He got one of the hands to come down with a hose and soap to clean up the inflatable. He told him somebody went fishing and let the catch bleed all over the floor. It was logical. The guy got busy with the hose and brush.
Then Pell went looking for Gary Foster.
On the deck he stopped and wiped the beads of perspiration from his upper lip. It wasn’t hot enough to sweat yet and this bothered him. He was getting that anxious feeling again and he wished he had a gun in his hand, because he sensed some noiseless thing was stalking him and he felt an odd rumbling in his bowels. He went back to his room and took out his .38 revolver, made sure the chambers were full and screwed the silencer on the barrel so that all he had to do was thumb the hammer back. He tucked it in his belt and buttoned his jacket over it.
This time he made a thorough search of the ship, starting from the hold, working his way upward. A couple of crew members gave him a curious glance, but he was the boss and had a right to go wherever he wanted to on board. When he reached the upper level the radio operator came out of his cramped quarters, saw Pell and stopped short.
“This just came in, Mr. Pell. Message from the cruise ship.” He handed Pell a typewritten form. It was from Marcus Grey. All it said was that they were leaving within the hour at the suggestion of the passengers.
Pell nodded, said there was no answer and crumpled the message into a ball and tossed it over the side. Suggestion of the passengers, he thought. Weren’t cruise ships regulated better than that? They weren’t on a deep-sea fishing trip. Idly, he speculated on whether the government could use this peculiarity to put a dent in their intended operations. Let the lawyers figure it out, he reasoned, and went on with his attempt to locate Gary Foster.
Behind the Lotusland Chana Sterling leaned against the side of the pilothouse and steadied her binoculars on the ship tied up ahead of them. Something was not right up there. She had seen Pell come on the deck and stare at the inflatable tied up below, and she watched the consternation on his face as he scrutinized the area hidden from her by the inflatable’s bilious sides, then saw the deckhand go down to scrub it out. Twice Pell had peered over the deck rail to make sure the job was being done thoroughly, then continued his stalking routine, lifting the canvas covers off the two lifeboats to inspect what was there.
When he turned, not realizing he was being seen through high-powered glasses, Chana got a full view of his face. Anthony Pell was in a violent but subdued rage. Tiny muscles in his neck stood out, his jaw was clenched and his eyes mirrored some powerful emotion churning behind them. He unbuttoned his jacket and reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief to wipe off his face, and she saw the butt of the pistol stuck in his belt. He spun around, opened a door and disappeared inside.
Something is going to happen, Chana thought. Things were building up. There was nervousness dancing around everything now and she couldn’t quite fathom it all.
“Hell,” she said aloud, but to herself, “that’s an emotional reaction and this is a military exercise. Knock it off, girl.” She put the glasses back in their case and little by little that combatant expression she always wore came back on her face.
Lee Colbert pushed the door open and came in. “We just got a CB radio call from those fishing boats. Those mulako schools have just been located. Looks like they’re going to corner the market on this run.”
“Great if you like fish.”
“You can get used to it, I guess.”
“They’re staying out longer than they expected to,” he mentioned soberly.
“So they’re scared,” Chana said. “That eater business has them wetting their pants.”
Lee grinned at her remark, made a clucking sound with his tongue and said, “What do you think it is, Chana?”
She turned slowly and gave him a piercing look. “You know what it is, Lee. You know you’ve seen the physical proof of it.”
“Proof of what, lady?”
“Those mines, that’s what it is! Old, still partially and fully active mines from another generation. Some wound up on Scara Island and others are still almost floating around right under the surface to knock off whatever they touch.”
“Then why do we see teeth marks?”
“Baloney, that’s what you can do with your teeth marks.”
Lee grinned and shook his head. It was rare to see confusion get the better of Chana and he was enjoying the moment. He said, “They’re staying until their holds are full. They expect to start back at dusk.”
“I hope they don’t want an escort.”
“These people are pretty damn independent.”
“They’re pretty shook up too.”
“I can’t blame them. They’ve had enough trouble so far. Right now a year’s supply of chow is riding on this fishing trip.”
“Come on, Lee, this place is loaded with seafood. They go fishing every day here. They’re always having beach parties with shellfish and crabs and everything we consider delicacies.”
“You’d like ice cream for every meal?”
“Don’t be silly. You know what I mean.”
Lee waited a moment before he said, “Chana, these fish are staples. It’s a main course item. They’re items they need, not want. Quit knocking their lifestyle because they’re not devoted to steak and eggs.”
Chana stifled her annoyance by saying, “That cruise ship has pulled out.”
“Smart,” Lee answered, “they’re getting out of the eater’s waters.”
Chana said something very unmilitary under her breath and was glad when Lee went back outside. She picked up her glasses again. Pell wasn’t in sight, but she saw the natives begin to drift back to the dock area. They had hours to wait before the fishing boats returned, but they had to be here, patiently waiting and hoping that nothing would happen, that the eater would be moving in faraway currents, maybe champing at sargassum or manta rays or those things that made the monstrous splashes in the night.
The three fishing boats out of Peolle were well within sight of each other. The mulako schools were like balls of flashing lights, packed closely together in one twenty-foot rolling mass in constant motion, a single living entity big enough to deceive predators into thinking it was too dangerous to attack. The fishermen knew this prey was actually made up of much smaller fish constantly swimming to get to the center of the ball, only to be spun out to the outside of the ball again. Nature had this strange way of protecting its own, but the mulako were defenseless against man’s determination.
While every man of the crew worked at the netting and the loading, everyone constantly searched the ocean for the real enemy, the one that could eat boats. None of them knew what to look for or what to expect, but they knew it could be silent and wouldn’t smell until it was right on them, and by then it would be too late. But it was still daylight and the eater liked to eat at night, and by nightfall they would be under way back to Peolle, where they would be safe.
Willie Pender had volunteered to captain the biggest of the three boats. He had already survived an encounter with the eater and the men wanted to stay with someone smart enough to outwit and almost snag this thing that had been terrorizing them. Manning the net hoist, Willie wasn’t as certain that he had luck riding with him at all. He knew the eater for the killer that it was, but was glad the others felt more at ease with him leading the way. Nevertheless, even he kept his eyes peeled. His head was constantly in motion, searching for any disturbance at all, any sign of the enemy’s presence. The sea was getting flatter with every hour and any motion at all would be very noticeable.