Andre Norton - Sea Siege Read online

"They's got 'em a paper from the government—say they do what they want. They don't care water good for the conch. Why, they cut right through the reef— change all that part of island. Ain't never seen nothin' like that before—" Murdock gazed toward the scene of activity now hidden from the Island Queen by miles of curving and recurving shore line, for the site of Base Hush-Hush was the northern tip of San Isadore.

  So far, save for the bafflement and irritation of some conch fishermen and the unrewarded curiosity of the islanders at large, a wonderment at the energy of the northerners and speculations concerning their purpose on San Isadore were the substance of the comments Griff overheard. Le Marr, after his initial sight of the task force, had withdrawn to some hidey hole of his own and had not been seen. And the Gunston project had had no reason to contact the Naval party, the doc­tor and Hughes being intent on the problem of the "sea serpent" as represented by the bones and remains over which they labored in the laboratory.

  The Island Queen cleared for her scheduled run to Santa Maria with the mystery still unsolved. And it was that evening that Project Sea Serpent had its first brush with the Navy. It was time for the sample testing along the reef, and Hughes went out in the small motor launch, Griff ready with diving equipment. They took four or five samples at selected sites, and then Hughes pointed the course farther north to a section where the reef broke, near the promontory where the carcass of the monster had lodged.

  Griff shrugged on the tank, made sure of the easily released clasp of his weight belt, the presence of his wrist depth gauge and watch.

  "Get a sea fan," Hughes told him, "and water samples. Three or four small plants ought to be enough. Then we'll take another about a mile or so to the north—"

  But as Griff started to descend the small diving lad­der, they were both startled by the ear-piercing shriek of a siren. On a course headed straight for them was a needle-slim cutter, slicing through the waves at a daz­zling speed. With masterly seamanship it pulled up in a circle about the project launch while one of the three men on board called across, "This is closed territory. Do your fishing down-reef!"

  Hughes stood up, and there was a snap to his voice as he answered, "No closed territory for our work. We're from the Gunston laboratory—Project 914-5. Now get out before you stir up the stuff we're collecting—"

  "Don't know anything about your project," the other replied brusquely. "You get out and stay out—this is a security order. Can't you get that through your thick heads? We have to run you blasted fishermen off the lot every time we turn around—"

  "We represent Project 914-5," Hughes repeated. "Our orders are to prospect this reef. We'll take this up with your superiors—"

  "Do!" The other sounded as if he hoped that they would. "We have our orders—they're to keep all un­authorized persons out of this area. Now get going, and make it snappy!"

  Griff climbed back in the outboard and took off the air tank. Hughes raised their anchor line. And the Navy launch continued to circle them, escorting them out of the disputed area of lagoon. Hughes headed back to the lab anchorage, making no comment to Griff, but every line of his stiff shoulders, his set mouth, suggested his inward seething. In Hughes's estimation the project was second to nothing in importance, and Griff guessed that he now lived to make that clear to the interlopers from the base.

  He left Griff to gather the equipment and headed up the cliff path at a pace which seemed excessive in that heat. Griff wondered what his father's reaction would be. But he was not to learn then. Both his elders re­mained in the laboratory, and he ate alone, turning his attention to the collection of shells he had been driven by boredom into assembling.

  Afterwards he wandered out to the surf pool. A carpet of empty crab shells in one corner testified to the skill and appetite of the newest settler therein. And he watched the octopus feast now, marveling at the neat­ness and dispatch with which the cephalopod acted. A crab snared in the tentacles was turned bottom-side-up as one might hold a soup plate, while the miniature par­rot beak of the captor pierced the soft lower shell and the file tongue inside that beak rasped out the contents. The patch of bitter aloe blossoms by the path had at­tracted a flock of hummingbirds, and they sipped and hung fearlessly almost within Griff's grasp. It was close to sunset, and the sun was a vivid cherry-red.

  There was a flurry in the pool as the octopus made another kill. But it seemed to the spectator that those black beads of eyes were now staring up over the body of its victim, straight at him—as if the new master of the pool had some plan of its own—some plan into which it was fitting the man who could crush it in one hand. As that fantasy crossed Griff's mind, he shivered. The spray borne inland by the wind, flicking his shirt and salty on his lips, was for the moment icy cold.

  "Hello there!"

  Griff got to his feet. There was a tall man on the cliff path, a man now outlined by the odd flash of greenish light that was the island phenomenon at the setting of each sun. His white shirt and slacks were vivid, but his face under the shadow of an officer's cap was partly concealed.

  "Dr. Gunston here?"

  "He's in the lab."

  "Tell him Breck Murray's here—Commander Breck Murray. I'm from the base—"

  "So you finally got here, did you?" That was Hughes. He was standing belligerently on the path leading to the building.

  "What's your explanation for this afternoon?"

  "Dr. Gunston—?"

  "I'm Hughes, his assistant. Dr. Gunston is occupied."

  The commander made as if to turn. "When he's free, he can find me at the base—" His retort was pointed.

  "Who's there?" Dr. Gunston called through the dusk. The sky above them was now gray, deepening to the purple of the quick-falling tropical twilight. "Command­er Murray? Your people said you would get in touch with me. Come in, sir—"

  Hughes stepped aside, and Griff knew he was not pleased. But both of them followed the other two men inside.

  IV

  COOPERATION-ENFORCED

  the harsh light of electricity, which always seemed alien to the houses of San Isadore, drew lines in Dr. Gunston's face, pointed up Hughes's irritated twist of mouth, highlighted the creases about the outer corners of Commander Murray's eyes. His peaked cap had been thrown on the small table; his long legs were stretched out before him. He should have been at ease, but he wasn't as he turned his tall glass with nervous little jerks. However, as he looked at the doctor, his expres­sion was faintly amused.

  "I assure you, Dr. Gunston, that we were not landed here just to provide difficulties for Project 914-5. In fact, three months ago I was peacefully engaged in eras­ing a few hills preparatory to building a dam out in Arizona. Then they grabbed me back by my reserve commission, gave me a briefing, and sent me down here to do my worst. You don't argue with top brass—" For a second his amusement flickered out, and a hint of other emotion took its place. "Understand that you haven't spent much time back in the States recently, Doctor." He took a sip from his glass.

  In contrast to the commander's controlled tension, Dr. Gunston appeared as relaxed as one of the islanders.

  "I've been in the East Indies for the past five years. And I gather that while we were not informed about you, you know a great deal about us—?"

  "Security can probably tell you right now how many grains of sand lie down on the beach!" That exploded from Murray with a force that appeared to have nothing to do with the subject. "Well, Doctor, while you were back of beyond, a lot of things have changed stateside. The race is nearing the finish line." He stared ahead of him at the wall, and the muscles about his mouth tight­ened visibly. "We're running it too fine, much too fine-"

  "War?" It was Hughes who asked that. Dr. Gunston frowned and shifted uneasily in his chair.

  "We can pray not. But it's getting close—too close!"

  "They're meeting in Geneva tomorrow—the Peace Conference—" Dr. Gunston's protest was eager.

  Murray laughed, and there was no amusement in that sound. "Ho
w many peace conferences have they had in the past twenty years? And has any one of them led to as much as laying down a single gun? Though guns are outmoded now!"

  "This base—you seem to be working against time here—"

  Murray put down his glass, and the click of the crystal against the wood of the table was unduly loud.

  "I think our time is running out fast, gentlemen, very fast. But there is nothing we here can do to alter that. We have our own problems." He achieved the light touch once more. "As you have pointed out, it is neces­sary to your work that you have samples from along the reef, even in the now restricted area. Gentlemen, as far as I am concerned you can cart off the whole blasted reef piece by piece if you wish. But"—he was openly smiling now—"very unfortunately I do not have the final word on the subject!"

  Hughes bristled. "I understood that you commanded here—"

  "One would think so, wouldn't one?" the question was sardonic. "But in the new setup, we have our little problems, too. And a major one is Lieutenant Charles Holmes—our security officer. Security has declared Base Hush-Hush to be strictly that, and I can do nothing about it. You've already protested to your high brass—" He paused and glanced at Dr. Gunston, who nodded. "Well, now it depends upon just how much weight they can throw about in certain circles stateside. I'll send in my report, but I must be frank with you. My word against Holmes's orders doesn't weigh at all. However, there is one thing I can do—ask you to give Mr. Holmes a demonstration—"

  "Demonstration?" Hughes was wary.

  "Who does most of your diving?"

  Dr. Gunston answered that. "Griff does the ordinary work. Hughes and I take over if we have to see some­thing for ourselves."

  "Suppose I detail Holmes and Bert Casey—he's one of my own men, an underwater demolition expert I brought on this job—to go out with you tomorrow and watch how you do your stuff? Then Holmes will see for himself that you are working on a project, that you are experts. I'll make him file a report of all this to his de­partment. It may help—you can never tell."

  Surprisingly Hughes laughed. "And it gets Holmes out of your hair for a while—"

  Murray grinned. "I won't answer that. But is it a deal?"

  Dr. Gunston answered. "We're merely doing some routine sampling; it may be dull. And your men aren't to dive unless we say so—indiscriminate exploration might upset our observations—"

  "I don't think you could get Holmes under water. And Casey'll abide by your orders. Shall I send them around? Believe me, Dr. Gunston, if you want to make a stiff protest through channels, I'll not be upset. This is not my decree. By the way—" he got to his feet and picked up his cap, but still lingered—"know anything about the country inland? I have the official charts and the material the briefing crowd assembled, and if what they say is true, this place is a weirdie. Any of the na­tive sons willing to help us explore?"

  "You'd better contact Dobrey Le Marr on that. If there is anything to know about the interior, he has it filed away in his brain."

  "Native?"

  Hughes snorted. "Very much so. He's the local witch doctor!"

  A shade of annoyance shadowed Dr. Gunston's face. "Le Marr is an unusual man. Yes, he's a native and practices what the islanders recognize as medicine—of a sort. But if you can establish a friendly relationship with him, you might discover it to be to your advantage, Commander."

  When Murray had gone, Dr. Gunston continued to sit, sucking at his empty pipe. Hughes broke the si­lence first.

  "So we put on a show for the Navy?"

  The doctor smiled wryly. "Murray's laid his cards on the table. I don't think he likes his orders any better than we do. Yes, we'll give a demonstration for the Navy. But not just our usual job. How about it, Griff?" For the first time he spoke to his son. "You've been haunting the reef. Where can we really show them some­thing of interest?"

  "According to Chris there's a stretch of reef to the northeast where there's an octopi town—big collection of them. I was going to take a look at it anyway. Think that might be impressive enough?"

  "Octopi—" Dr. Gunston considered the point. "You haven't dived there before?"

  "I haven't. Chris did—straight skin diving without a lung. Take it with a lung and we might get some good camera shots—"

  "All right. Make it this octopi paradise and do just that—take the movie camera—"

  They made ready in the early morning of the next day, taking diving apparatus enough for three in case their guests decided to share in the exploration. And the Navy cutter was on time, coming smartly in to drop two passengers. The shorter of the two cast a knowing eye over the equipment Griff was carefully stowing in place and, without a word, stepped down into the motorboat to help him with the ease of long familiarity with such gear.

  "Bert Casey," he introduced himself casually. "You've got some good stuff here." He handled the tanks with open approval.

  "All the latest. I'm Griff Gunston."

  "Pleased to meet you, kid. You the regular diver?"

  "I do a lot of it. My father's the real expert, though."

  "Don't see any harpoon or spear gun—"

  "We don't hunt," Griff returned a little shortly. He liked to stalk with a camera only.

  "Nothing you have to worry about? No sharks?"

  Griff laughed. "That shark boogie has been pretty well exploded. As long as you aren't killing fish and there's no blood in the water, you're safe nine times out of ten. Barracuda's worse. But if you really want to make trouble for yourself, plant a foot on a sea urchin—or get tangled up with a Portuguese man-of-war! For the rest—" he patted the knife in his sheath, its cork hilt in easy reach of his hand—"moray's bad, but you have to tickle them up before they jump you—keep an eye out for their heads sticking out of rock crevices—"

  Hughes came down the wharf carrying the underseas camera, paused at the sight of the other officer standing there, and then nodded stiffly.

  "Lieutenant Holmes," the other introduced himself. "You are in charge?"

  A smothered noise came from Casey. It sounded sus­piciously like a snort. The lieutenant, it was very ap­parent, desired neither to win friends nor to influence people.

  As abruptly, Hughes replied, "I'm Frank Hughes, as­sistant to Dr. Gunston. This is his son, Griffith."

  The lieutenant favored Griff with a disapproving stare, and he realized that in his trunks and burned brown by the sun, Holmes had taken him to be an islander and so not worthy of notice.

  "All ready, Griff." Hughes passed the officer to hand down the camera, and his voice was far more cordial than usual. In face of a common enemy Hughes was closing ranks. He took his place at the motor, leaving Holmes to get aboard by himself, and they headed out into the bay without another word.

  Casey looked about him with frank curiosity. "Lots of color," he commented to Griff.

  "You've dived here?"

  "Not yet." Casey pushed the cap with its Lieutenant, J.G., insignia to the back of his bullet head. "I've been down mostly in the north. During World War II I was a demolition man. That's how I met the skipper—he was running a show in Alaska. But that was frogman stuff, and we wore suits—"

  "I understand that your project is connected with the collection of marine specimens." Holmes cut across Casey's reminiscences.

  "Collecting and observation." Hughes was curt. "What bearings, Griff?"

  Griff squinted back at the curve of the shore. "Clear around the bay, Frank. It's near Finger Cay—opposite the mangrove swamp—from what Chris said."

  White water boiled in their wake. A line of flamingos etched across the sky, and they passed one of the weed-grown conch boats wallowing along, exchanging hails with the island fisherman.

  "What do they get out here?" Casey wanted to know.

  "Conch. Sometimes a pearl or two," Griff answered.

  "No kidding! I didn't know that they did pearl-diving here—"

  "Conch pearls. They're supposed to be turned in to the commissioner when they're
found. But precious few are. There's not much market for them—they're colored, apricot, lavender, rose, and mostly baroque. But they are pretty. And conch meat, dried, sells over at Santa Maria. It's used to make fertilizer, I believe."

  "Deep water out there?" Casey pointed to the darker hue beyond the reef.

  "Dips to two thousand fathoms or more." Hughes an­swered that. "We haven't tried there; our kind of div­ing doesn't reach such distances."

  "There's Finger!" Griff hailed their landmark. The tiny island, hardly above sea level, was unique. There were three wind-worn palms on one end, but the ma­jor portion of the land mass supported a single tree-only, what a tree! A mangrove that had several hun­dred separate trunks, stemming from some thousands of kneed roots on a platform well above the wash of intruding waves. And, above, the branches and leaves had entangled in a canopy of dark green leaves, cov­ering well over an acre. Bobbing in the water at the shore line were drifting coconuts and another spear-pointed mangrove seed trying for a rooting, to increase the holding of land over sea.