I hung by my hands from the sill and the soles of my feet touched one of the big electronics consoles. I detected lettering. I dropped down and read-'Transit sonar-Kelvin Hughes.' Now a transit sonar is a sophisticated instrument-big brother to the echo-sounder – which has nothing to do with fish but is employed almost exclusively for salvage work; and Kelvin Hughes is a well-known manufacturer. Pieces of the jigsaw fell rapidly into place. Sang A had made those odd directional approaches to the launch area because a transit sonar doesn't throw a straight up-and-down pulsed echo wave like an echo-sounder but, instead, an inverted V-shaped beam, offset to one side of the ship. So Sang A had to make her runs to one side to obtain a trace of whatever she was after. The size, depth and position of an underwater object is plotted automatically on graph paper-as on the cylinder Captain Mild had handed Kenryo. The other instruments were: conventional Asdic echo141 sounder, radar, and electronic navigational gear. My discovery of the transit sonar also blew the secret of that heavy gear on deck: the powerful derricks and threesheaved tackles. They were for salvage – peaceful salvage-though that didn't explain the mounted machine-gun. The armoured hose was an air-lift' used for clearing mud round a wreck on the sea-bed.
There was so much racket coming from beyond the door that I didn't have to move about too cautiously; I decided also to have a look-see at the party.
The door led to an exceptionaJly long cabin, stretching the entire width of the ship, which appeared to be used as a general mess room. Tables and chairs were stacked against the walls and there was a thick carpet on the deck. The air was rancid with the sweat-smell of active men. The whole crew-about twenty-seemed as high as a moon probe. It must have taken some exotic Eastern drug to have sent them on a trip like that-an Einstein, the hippies call it: way out and beyond the farthest stars.
They were all wearing loose things like karate gowns and were lamming into one another with long wooden staves and yelling bloody murder as they did so. Some leapt high into the air like dervishes. Then, at a whistle signal-the melee sorted itself into groups, like a possessed ballet chorus: first of six men, then four, and finally two, all shouting and bashing. Eventually all but one pair fell back against the walls, sweating and stamping.
Kenryo was one of the two remaining in the ring. He and the other Korean circled one another like wrestlers looking for an opening. Kenryo's opponent lashed out suddenly at his legs, but Kenryo side-stepped the blow with a verticaJ take-off and from shoulder height hit the other man a vicious crack across the forehead. Kenryo's man wasn't out, but he was as near to it as anyone could be after a haymaker like that. He stood dazed and swaying. Unfortunately for him the Queensberry rules weren't in operation and he couldn't make for a neutral corner. The mob shouted like madmen; Kenryo swung his stave with both hands into the other's left side, near the heart. That finished him. He started to sag and Kenryo went up and kicked him in the testicles. He went down, screaming with pain. Kenryo kicked him again. Then the spectators were all over both men and 142 chaired off Kenryo, shoulder-high. The only two who didn't seem to be having fun were Emmermann and Captain Miki-who stood together on the sidelines. Miki's remote air was apparent to me even at that distance.
I took a firm grip of my knife and got out.
I shot through the skylight, down the ratlines and on to the deck. There was some faint illumination by virtue of the portholes' reflection off the fog curtain. I started to head towards the bow of the ship where the machine-gun was. But where I stood, still aft, was an intriguing bulky object, concealed under a large tarpaulin. Another weapon? I cut loose the lashings: underneath was a long cylindrical metal object, about eight feet long and three in diameter-with a large yellow '4' painted on its conical top. It was a salvage mooring buoy. They are generally numbered in sixes according to the type of mooring to be laid down. Then I went for a bundle wrapped in black plastic-next to the buoy, and ripped it open. It contained a stack of fourinch metal tubes of varying length-some over a dozen feet and some as little as three. I started to explore by touch, and my fingers came upon a gnarled surface at the end of one of the tubes. I froze. I knew what I'd struck: special underwater explosive charges, designed to blow open wrecks. I' d seen Navy specialists using them. What I was fingering was an adjustable, sensitive membrane which explodes the device by water pressure. There was enough high explosive in the stack to blow Sang A on to the top of the Bridge of Magpies.
I decided to go for the gun for'ard Before leaving I selected the smallest tube J could find. Souvenirs have their uses. The tiny burn on the nape of my neck felt like a hypodermic needle. At the same instant a cold circle of steel pressed under my left ear. Pistol muzzles have their own special sort of caress you don't forget in a hurry. The man – probably the anchor-watch-was standing over me with a long-razor-sharp knife that had nicked me like a cat's claw ripping a captive mouse for fun. I kept so still that I didn't even unclasp my hands from the bomb. But my upward view took in, in succession, the guard's bare feet, dark baggy pants, heavy, short-armed body, black leather jacket and balaclava-encased head.
He brought his knife against my other ear so that the two weapons made a pincer on either side of my head. Any movement of mine would have telegraphed itself immediately to him. He was a professional and as wary as a panther. He stood far back enough to prevent my sideswiping his legs, but close enough to retain full command over me.
He made a gesture with the pistol which I misinterpreted until he reinforced it with the knife. I thought he wanted me up-back to him. I reckoned he was mad to let me hang on to the bomb.
Then he gestured again. He was showing me over the side!
I couldn't believe it. But I had no intention of inviting knife-thrust or bullet. So I mimed my query. He gestured back impatiently: I was to go.
Not crediting my luck-I clambered on to the rail and paused. He was standing there, a dim, grim, masked figure with a weapon in each hand. I lowered myself overboard. I swam clear of Sang A and orientated myself on the dinghy.
In reaction to the last few minutes' events, I found myself treading water, trying to get control of my arms and legs and at the same time keep hold of that bomb, with its pressure-sensitive mechanism. If it sank it would explode right under me.
According to my water-proof watch, I was early for our rendezvous, so after I'd recovered I swam slowly. The pick-up signal was the low-pitched sound obtained by blowing in an empty cartridge case. We'd decided it wouldn't carry far and was sufficiently like the prevalent bird-noises to escape attention.
All at once the underside of the fog curtain took on a strange silver-blue colour. The sea around me became as silver as a young salmon. I raised an arm: it dripped luminosity. My fish-eye view of the channel was necessarily limited, but I guessed that the whole of its surface was being lighted up by a multitude of minute fire-bearing creatures that were being swept in by the current from the south. The fog made a low-ceilinged black dome above the sea's silver shield. It was pleasant to admire but no good for escape. I struck out strongly and swiftly. Then I heard Jutta's signal, ahead and to one side. I gave a cautious whistle back and then spotted a beautiful, luminous arc of watery fire 144 riling from an oar as Jutta began to row.
In a moment I was alongside. Jutta's face didn't look vely in the weird light but dead and colourless like a materialized spirit at a seance. Maybe I appeared lovely coming over the side trailing phosphorescence but I was too anxious to get away to care about the personal beauty stakes.: pitched the bomb in the bottom of the boat without explanation or greeting, grabbed the oars and begun to scull. We hadn't gone far when the world went black. The silver magic vanished. At any other time I might have regretted it. I guessed we had broken out of the light-giving mainstream coming up-channel and must, accordingly, be quite close to Possession's cliffs.