I stared at him for a second, then turned my attention to my drink.
The isothermic maps show that this is the right place, the right part of the Atlantic, I said. The only thing I'm sacred about is none of my business.
What's that? he asked.
There are various things about magma, I said, and some of them frighten me.
What do you mean? he asked.
You don't know what it's going to do, once it's released. It could be anything from a Krakatoa to an Etna.
The magma itself may be of any composition. Its exposure to water and air could produce any results.
I thought we had a guarantee it was safe?
A guess. An educated guess, but only a guess. That's all.
You're scared?
You bet your ass.
We're in danger ... ?
Not us so much, since we'll be the hell out of the way. But this thing could affect world temperatures, tides, weather. I'm a little leery, I'll admit it.
He shook his head. I don't like it.
You probably had all your bad luck already, I said. I wouldn't lose any sleep ...
I guess you're right.
We finished our beers and I stood.
I've got to be running.
Can I buy you another?
No, thanks. I've got some work to do.
Well, I'll be seeing you.
Yes. Take it easy, and I left the lounge and moved back to the upper decks.
The moon spilled sufficient light to make shadows about me, and the evening was chilly enough for me to button my collar.
I watched the waves for a little while, then returned to my cabin.
I took a shower, listened to the late news, read for a time. Finally, I turned in and took the book to bed with me. After a while, I got drowsy, set the book on the bedside table, turned out the lamp, and let the ship rock me to sleep.
... Had to get a good night's sleep. After all, tomorrow was RUMOKO.
How long? A few hours, I guess. Then I was awakened by something.
My door was quietly unlocked, and I heard a light footfall.
I lay there, wide awake, with my eyes dosed, waiting.
I heard the door close, lock.
Then the light came on, and there was a piece of steel near to my head, and a hand was upon my shoulder.
Wake up, mister! someone said.
I pretended to do so, slowly.
There were two of them, and I blinked and rubbed my eyes, regarding the gun about twenty inches away from my head.
What the hell is this? I said.
No, said the man holding the metal. We ask. You answer. It is not the other way around.
I sat up, leaned back against the headboard.
Okay, I said. What do you want?
Who are you?
Albert Schweitzer, I replied.
We know the name you're using. Who are you, really?
That's it, I said.
We don't think so.
I'm sorry.
So are we.
So?
You will tell us about yourself and your mission.
I don't know what you're talking about.
Get up!
Then please give me my robe. It's hanging on the hook inside the bathroom door.
The gunsel leaned toward the other. Get it, check it, give it to him, he said.
And I regarded him.
He had a handkerchief over the lower part of his face. So did the other guy. Which was kind of professional. Amateurs tend to wear masks. Upper type. Masks of this sort conceal very little. The lower part of the face is the most easily identifiable.
Thanks, I said, when the one guy handed me my blue terry-cloth robe.
He nodded, and I threw it about my shoulders, put my arms into the sleeves, whipped it about me, and sat up on the edge of the bed.
Okay, I said. What do you want?
Who are you working for? said the first.
Project RUMOKO, I replied.
He slapped me, lightly, with his left hand, still holding the gun steady.
No, he said. The whole story, please.
I don't know what you're talking about, but may I have a cigarette?
All right, No. Wait. Take one of mine. I don't know what might be in your pack.
I took one, lit it, inhaled, breathed smoke.
I don't understand you, I said. Give me a better clue as to what you want to know and maybe I can help you. I'm not looking for trouble.
This seemed to relax them slightly, because they both sighed. The man asking the questions was about five foot eight in height, the other about five-ten. The taller man was heavy, though. Around two hundred pounds, I'd say.
They seated themselves in two nearby chairs. The gun was leveled at my breast.
Relax, then, Mister Schweitzer. We don't want trouble, either, said the talkative one.
Great, said I. Ask me anything and I'll give you honest answers, prepared to lie my head off. Ask away.
You repaired the J-9 unit today.
I guess everybody knows that.
Why did you do it?
Because two men were going to die, and I knew how.
How did you acquire this expertise?
For Chrissakes, I'm an electrical engineer! I said. I know how to figure circuits! Lots of people do!
The taller guy looked at the shorter one. He nodded. Then why did you try to silence Asquith? the taller one asked me.
Because I broke a regulation by touching the unit, I said. I'm not authorized to service it.
He nodded again. Both of them had very black and clean-looking hair and well-developed pectorals and biceps, as seen through their light shirts.
You seem to be an ordinary, honest citizen, said the tall one, who went to the school of his choice, graduated, remained unmarried, took this job. Perhaps everything is as you say, in which case we do you wrong. However, the circumstances are very suspicious. You repaired a complex machine which you had no right to repair ...
I nodded.
Why? he asked,
I've got a funny thing about death: I don't like to see people do it, I said. Then, Who do you work for? I asked. Some sort of intelligence agency?
The shorter one smiled. The other said, We are not permitted to say. You obviously understand these things, however. Our interest is only a certain curiosity as to why you kept quiet with respect to what was obviously sabotage.
So, I've told you.
Yes, but you are lying. People do not disobey orders the way you did.
Crap! There were lives at stake!
He shook his head.
I fear that we must question you further, and in a different manner.
Whenever I am awaiting the outcome of peril or reflecting upon the few lessons that can be learned in the course of a misspent life, a few bubbles of memory appear before me, are struck by all the color changes the skin of a bubble undergoes in the space of an instant, burst then, having endured no longer than a bubble, and persist as feelings for a long while after.
Bubbles ... There is one down in the Caribbean called New Eden. Depth, approximately 175 fathoms. As of the most recent census, it was home to over 100,000 people. A huge, illuminated geodesic dome it is, providing an overhead view with which Euclid would have been pleased. For great distances about this dome, strung lights like street lamps line avenues among rocks, bridges over canyons, thoroughfares through mountains. The bottom-going seamobiles move like tanks along these ways; minisubs hover or pass at various altitudes; slick-seeming swimmers in tight and colorful garb come and go, entering and departing the bubble or working about it.
I vacationed there for a couple of weeks one time, and although I discovered claustrophobic tendencies of which I had previously been unaware, it was still quite pleasant. The people were different from surface dwellers. They were rather like what I fancy the old explorers and frontiersmen to have been. Somewhat more individualistic and independent than the average topside citizen, but with a certain sense of community and the feelings of responsibility attendant thereto. This is doubtless because they are frontiersmen, having volunteered for combinations of programs involving both the relief of minor population pressures and the exploitation of the ocean's resources. Whatever, they accept tourists. They accepted me, and I went there and swam with them, toured on their subs, viewed their mines and hydroponic gardens, their homes and their public buildings. I remember the beauty of it, I remember the people, I remember the way the sea hung overhead like the night sky as seen through the faceted eye of some insect. Or maybe like a giant insect on the other side, looking in. Yes, that seems more likely. Perhaps the personality of the place appealed to a certain rebellious tendency I occasionally felt stirring fathoms deep within my own psyche.