsong? But then, I feel a part of it now.

She raised her hand. We finished our tea in silence. I did not really want to go then, but I knew that I must.

There were so many things that I might have said, I thought, as I headed the Isabella back toward Station One, my bag of diamonds, and all the other things and people I had left behind, waiting for me to touch them or speak to them.

But then, I reflected, the best words are often those left unsaid.