Marshal Schuster, Bearing's estranged and antisocial son, was quite another matter. If Maggie was right, Junior knew something, which at this point could range from almost nothing to nearly everything about his father's frantic search for the cylinders. Marshal, it appeared, was a factor in this chaotic equation that eventually had to be checked out. Since Cosmo and Honey Bear were the ones I held responsible for getting me into this mess, I made a mental note to have them check out just what role the Boca connection played in this little scenario.
As for the incident that had supposedly wiped out the entire population of Deechapal, Lucy confirmed that there was very little hard information available. Maggie didn't see any relationship between the two events and her logic on the timing made some sense, but the fact that the supposedly sunken Garl and its clandestine cargo were in the same area as the Deechapal tragedy seemed just a little too coincidental for me. And, if I was thinking straight, Cosmo also saw a connection. Why else would he have handed me that newspaper clipping that morning in Shannon's Shanty?
I had just fixed myself a drink and sauntered out on the balcony when I heard a knock on the door. This time the intruder was a nervous little man barely five feet in stature. He was bald, insecure-looking and blinked constantly behind his ill-fitting contacts. It was obvious he had an aversion to the sun since he was as white as Queet was black.
He was wearing a tannish polyester suit, a stiffly starched white shirt and an outdated, too-wide tie with sea gulls on it.
''Elliot Wages?"
"That's the best my mother could come up with at the time," I said, grinning.
He didn't smile. "I'm Byron Huntington," he announced. "May I come in?"
I paraded him through Ginny's lavishly appointed surroundings and out onto the balcony, then offered him a Scotch and a seat. He declined both… then decided he wanted to sit down. When he did, his feet didn't touch the floor.
"Huntington," I repeated. "You're the gentleman from the California Academy of Cryonics?"
"I'm the Director," he corrected. "I founded the Academy in 1970 in Corona." His voice was squeaky and had an irritating if only occasional half-lisp.
"And you're a member of the team, right?"
Huntington was one of those people who glare intently at whomever or whatever happens to be across from him. I had the feeling he had just placed me under mental arrest. "I'm afraid Maggie Chrysler tends to be a little too collegiate," he hissed. "I would hardly call this odd assortment of human flotsam a team. The truth is, Mr. Wages, I view it as an ill-fitting assortment of wholly dissimilar individuals with varying degrees of interest in the field of cryonics. In view of what Mr. Schuster hopes to gain from our efforts, I believe it would be far more appropriate to call it an ill-conceived commercial enterprise."
"And just what is it the old boy expects to get out of this, Mr. Huntington?"
The man smiled back benignly. "Come, come, Mr. Wages, let's not play cat and mouse with one another."
Over the years I've developed and perfected the somewhat convenient habit of allowing myself to quickly catagorize the weird assortment of folks who meander in and out of my often turbulent life. It's probably an ill-conceived habit, but it enables me to avoid unwarranted stress and long periods of painstaking and usually needless assessment. Such was the case with Byron Huntington. In less than ten minutes, I had branded him a "pompous little prick" and decided I wasn't going to make much of an effort to get to know him any better than I already did.
"So, Mr. Huntington, what role do you play in this so-called commercial venture?"
"Quite obviously, I am the cyronics expert." He emphasized the word "expert."
"Okay, then what about Hannah Holbrook? I'm told she's a thermo-engineer."
Huntington was sitting bolt upright with his small hands folded primly in his tiny lap. "Ms. Holbrook is a very castrating individual," he assessed caustically, "and very difficult to communicate with. But this isn't a social outing, is it, Mr. Wages?"
"I assume Schuster put the four of us together to get a job done," I replied.
"Schuster sees only the possibility of prolonging his own misspent life," Byron charged. "The scientific ramifications mean nothing to him."
I reflected briefly on Cosmo's theory that Schuster was looking for answers — answers about his own brush with death and the entire aging process. What the hell, I decided. If I had the bucks and wanted to surround myself with delightful visions like Maggie Chrysler the way Bearing did, I'd probably invest a bundle in my own search for a high tech version of the fountain of youth.
"So what brings you here, Mr. Huntington?"
"Curiosity."
"Curious about what?"
"So far, Bearing has seen fit to make a circus out of our expedition. Two women, neither of whom are eminently qualified to contribute to the scientific merit of our objective — and now, the even more dubious addition of an adventurer, an opportunist, a man who knows nothing about the field of cryonics."
I could feel the color starting to flush up the back of my neck. I was resisting a strong temptation to reach over and slap the smug little smile off his pasty white face.
"Isn't it true that you know absolutely nothing about cryonics, Mr. Wages?"
"Bearing Schuster didn't hire me because I'm nimble with a slide rule."
"Your ill-advised retort only proves my point," Huntington hissed. "So what is it you bring to our so-called team?"
For some strange reason, the little twerp had me on the defensive. All of a sudden I felt the need to justify my reason for being there. "Well, for one thing, I'm familiar with the area where the Garl is reported to have gone down."
"Tell me," Huntington hissed, "how is it that a writer of somewhat dubious merit and a purported parapsychologist is also suddenly deemed to be a maritime expert?"
"I don't claim to be an expert, but I do know the area. About the only ones who really do know that area are the descendants of the Caribs who fish the waters off of the Cluster. Frankly, Mr. Huntington, it's a damned good place for white men who don't know what they're doing to stay away from."
Huntington slid forward in his seat until his feet touched the floor, then he stood up. "I'm wasting my time," he complained.
Even before Huntington made it to the door, I had decided to call Schuster and tell him that unless he dumped the wimp, the deal was off. Two weeks on a boat with the posturing little bastard was more than I figured I could take, no matter what the price.
It was shortly after 7:00 the same evening when Cosmo, Honey Bear and yours truly glided back into Bearing's opulent compound for a briefing session with the entire team. If you have a mental picture of a war room complete with maps, an impressive array of communciations gear and high tech security measures that would make the bunch at the Pentagon blush, you have a pretty good idea of how well thought out Bearing's preparations were.
The same sober-faced young man with black hair was in attendance. He had the ability to glide sideways, balance a tray, guide drinks in and out of the hands of Bearing's guests and look perfectly miserable and bored in the process. The room was populated with most of the people I had met and a couple I hadn't.
At precisely 7:30 the double doors opened and Bearing's motorized chair wheeled into the room. The old boy was accompanied by a mountain of a man who managed to look morose, hostile and very dedicated to keeping Bearing Schuster free from life's little annoyances.
If possible, Bearing Schuster had somehow managed to look even worse than he did the day before. His legs were tightly wrapped in a dark maroon blanket, and both hands were hidden under a bulky shawl that had been carefully draped over his narrow shoulders.