David looked worriedly out to sea, then at Roger.
“It isn’t anyone from the Academy that I’m worried about,” he told Roger Fairfane.
We made our arrangements. We left David waiting for us in a boathouse on the beach, and Roger, Bob and I hurried back to the Academy to sign in. Every swimmer who completed the marathon was entitled to an overnight pass as a reward, so there was no difficulty getting off the reservation. The cadet on guard, stiffly at attention in his sea-red dress uniform, gave our passes only a glance, but he examined the little bag Roger was carrying very carefully. “Civilian clothes?” he demanded. “What are you going to do with those?”
“They—ah—they need cleaning,” Roger said, not untruthfully. “There’s a good cleaner in Hamilton.”
The guard winked. “Pass, cadets,” he said, and returned to stiff attention. Still and all, I didn’t feel safe until we were out of sight of the gates. Roger hadn’t actually said we were gong to Hamilton—but he had certainly said enough to make the guard at the gate start asking questions if he saw us duck off the road in another direction.
We got back to the beach easily enough, and found David waiting. I was almost surprised to see him there—it would have been so easy to believe the whole thing was a dream if he had been gone. But he was there, big as life, and we waited while he got into Roger’s dry clothes.
And then the four of us headed down the beach toward the ornate beach house that belonged to the Atlantic manager of Trident Lines.
Overhead there was a ripping, screaming sound—the night passenger jet for the mainland. It was a common enough sound; Bob and Roger and I hardly noticed it. But David stopped still in his tracks, frozen, his face drawn.
He looked at me and grinned, shamefaced. “It’s only an airliner, isn’t it? But I just can’t get used to them. We don’t have them in Marinia, you see.”
Roger muttered something—I suppose it was a contemptuous reference to David Craken’s momentary nervousness—and stalked down the beach ahead of us. He seemed nervous himself about something, I thought. I said: “David, don’t mind him. We’re glad to see you back. Even Roger. It’s just his—his—”
“His desire to get hands on the Tonga pearls?” David finished for me, and grinned. He seemed more relaxed, though I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes never went far from the cold black sea. “I can’t blame him for that. They’re fabulously valuable, of course. Even somebody whose father is a high executive of Trident Lines might want to get a couple of Tonga pearls to put away against a rainy day.”
I said, trying to be fair: “I don’t think it’s only that, David. Roger always wants to—to win, I guess. It’s important to him. Remember the diving tests, when he carried on so? Remember—”
I stopped, staring at him. “That reminds me,” I said. “Don’t you have some explaining to do about that?”
He said seriously, “Jim, believe me, I’ll answer every question I can—even that one. But not now.” He hesitated, and lowered his voice. “I was kidnaped from the gym ship, Jim. Kidnaped by the same person who called himself ‘Joe Trencher.’”
I stared at him. “Kidnaped? At a depth of thirteen hundred feet? But that’s impossible, David! How could any human being do it—why, it would take a sea car and heaven knows what else to do a thing like that!”
David Craken looked at me, his eyes bright and serious in the moonlight.
“Jim,” he said, “what makes you think that Joe Trencher is human?”
8
The Half Men
Roger called it a “beach house”—but it was two stories tall, a sprawling mansion with ten acres of sub-tropical gardens and a dozen outbuildings.
The whole estate was surrounded by a twenty-foot hedge of prickly thorns and tiny red flowers. A land crab might have been able to squirm through the hedge, but no human being could. Roger led us to a gate in the hedge, ten feet high, with carved metal doors, the hedge growing together solidly above it. The doors were wide open, and no on was in sight.
But it was not unguarded.
“Halt!” rattled a peremptory mechanical voice. “Halt! You, there! Where are you going and what do you want?” The doors moved uneasily, though there was no wind. It was as though they were anxious to crash shut on the intruders.
“It’s the automatic watchman,” Roger explained, a little nervously. He cried: “I am Roger Fairfane. I have permission to come in.”
The mechanical voice crackled: “Roger Fairfane. Step forward!” There was a momentary hiss and a rustle of static, as though the invisible electronic brain were scanning its library of facts to find out if the name Roger Fairfane was on the list of permitted visitors.
Roger took a step forward and a beam of sizzling red light leaped down at him from a projector on the side of the gate. In its light he looked changed and ghastly, and a little scared.
The mechanical voice rattled: “Roger Fairfane, you have permission to go to the boathouse. Follow the indicated path.” It clicked, and the faint hum from the loud-speaker died. The doors shuddered one more time, as if regretful that they could not close, and then were still.
A line of violet Troyon lights, rice-grain sized, lit up along the ground, outlining a path that led through palms and clumps of hibiscus toward the water.
“Come along, come along,” said Roger hurriedly. “Stay on the path!”
We followed the curving coral walk outlined by the flecks of violet light. The boathouse turned out to be as big as an average-sized dwelling. There was a basin for a private sub-sea cruiser, and with a house built around it, an apartment on the upper floor. Another beam of reddish light leaped out at us from over the entrance as we approached. It singled out Roger Fairfane, and in a moment the door opened.
We walked in, the door closing behind us. It was uncomfortably like a trap.
The first thing to do was get something to eat—not only for David, but for all of us; we hadn’t eaten since the marathon swim. Roger disappeared into the kitchen of the little apartment and we could hear him struggling with the controls of the electronic housekeeper. He came out after a moment with a tray of milk and sandwiches. “The best I can do,” he said, a little grumpily. “This apartment belongs to the pilot of the sea-car, and it isn’t too well stocked.”
It was good enough for all of us, though. We demolished the sandwiches and then sat before a roaring fire in the fireplace, which had kindled itself as we came into the room. If this was the pilot’s apartment, what would the master’s home be like! We all were impressed with the comfort and luxury that surrounded us—even Roger.
Then we talked.
David put down the last of his sandwich and sat staring at us for a moment.
“It’s hard to know where to begin,” he said at last.
“Start with the Tonga pearls,” Roger suggested shortly.
David looked at him, and then at Bob and me, with his eyes dark with trouble.
“Before I tell you anything,” he said at last, “you must promise me something. Promise you won’t repeat what I’m going to tell you to anyone, without my permission. Especially, promise you won’t report anything to the Fleet.”
Roger said promptly: “Agreed!”
David looked at me. I hesitated. “I’m not sure we should promise,” I told him slowly. “After all, we’re cadets, in training for Fleet commissions…”
“But we haven’t got them yet!” objected Roger. “We haven’t taken the oath.”
Bob Eskow was frowning over some private thought. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.
David Craken looked hard at me. His voice was very clear and firm. “Jim, if you can’t promise to keep your mouth shut, I’ll have to ask you to leave. There’s too much depending on me. I need help badly—but I can’t afford to take a chance on word getting out.” He hesitated. “It—it’s a matter of life and death, Jim. My father’s life.”