"We still have to knock brain corals out of the channel every so often. The other way we don't bother with-small boats can go through, but you have to be careful The lagoon is shallow, not more than about fifteen feet, and the water is always warm. That's why the tanks were built there." He indicated a number of small squares penciled on the area of the lagoon. The Hunter thought of asking just what the tanks were for, but decided to wait until Bob finished.
"In here"-the boy pointed to the bend of the L-"most of the people live. It's the lowest part of the island-the only part where you can see from one side to the other. There're about thirty houses sort of scattered there, with big gardens around them so they're not very close together-nothing like the towns you've seen,"
"Do you live in that area?"
"No." The pencil sketched a narrow double line almost the whole length of the island, close to the lagoon side. "That is a road that goes from Norm Hay's house near the northwest end down to the storage sheds in the middle of the other leg. Both branches have a row of hills-the low place where the houses are is a sort of saddle in the row-and several families live on the north slope up here. Hay is at the end, as I said; and coming back down the road you pass Hugh Colby's house, Shorty Malmstrom's, Ken Rice's, and then mine. Actually, that whole end of the island isn't used much, and is grown over except right around the houses. The ground is all cut up and hard to mow, so they grow the stuff for the tanks at the other end, where it's a lot smoother. We practically live in jungle-you can't even see the road from my house and it's the closest of the five. If your friend has decided to pass up his chances at a human host and simply hide in there, I don't know how we'd ever find him."
"About how large is the island? There is no scale on your map."
"The northwest branch is about three and a half miles long, the other about two. This causeway out to the dock in the middle of the lagoon is about a quarter mile or a little more-maybe nearly half. It's about the same from the shore end of it to the road-that's another paved one, leading from the causeway to the main road-reaches it practically in the middle of the village. It's a mile and a half from the junction to my house, and about as far from there to the end, where Norm lives." The pencil traveled somewhat erratically around the chart as Bob spoke and as his enthusiasm ran further and further ahead of his sense of order.
The Hunter followed the racing point with interest, and decided it was tune to seek an explanation of the tanks to which the boy had referred more than once. He put the question.
"They call 'em culture tanks. They have bugs-germs- growing in them; germs that eat pretty near anything, and produce oil as a waste product. That's the purpose of the whole business. We dump everything that's waste into the tanks, pump oil off the top, and every so often clean the sludge out of the bottom-that's a nasty job, believe me. People were howling for years about the danger of the oil wells giving out, when any good encyclopedia would tell 'em that the lights they saw in marshes were caused by the burning of gases produced from things rotting under the swamp. Someone finally got bright enough to connect the ideas, and the biologists bred special bugs that would produce heavier oils instead of marsh gas. The island waste isn't enough to keep the five big tanks going, so the northeast end of the island is always getting the vegetation shaved off it to feed them. The sludge goes back to the same ground to serve as fertilizer. That's another reason, besides the smoothness of the ground, that we use only that end of the island for that -it's downwind from the settled part, and the sludge is awfully smelly when it's fresh. There are pipelines connecting the big tanks to the loading dock, so we don't have to cart the oil around the island, but there's a special fertilizer barge."
"Does no one live on the south side of the hills?" "No. On our leg of the island that's the windy side, and every so often that means a lot. Maybe you'll see a real hurricane before you're through. On the other leg it's usually in fertilizer, and I can't see anyone wanting to live there."
The Hunter made no comment on this, and after a moment the tour went on. He got a good idea-better than Bob had, owing to his much greater knowledge of biology -about the workings of the island's principal industry, though he was not sure how useful the knowledge would be. He learned, from Bob's eager descriptions of past excursions, to know the outer reef and its intricacies almost well enough to find his way around it himself. He learned, in short, about all anyone could without actually journeying personally over the patch of rock, earth, and coral that was Bob's home.
When they came on deck again Tahiti's central peak alone was visible behind them. Bob wasted little time looking at it; he headed for the nearest hatch and descended to the engine room. There was only one man on duty, who reached for the phone switch as though to call assistance when he saw the boy, and then desisted, laughing.
"You back again? Keep off the plates in those shoes- I don't want to have to unwrap you from the shaft Haven't you seen all you want of my engines yet?"
"Nope. Never will." Bob obeyed the injunction to say on the catwalks, but his eyes roved eagerly over the dials in front of the engineer. He could interpret some of them, and the engineer explained others; their power to attract faded with their mystery, and presently the boy began prowling again. Another crewman had come air and was making a standard inspection round, looking and listening for oil leaks, faulty bearings, and any of the troubles which plague power plants with and without warning. Bob tagged along, watching carefully. He knew enough to make himself useful before he was considered a nuisance, and ran several errands during the trip; so presently he found himself, unrebuked, down by the shaft well while his companion worked on a bearing. It was not a safe neighborhood.
The Hunter did not fully realize the danger, strangely enough. He was used to less bulky machines whose moving parts-when they had any-were very securely cased while in operation. He saw the nearly unguarded shaft and gears, but it somehow never struck him that they might be dangerous until a stream of rather lurid language erupted from under the shaft housing. At the same instant Bob jerked his hand back sharply, and the Hunter felt as well as his host the abrupt pain as a dollop of hot oil struck the boy's skin. The man had reached in a little too far in the semidarkness and allowed Ms oil gun to touch the shaft. The abrupt jerk had caused him to tighten on the trigger, releasing an excessive amount of lubricant onto the bearing he was checking. It had needed the oil, running hot as it was, but had flung off the excess with rather painful results.
The crewman backed out of his cramped position, still giving vent to his feelings. He had been scalded in several places by the oil, but when he saw Bob another thought took precedence. "Did you get hurt, kid?" he asked anxiously. He knew what was likely to happen if Bob were injured in his company-there were stringent orders from the bridge dealing with the things the boy was and was not to be allowed to do.
Bob had equally good reasons for not wanting to get in trouble where he was, so he held the scorched hand as naturally as possible and replied, "No, I'm O. K. What happened to you? Can I help?"
"You can get some burn ointment from the kit. These ain't bad, but I can sure feel 'em. I'll slap it on here; no sense in bothering anyone else."
Bob grinned understandingly and went for the ointment. On his way back with it he started to put a little of the stuff surreptitiously on his own burn; but a thought struck him, and he refrained.