My Name is Legion

by Roger Zelazny

  In view of my somewhat restricted area for activity since my arrival, I said, Alluvial. It wasn't a pipe, I'll tell you that.

  He nodded.

  Have you any idea as to the extent of your find? he inquired.

  Not really, I said. There are more where these came from. But as to the full extent of their distribution, it is simply too early for me to tell.

  Most interesting, he said. You know, it jibes with a notion I've long held concerning this part of the world. You wouldn't care to give me just a very rough, general sort of idea as to what part of the ocean these are from, would you?

  Sorry, I said. You understand.

  Of course, of course. Still, how far would you go from here for an afternoon's adventure?

  I suppose that would depend on my own notions on this matter, as well as available air transportation, or hydrofoil.

  He smiled.

  All right I won't press you any further. But I'm curious. Now that you've got them, what are you going to do with them?

  I took my time lighting a cigarette. Get as much as I can for them and keep my mouth shut, of course, I finally said. He nodded.

  Where are you going to sell them? Stop passersby on the street?

  I don't know, I said. I haven't thought that much about it yet. I suppose I could take them to some jeweler's.

  He chuckled.

  If you're very lucky. If you're lucky, you'll find one willing to take a chance. If you're very lucky, you'll find one willing to take a chance and also willing to give you a fair deal. I assume you would like to avoid the creation of a record, the crediting of extra income to your master account? Taxable income?

  As I said, I would like to get as much as I can for them.

  Naturally. Then am I correct in assuming that your purpose in coming to me over this might somehow be connected with this desire?

  In a word, yes.

  I see.

  Well? .

  I am thinking. To act as your agent for something like this would not be without risks of its own.

  How much?

  No, I'm sorry, he said then. It is probably too risky altogether. After all, it is illegal. I'm a married man. I could jeopardize my job by getting involved in something like this. If it had come along perhaps fifteen years ago ... well, who knows? I'm sorry. Your secret is safe. Don't worry about that. But I would just as soon not be party to the enterprise.

  You are certain of that?

  Positive. The return would have to be quite high for me even to consider it.

  Twenty percent? I said.

  Out of the question.

  Maybe twenty-five ... I said.

  No. Twice that would scarcely ...

  Fifty percent? You're crazy!

  Please! Keep your voice down! You want the whole station to hear?

  Sorry. But that's out of the question. Fifty percent! No. If I can find a willing jeweler. I'll still be better off, even if he does cheat me. Twenty-five percent is tops. Absolutely.

  I am afraid I can't see it.

  Well, I wish you would think about it anyway.

  He chuckled.

  It will be difficult to forget, he said.

  Okay ... Well, I'll be seeing you.

  Tomorrow, at six.

  Right. Good night.

  Good night.

  So I began walking back, reflecting on the possible permutations of people and events leading up to and culminating in the killings. But there were still too many gaps in the picture for me to come up with anything I really liked.

  I was most troubled, of course, by the fact that there was someone who was aware that my presence actually represented more than its outward appearance. I searched my mind again and again for possible giveaways, but I did not see where I could have slipped up. I had been quite careful about my credentials. I had encountered no one with whom I had ever been familiar. I began wishing, not for the first time, nor, I was certain, the last, that I had not accepted this case.

  I considered then what I ought to be about next, to push the investigation further along. I supposed I could inspect the place where the bodies had been found. I had not been there yet, mainly because I doubted there would be anything to be learned from it. Still ... I put that on my list for the morrow, if I could hit it before dinner with the Cashels. If not, then the next day.

  I wondered whether I had done the expected thing as to the stones. I felt that I had, and I was very curious as to the repercussions, almost, but not quite, as curious as I was concerning the motives of my informant. Nothing I could do at the moment, though, but wait.

  Thinking these thoughts, I heard myself hailed by Andy Deems from where he stood near his cottage, smoking his pipe. He wondered whether I was interested in a game of chess. I wasn't, really, but I went over anyhow. I lost two and managed to stalemate him on the third one. I felt very uncomfortable around him, but at least I didn't have to say much.

  The following day. Deems and Carter were sent over to Station Six, while Paul and I took our turn at miscellaneous duties as assigned in and about the equipment shed. Another time-marking episode, I had decided, till I got to my real work once more.

  And so it went, until late afternoon, when I was beginning to wonder what sort of cook Linda Cashel might be. Barthelme hurried into the shed.

  Get your gear together, he said. We have to go out.

  What's the matter? Paul asked him.

  Something is wrong with one of the sonic generators.

  What?

  He shook his head.

  No way of telling till we've brought it back and checked it over. All I know is that a light's gone out on the board. I want to pull the whole package and put in a new unit. No attempt at underwater repair work on this one, even if it looks simple. I want to go over it very carefully in the lab.

  Where is it situated?

  To the southwest, at about twenty-eight fathoms. Go look at the board if you want. It will give you a better picture ... But don't take too long, all right? There are a lot of things to load.

  Right. Which vessel?

  The Mary Ann.

  The new deepwater rules ... ?

  Yes. Load everything. I'm going down to tell Davies now. Then I'm going to change clothes. I'll be back shortly.''

  See you then.

  Yes.

  He moved away and we set to work, getting our own gear, the shark cage, and the submersible decompression chamber ready to go. We made two trips to the Mary Ann, then took a break to go see the map, learned nothing new from it, and returned for the DC, which was stored on a cart.

  Ever been down in that area before? I asked Paul as we began maneuvering the cart along.

  Yes, he said. Some time back. It is fairly near to the edge of a submarine canyon. That's why there's a big bite out of that comer of the 'wall.' It plunges pretty sharply right beyond that section of the perimeter.

  Will that complicate things any?

  It shouldn't, he said, unless a whole section broke loose and carried everything down with it. Then we would have to anchor and hook up a whole new housing, instead of Just switching the guts. That would take us somewhat longer. I'll review the work with you on the unit we'll be taking out.

  Good.

  Barthelme rejoined us about then. He and Davies, who would also be going along, helped get everything stowed. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way.

  The winch was rigged to lower both the shark cage and the decompression chamber tandem-fashion and in that order. Paul and I rode the DC down, keeping the extra lines from tangling, playing our lights about as we descended. While I had never had to use one, I had always found the presence of a decompression chamber on the bottom a thing of comfort, despite its slightly ominous function for the sort of work we would be doing. It was good to know that if I were injured I could get inside, signal, and be hauled directly to the top with no delays for decompression stops, the bottomside pressure being maintained in the bell's chamber on the way up and gradually ret
urned to normal as they rushed me back to the dispensary. A heartening thought for all that, time-wise.

  Bottomside, we positioned the cage near to the unit, which we found still standing, exhibiting no visible signs of damage, and we halted the illuminated DC a couple of fathoms up and off to the east We were indeed on the edge of a steep cliff. While Paul inspected the sonic-broadcast unit, I moved nearer and flashed my light downward.

  Jutting rocky pinnacles and twisting crevices ... Reflexively, I drew back from the edge of the abyss, turned my light away. I returned and watched Paul work.

  It took him ten minutes to disconnect the thing and free it from its mountings. Another five saw it secured and rising on its lines.

  A bit later, in the periodic sweep of our beams, we caught sight of the replacement unit on the way down. We swam up to meet it and guided it into place. This time, Paul let me go to work. I indicated by pantomime that I wanted to, and he wrote on his slate: GO AHEAD SEE WHAT YOU REMEMB.

  So I fastened it in place, and this took me about twenty minutes. He inspected the work, patted me on the shoulder, and nodded. I moved to connect the systems then, but stopped to glance at him. He indicated that I should go ahead.

  This only took a few minutes, and when I was finished I had a certain feeling of satisfaction thinking of that light going on again on the big board back at the station. I turned around to indicate that the job was done and that he could come admire my work.

  But he was no longer with me.

  For a few seconds I froze, startled. Then I began shining my light around.

  No, no. Nothing ...

  Growing somewhat panicky, I moved to the edge of the abyss and swept downward with the light Luckily, he was not moving very quickly. But he was headed downward, all right. I took off after him as fast as I could move.

  Nitrogen narcosis, deepwater sickness, or rapture of the deep does not usually hit at depths above 200 feet. Still, we were at around 170, so it was possible, and he certainly seemed to be showing the symptoms.

  Worrying then about my own state of mind, I reached him, caught him by the shoulder, turned him back. Through his mask, I could see the blissful expression that he wore.

  Taking him by the arm and shoulder, I began drawing him back with me. For several seconds he accompanied me, offering no resistance.

  Then he began to struggle. I had anticipated this possibility and shifted my grips into a kansetsu-waza position, but quickly discovered that judo is not exactly the same underwater, especially when a tank valve is too near your mask or mouthpiece. I had to keep twisting my head away, pulling it back. For a time, it became impossible to guide him that way. But I refused to relinquish my grip. If I could just hold him a while longer and did not get hit by narcosis myself, I felt that I had the advantage. After all, his coordination was affected as well as his thinking.

  I finally got him to the DC, a wild antenna of bubbles rising from his air hose by then, as he had spat out his mouthpiece and there was no way I could get it back in without letting go. Still, it might have been one of the reasons he became easier to manage near the end there. I don't know.

  I stuffed him into the lighted chamber, followed, and got the hatch sealed. He gave up about then and began to sag. I was able to get his mouthpiece back into place, and then I threw the pull-up switch.

  We began to rise almost immediately, and I wondered what Barthelme and Davies were thinking at that moment.

  They got us up very quickly. I felt a slight jarring as we came to rest on the deck. Shortly afterward, the water was pumped out. I don't know what the pressure was up to, or down to, at that point, but the communicator came alive and I heard Bartheleme's voice as I was getting out of my gear.

  We'll be moving in a few minutes, he said. What happened, and how serious is it?

  Nitrogen narcosis, I'd say. Paul just started swimming out and down, struggled with me when I tried to bring him back.

  Were either of you hurt?

  No, I don't think so. He lost his mouthpiece for a little while. But he's breathing okay now.

  What shape is he in otherwise?

  Still rapturing, I'd guess. Sort of collapsed, drunken look to him.

  All right. You might as well get out of your gear ...

  I already have.

  ... and get him out of his.

  Just starting.

  We'll radio ahead and have a medic hop out and be waiting at the dispensary, just in case. Sounds like what he really needs most is the chamber, though. So we'll just take it slow and easy in getting him back to surface pressure. I'm making an adjustment right now ... Do you have any rapture symptoms yourself?

  No.

  Okay, there. We'll leave it at this setting for a little while ... Is there anything else I should know?

  Not that I can think of.

  All right, then. I'm going forward to radio for the doctor. If you want me for anything, whistle into the speaker. That should carry.

  Right.

  I got Paul out of his rig then, hoping he would start coming around soon. But he didn't. He just sat there, slouched, mumbling, eyes open but glassy. Every now and then he smiled.

  I wondered what was wrong. If the pressure was indeed diminished, the recovery should have been almost instantaneous. Probably needed one more step, I decided.

  But could he have been down much earlier that morning, before the workday began?

  Decompression time does depend upon the total amount of time spent underwater during about a twelve-hour period, since you are dealing with the total amount of nitrogen absorbed by the tissues, particularly the brain and spinal cord. Might he have been down looking for something, say, in the mud, at the base of a broken mast, amid the wreckage of a certain old vessel? Perhaps down for a long while, searching carefully, worried? Knowing that he had shore duty today, that there should be no more nitrogen accumulated during this workday? Then, suddenly, an emergency, and he has to chance it. He takes it as easy as possible, even encouraging the new man to go ahead and finish up the job. Resting, trying to hang on ...

  It could well be. In which case, Barthelme's decompression values were off. The time is measured from surface to surface, and the depth is reckoned from the deepest point reached in any of the dives. Hell, for all I knew he might have visited several caches spotted at various points along the ocean's bottom.

  I leaned over, studied the pupils of his eyes, catching his attention, it seemed, in the process. How long were you down this morning? I asked.

  He smiled. Wasn't, he said.

  It doesn't matter what was involved. It's your health we're worried about now ... How long were you down? What depths?

  He shook his head. Wasn't, he said.

  Damn it! I know you were! It was the old wreck, wasn't it? That's maybe twenty fathoms. So how long? An hour? Were you down more than once?

  Wasn't down! he insisted. Really, Mike! I wasn't.

  I sighed, leaned back. Maybe, possibly, he was telling the truth. People are all different inside. Perhaps his physiology was playing some other variation of the game than the one I had guessed at It had been so neat, though. For a moment, I had seen him as the supplier of the stones and Frank as the fence. Then I had gone to Frank with my find, Frank had mentioned this development to him, and Paul, worried, had gone off while the station slept to make certain that things were still where they were supposed to be. His tissues accumulated a lot of nitrogen during his frantic searching, and then this happened. It certainly struck me as logical. But if it were me, I would have admitted to having been down. I could always come up with some lie as to the reason later.

  Don't you remember? I tried again.

  He commenced an uninspired stream of curses, but lost his enthusiasm before a dozen or so syllables. His voice trailed off, then, Why don't you b'lieve me, Mike? I wasn't down ...

  All right, I believe you, I said. It's okay. Just take it easy.

  He reached out and took hold of my arm.

  It'
s all beautiful, he said.

  Yeah.

  Everything is just, like it's never been before.

  What did you take? I asked him.

  ... Beautiful.

  What are you on? I insisted.

  You know I never take any, he finally said.

  Then what's causing it, whatever it is? Do you know?

  Damn fine ... he said.

  Something went wrong on the bottom. What was it?

  I don't know! Go away! Don't bring it back ... This is how it should be. Always ... Not that crap you take ... Started all the trouble ...

  I'm sorry, I said.

  ... That started it.

  I know. I'm sorry. Spoiled things, I ventured. Shouldn't have.

  ... Talked, he said. ... Blew it.

  I know. I'm sorry. But we got him, I tried.

  Yeah, he said. Then, Oh, my God!

  The diamonds. The diamonds are safe, I suggested quickly.

  Got him ... Oh, my God! I'm sorry!

  Forget it. Tell me what you see, I said, to get his mind back where I wanted it.

  The diamonds ... he said.

  He launched into a long, disjointed monologue. I listened. Every now and then I said something to return him to the theme of the diamonds, and I kept throwing out Rudy Myers' name. His responses remained fragmentary, but the picture did begin to emerge.