Here was another window to peer through. There was a certain excitement in peeking in windows, a feeling of immediate and ruinous folly independent of whatever lay on the other side, an urge to shriek through the window and rap on the glass, leaving some shambling, terror-bitten wreck beyond, wondering at the sudden collapse of the universe.
The scene before him, however, didn’t much encourage that sort of thing. An immense aquarium, easily a thousand gallons, stretched across the wall — was the wall — of a cabin that was a wonder of carved rosewood. Lamps burned over the glass-lidded surface, copper shades casting most of the soft yellow light downward, illuminating the weedy depths of the tank in a mottled, shifting dance of shadow and light. Bursting bubbles rose from the sand in a fine rush, disturbing the surface of the aquarium, generated by clear tubing that coiled away into a Mack rubber bladder the size of a small mattress.
An old man, desperately thin and with white silky hair, sat before the aquarium, watching the creatures within as if mesmerized. He was Oriental, Chinese probably, and dressed in a silk robe. A looped earring with a dangling goldfish hung from one ear; the other ear was turned away. An opium pipe, some wooden kitchen matches, a brass coaster, and other odd debris were scattered over the top of a steamer trunk on the floor beside his chair — a steamer trunk banded with two green copper belts, each studded with an emerald fish. And before him, swimming through the bubbling waters as if searching for some lost thing — a jewel dropped from the worn prongs of an old ring or the missing key to a locked house — were a half dozen peculiar fish.
Their eyes were like green glass. And there was something wrong with their expression. It was a combination of sadness and terror that wasn’t a consequence of the peculiarity of nature. With an abrupt mental lurch that constricted his throat, William saw that one of the fish — all of the fish — had what appeared to be fleshy little appendages, fingers, five of them, at the ends of their pectoral fins, and just the faint trace of a nose protruding above their toothed mouths. It wasn’t the foolish trunk nose of a tang or the flat pig nose of a puffer; it was human — clearly so — a vestigial nose and fingers that turned the beasts into something more than fish, into the haunting, impossible offspring of Reginald Peach. The man in the chair was Han Koi.
Chapter 19
William signaled to Jim again, crept along the dock, and severed the two lines that moored the junk. The bow swung round into the slow current as the boat eased away. With any luck, Han Koi and his finny menagerie would be bumping into the rocks on the far side of the cavern before he was aware of being adrift. William and Jim moved off along the dock.
The second junk contained Giles Peach. It was as simple as that. He was apparently unattended — something that William had ambiguous feelings about. Although it would obviously make it easier to spirit him away unseen, it meant, quite clearly, that his remaining aboard the junk was at least partly — largely, perhaps — voluntary. He sat in a wooden chair reading a magazine. A heap of books lay on the floor roundabout. William recognized the covers of Burroughs’ Pellucidar books and the Heritage Press printing of Journey to the Center of the Earth. It was the magazine in Giles’ hand, however, that struck William most forcibly — a copy of the recent Analogy William’s Analog. Giles peered intently at the page from a distance of two or three inches, out of excitement, it seemed, rather than near-sightedness, for every couple of moments he paused to jot notes into the margins and onto a stack of paper napkins.
He hadn’t changed so awfully much. William didn’t know what, exactly, he had expected. He half feared that Giles would have become something like the thing in the steamer trunk, that he’d shared the fate of Reginald Peach, perhaps with a bit of help from Han Koi and Hilario Frosticos. But there hadn’t been that sort of apparent change — just a vague sensation, a watery electrical charge in the air, that suggested a kinship, perhaps literally, between Giles Peach and the melancholy inhabitants of Han Koi’s aquaria.
William tapped on the edge of the cabin window and hissed. Giles lurched upright, stuffing his magazine between the cushion and the arm of his chair, a look of wild fear in his eyes. His head swiveled toward the door, since he assumed, obviously, that someone approached — an ally, William would have assumed. William tapped again. Giles jerked around toward the window, grasped the shade of his reading lamp, and directed the light in William’s direction, his eyes widening in surprise to see both William and Jim peering in at him out of the darkness.
Gill stammered, looking quickly again at the door. Whether he intended to shout, run, or barricade himself in was, for a split second, unclear. But after that second of confusion, he simply sat still, befuddled. William could detect, he was sure of it, faint lines of hope curling the edges of his mouth and eyes.
“Is there anyone else aboard?” William whispered.
Giles shook his head.
William debated the usefulness of cutting loose the third junk, which, from its dark, silent demeanor, appeared to be empty. He decided against it. Haste was the word, now that they’d found Giles. The two of them slipped aboard, treading as lightly as possible, looking back over their shoulder toward where the vast driftwood fire burned on its little rocky hill.
Han Koi’s boat had floated twenty or thirty yards from shore, but seemed to be lying still in the water. William was suddenly struck with regret at having cut it loose. If the junk were docked, there was the bare possibility that he and Jim would remain unseen, even if the old man decided to take a stroll ashore. But now, unless the boat drifted safely away … William and Jim hurried into the cabin.
Jim nodded at Giles, as if not knowing entirely what to say. Giles nodded back and grinned, embarrassed, perhaps, to be found under such peculiar conditions.
“We’ve missed you,” said William. “Getting on well?”
Giles shrugged.
“Your mother is a bit worried.”
Giles shrugged again guiltily.
“Work going along?’
Giles nodded. William crossed to the window on the dock side and closed the shutters. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Time was passing. He caught sight of a copy of The ABC’s of Relativity lying on the floor amid the other books. “Been reading about relativity?” asked William. “What do you think of this?”
“Well,” said Giles. “I remembered Mr. Squires recommending it that night at the Newtonians. So I bought it. But there are certain problems with it.”
“Ah,” said Edward. “Problems?”
“Yes. I’ve built an anti-gravity unit, you know, that works on the principle of sky tides. The idea came to me while I was reading the book. I thought about building it into a bicycle as a present for Mr. Squires whose car was broken down that night, but then things happened, and …” Giles trailed off into silence.
William, listening for threatening sounds, wasn’t about to let the conversation slacken. “You’ve read my own relativity story in Analog?” William motioned toward the chair with his head.
“Yes, sir,” said Giles, brightening. “It was very impressive. Convincing too. I’m sure they’ve only begun to understand physics. Your story will turn things around. That’s why I’ve been working on the digger for Mr. Pinion. I’m certain we can get to the Earth’s core. Think of what we’ll find there …” And once again Giles fell silent, thinking of what he’d find there.