Even inside the lagoon they stayed carefully between the buoys, the Hunter noticed; and he recalled what Bob had said about the shallowness of the water here. On either side of them, scattered over the several square miles between reef and island proper, were angular concrete bulks that the Hunter assumed to be the culture tanks. These were from two to three hundred feet on a side, but their walls did not extend more than five or six feet above the water. The nearest was too far away for small details to be made out, but the Hunter was pretty sure it was covered by a roof consisting mostly of glass panes, while small square superstructures at various points were connected by catwalks to each other and to a diminutive landing stage on the side toward the channel.
Ahead of them was a larger structure, rather different in detail, and as they approached its purpose became evident Like the tanks, it was rectangular in shape, but it rose much higher out of the water-almost as high as the tanker's bridge for the central portions. The "deck" level was lower but still considerably above that of the culture tanks. This surface was covered with various structures, some obviously storage tanks and pumps, others more obscure in nature. On the side toward the approaching vessel were great mooring cables and even bigger hoses, with twenty or thirty men visible working around them. The structure obviously was the dock to which Bob had referred and which was used to store and transfer the fuel oils which were the chief product of the island.
Both watchers looked through Bob's eyes with interest as the tanker glided in to the dock and settled against the fenders. More lines snaked across and were pulled aboard, drawing the hoses after them; and in a remarkably short time the thudding of pumps showed that the last eight days' production was flowing into the tanker. It took a hail from the bridge to distract them from the process.
"Bob! You'll need some help with your stuff, getting it ashore, won't you?" Teroa was calling down to the boy. "Yes, thanks," Bob called back. "I'll be right there." He took one more quick look around, and his grin broadened at something he saw; then he was speeding over the catwalks to the stern. Partly visible around the corner of the dock from where he had been standing was the long causeway that connected the structure with the shore; and along that causeway he had seen a jeep driving furiously. He knew who the driver of that vehicle would be.
The baggage was tumbled out onto the dock in record time, but the jeep had squealed around the corner and come to halt beside the hoses some minutes before Bob and the mate came down the plank with the last piece between them. Bob dropped his end of the foot locker and ran to meet the man standing beside the little car. The Hunter watched with interest and some sympathy.
Even he was sufficiently familiar with human faces by now to detect the resemblance between father and son. Bob still had six or seven inches of height to pick up, but there was the same dark hair and blue eyes, the same straight nose and broad, easily smiling mouth, and the same chin.
Bob's greeting had the exuberance natural to his age; his father, while equally delighted, maintained an undercurrent of gravity that went unnoticed by the boy but which was both seen and understood by the Hunter. The alien realized he had one other job-it was going to be necessary to convince Mr. Kinnaird that there was nothing actually wrong with his son, or the latter's freedom of action might be seriously curtailed. He filed that thought for the moment, however, and listened with interest to the conversation. Bob was overwhelming his father with a flood of questions that threatened to involve the doings of the entire population of the island. At first the Hunter was minded to criticize his host's action in starting the investigation so early; but he presently realized that the search was far from the boy's mind. He was simply trying to fill a five-month gap. The detective stopped worrying and listened carefully to Mr. Kinnaird's answers in the hope of finding some useful information; and he was human enough to be disappointed when the man cut off the flood of questions with a laugh.
"Bob boy! I don't know what everyone's been up to since you left; you'll have to ask them. I'm going to have to be here until they finish loading; you'd better take the jeep up to the house with your luggage-I expect your mother could stand seeing you, if you can spare the time. Your friends won't be out of school yet, anyway. Just a minute." He rifled through the jeep's toolbox recklessly, finally extracting a well-cased set of calipers from the collection of center punches, cold chisels, and wrenches.
"Oh, my gosh, that's right; I'll have to see about school myself, won't I? I'd forgotten I wasn't coming back for vacation this time." He looked so sober for a moment that his father laughed again, not realizing the cause of his son's sudden thoughtfulness. Bob recovered quickly, however, and looked up again. "Okay, Dad, I'll get the stuff home. See you at supper?"
"Yes, provided you get that jeep back here as soon as you've finished with it. And no remarks about my needing exercise!"
Bob grinned, good humor completely restored. "Not until I'm dressed to go swimming," he replied.
The loading was quickly accomplished, and Bob, sliding under the wheel, sent the little vehicle rapidly along the causeway to the shore. From here, as he had told the Hunter, a paved road led straight inland for a quarter of a mile, where it joined the main thoroughfare of the island at right angles. There was a large cluster of corrugated-iron sheds flanking the short road, and when they reached the turn the Hunter could see that these extended to the left, up the shorter arm of the island. He could also see the white concrete of at least one more culture tank peering around the corner of the hill in that direction and resolved to ask Bob at the first opportunity why these were not built in the water like the others.
Just at the turning where the two roads met, the dwelling houses started to replace the storage sheds. Most of the former were on the shoreward side of the main road, but one, surrounded by a large garden, lay on their right just before the turning. A tall, brown-skinned youth was busy in the garden. Bob, seeing him, braked the jeep quickly and emitted an ear-hurting whistle through his front teeth. The gardener looked up, straightened, and ran over to the road.
"Bob! Didn't know you were coming back so early. What have you been doing, kid?" Charles Teroa was only three years older than Bob, but he had finished school and was apt to use a condescending tone to his juniors who had not. Bob had given up resenting it; besides, he now had ammunition if there was to be a contest of repartee.
"Not as much as you have," he answered, "from what your father tells me."
The younger Teroa grimaced. "Pop would tell. Well, it was fun, even if that friend of yours did back out."
"Did you really expect them to give work to someone who spends half his days sleeping?" Bob gibed, mindful of the order to keep the job a secret for the present.