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.