by Robb White
"Skip it," Pete said. "Now listen, flyweight, stop trying to push me around. If I had found the treasure, this ship would be full of it right now, wouldn't it? But—there isn't a dime's worth of stuff aboard her. Where does that leave you? Right where you always were, just a little behind the guy out in front. You won't do any disappearing act with me, Weber, because you know that I can come a lot closer to finding her than you can. And you know that this third-rate Nazi bully-boy business is all a bluff."
Weber suddenly swung his hand and hit Pete across the eyes. Involuntary tears rolled out on Pete's cheeks, and he wiped them away with the tips of his fingers. Mike sat up in the bunk, swinging his feet down to the floor. The man in the doorway stiffened. The other one got up from the gear locker.
"Are you sure that it is a bluff, my friend?" Weber asked. He took out a big white handkerchief and wiped his hand.
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Pete let his breath whistle out slowly between his teeth. "Yeah. It's a bluff," he said.
Weber hit him again. Mike jumped from the bunk, but the man grabbed him by the shirt and threw him back again. As Mike came boiling up, Pete said, **Keep your shirt on, Mike, and sit still." Then Pete turned to Weber. **Okay, knock that off or I'll stop explaining some simple facts to you."
"That was nothing," Weber said. "Depends on who's taking it. Personally I'm tired of being slapped by that bony thing you call a hand."
Weber stepped close again. Mike looked at the two guards and braced himself to leap.
"I want one thing, Mr. Martin. I will get it. It may mean that I will have to put you through great pain, perhaps even maim and cripple you. But I will get the information."
"Aw, shut up," Pete said. "Try listening. . . . As I explained before—if I knew where it was I would have, by now, some of the stuff aboard this ship. Since I haven't got any of it, it should be apparent even to you that I haven't found it. But I know her location better than you do, Weber. I can come closer to her than you can. . . . Do you want me to draw you a picture?"
"Please go on with your pretty tale," Weber said.
"Okay. You and your hoodlums start putting
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the pressure on me. I can't take it. I give you a latitude and longitude. You follow?"
"My ideas exactly, my friend."
"I thought so," Pete said. "But you keep leaving out stuff. For instance, you beat me up until you break it out of me. How will you know that I gave you the right numbers? This is a big area around here."
"Don't worry, my friend, you will."
"Maybe so. I understand that you Nazis got pretty good at torturing people. But—how will you know? While you search mile after mile of bottom, how will you know that I gave you the right numbers? One, two, three, four, five, six . . ."
"I warn you, Martin. My patience is ended."
"Forget it. . . . So there's no point in breaking me all up because you'll never know whether I told the truth."
"There is always the little monster," Weber said. "You two will be separated but both will receive a certain amount of—what shall we call it?—the treatment. Both will talk."
"You can do better than that," Pete said. "That's a street urchin I picked up in Miami. Does he look like he can tell north from south, latitude from longitude? Does he just automatically remember ten or twelve numbers in an exact sequence? Just for the fun of it? . .. You can count him out. Stay up in the league with me."
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"You are most persuasive," Weber said.
"Thanks. In other words, a great hght is beginning to dawn on you, isn't it, pal? Now if Vd found the Spanish ship, it would all be different, wouldn't it? All you'd have to do would be to hammer on me until I talked. And you could check my talk within an hour and, if you found nothing, you could come back and hammer some more. Until at last you did get the right answer. But you see, Weber, there isn't any treasure aboard here, there isn't any trace of evidence that I've found her. So there you are again, up solid against that old 'How do you know?'"
Something inside Pete had been lying still, waiting. It was almost as though he had been holding his breath. Now it began to wake up. As he watched Weber walk slowly over and lean against the galley bulkhead, Pete could feel the triumph rising steadily inside him.
The battle was over. And Pete had won. He had planted a seed of doubt in Weber's mind, and it had grown and blossomed into a tangle of briers.
Pete glanced for an instant at Mike and almost imperceptibly winked an eye. Mike let a shadow of a smile flit across his lips.
Pete turned back to Weber. "So, good-by, Weber."
Weber had been leaning with one arm resting on a shelf. As he straightened, he looked at the
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sleeve of his white shirt, pulhng it around on his arm.
There was a smudge of rust on the white silk.
Weber pulled out the handkerchief and began to scrub at the smudge. When he had cleaned it off as much as he could, he turned, frowning, and looked at the shelf.
Pete followed his glance.
Lying on the shelf was the deadeye, covered now with rust so that it looked fuzzy and soft.
A silence as solid as stone filled the cabin and seemed to hold the people in it motionless.
Then Weber moved. Pete saw his bony fingers reaching, saw the white silk shirt sleeve dangling gracefully from the skinny arm. With two fingers, as though the thing was dirty, Weber lifted the deadeye by the rusted metal shank and held it, block downward, so that the wooden insert with the three shroud eyes looked like the upside-down face of a monkey.
Weber spoke in a low voice in German. The man at the door turned and went up the companion ladder. No one else moved.
The man came back in a Kttle while. He walked to the man sitting on the gear locker and held out to him a Walther P-38 pistol. Then he handed to Weber a small coil of thin rope. Finished, he walked back to the door, spun around, and stood squarely in it, a Steyr submachine gun cradled in one crooked elbow.
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"Looks like the makin's of a party," Mike said. His voice was faintly husky, and Pete looked over at him.
Weber pointed toward the bunk. "Sit down, Mr. Martin."
Pete walked slowly over and sat down beside Mike.
Weber held up the deadeye, looked at it, and put it back on the shelf. "I am almost sorry that you overlooked this one so small detail," he said. "Frankly, until it stained my sleeve, you were in control of the situation. Now—I am."
"So I've found her," Pete said. "What makes you think I'll tell you where it is?" He knew that
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that was weak. But his triumph was gone; now he was desperate.
Weber said something in German. The man put the P-38 down, took the coil of small rope from Weber, and motioned for Pete to hold out his hands, wrists together.
"Tell him to fly a kite with that rope," Mike said.
Pete shook his head. "We've got to go through this, Mike. Might as well get it over before sup-pertime."
The man bound Pete's wrists very tightly but not painfully. As he turned to bind Mike's, Pete saw that the rope he had used was a loosely laid up affair, gray in color, and soft in texture. Pete had never seen rope like it.
Finished with Mike, the man walked out into the galley and came back with a deep pan full of water.
Pete remembered then and looked up at Weber. "This is a Jap idea," Pete said.
On Guam, Pete had seen Americans who had been Japanese prisoners of war, who had had the rope-and-water treatment. Some of them had had the rope tied around their heads, running between their teeth. When the rope had been soaked with water and drawn tight by it, the men's cheeks had been split open back to the jawbone.
Weber nodded. "Yes, an idea of our allies. I saw men with their hands paralyzed. Some were
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even cut off by the littl
e ropes. The Japanese are very clever people."
"What's left of 'em," Pete said. *'And I saw Nazis down on their knees begging for mercy, Weber."
"Did you?" Weber asked. Then he slapped Pete, slowly, five times.
When Pete was sure he could talk, he turned to Mike. "Remember those two simple things, Mike," he said.
"Brother, that's all I'm doing," Mike said.
Pete grinned and nodded.
Pete's mind swam out of a haze which seemed to be the color of a thin mixture of yellow mustard and red catsup. Like a man drowning, he fought to keep his mind from sinking back into the haze.
Two simple things. No, for him there were three simple things. What were they? Two simple things. What? He had forgotten them.
The haze came rolling in like a fog, and he fought harder and harder. The pain coming up from the thin, wet rope was constant, and it had been going on so long now that it had killed every other feeling in his body and had pushed everything away until he was full of pain everywhere. The smashing blows which came occasionally seemed, for a moment, to relieve the pain of the
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rope but after them the haze would darken, the pink color growing steadily deeper.
How many things did he have to remember? Two? Three? Pete fought against a new feeling— nausea. Suddenly he remembered one of the things. "I do not know where the ship is." He did not know whether he said it out loud or not.
That was one of the things. **I do not know where the ship is." But there were some more things. Mike had only two things to remember but he, Pete Martin, had three things.
Oh. He must not let his mind go adrift. He must keep this haze away. There was a feeling in him of sleepiness. Not a good feeling. It was a heavy, drugged feeling. He must go to sleep. That was the second thing. He must not go to sleep.
What was the other thing? The third thing? There was a voice somewhere saying over and over again, "Where is it?" Each time the voice said that something would hit him and there would be an explosion inside the haze. It was sort of like lightning flashing behind high, dark clouds. He kept waiting to hear the voice say, "Where is it?" and that made it a lot harder to think about that third thing.
Then he remembered. He had to know what
time it was. That was all. Just what time it was.
Pete raised his head a little and opened his eyes.
He was surprised to find that he was lying down
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on the floor, his knees drawn up, his manacled hands up around his head.
Ail he could see were two vague white blotches which must be Weber's legs, and then shadowy things.
When had he last heard the clock?
It had been a long time ago, he remembered. Five bells. Five bells in the afternoon watch. The navigator would be getting ready to take the 1600 line; the engineering officer would be pulling burners for the evening watch. On deck the gunnery officer would be squaring away after GQ. It was time for Java on the bridge. But it was a long time before the boatswain would begin the shrill piping and the loudspeaker would grumble, "Reee-lieeeeve the watch."
But what time was it now? How long had this pain lasted? Had six bells struck?
Pete could not remember. He could not hold back the haze any longer. It was sliding in over him so fast, so fast. He was disappearing into it, drowning in it. He couldn't think any more— one thing, two things, three . . .
After what seemed an eternity of slow time Pete struggled up again from the haze. The explosions of pain had stopped, and there was only the stufiF coming up from the rope. The voice had stopped saying, "Where is it?"
What had happened? Pete wondered. Was Weber gone? Had he told him? In the haze, while
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he was down under it, had he told him? Pete struggled to lift his head, to open his eyes.
Then he heard a voice. A very clear, familiar voice close to him.
"Hey, you, you punk," the voice said.
It was Mike. Pete slumped back, listening.
Then Mike said, "Yeah, you, Weber. You're not getting anywhere with him. Why don't you pick on somebody your size? Why don't you see if you can make me tell you? Because I know where she is. I know all about it. I memorized the position of it."
Then Weber said, "Oh, did you?"
The haze was slowly drifting away. It seemed to Pete that it wasn't so thick, so dark and red.
"Sure," Mike said.
"Then where is it?"
Pete heard the familiar words and waited for the explosion to burst dirtily inside the haze. But nothing happened.
"Yak, yak," Mike said.
Something white moved past Pete's face, and then Weber said, "Do you want some of what he had?"
"Yeh, try some on—just for size," Mike said.
Pete heard the blow, heard Mike grunt. He tried to move and got his arms down a little. But when he pressed them against the floor, the pain almost crushed him. He tried then to say some-
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thing, but his tongue was swollen and clotted inside his mouth.
"That was all right," Mike said. "You don't mind if I spit teeth on the deck, do you, jug-head?"
"You're wasting time, hurting yourself," Weber said. "Tell me where it is."
"I could remember better without this rope," Mike said. "You know, there're a lot of numbers and stuff."
Weber said something in German and then asked, "Feel better?"
"Much. You ought to try that sometime."
''Where is it?"
"In the itty bitty poo, with three little fishes," Mike said.
The haze was dim now and far away. Pete could see all the way across the cabin floor. He could see the spread-apart leg& of the man with the burp gun, see the gear locker, the galley door. His mind was clearing fast.
He had been so close to going under—until Mike had drawn Weber away.
Mike was taking the beating now. Pete could hear it. Then something heavy and dead limp fell down on him and rolled slowly off. Pete forced his eyes open again and saw one arm, brown and lined with muscles, and then a grotesquely swollen hand. The whole hand was a deep purple color.
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Then the clock in the companionway struck. Pete counted the tinkUng bell. .. . Three-four . .. five-six. Pete stopped at six but the bell rang once more.
Seven bells? Pete forced himself to hear them again like an echo. Three-four . . . five-six . . . seven.
I must have missed six bells, Pete thought. They must have come when the haze was down on me.
Pete felt the thing crush against his ribs, felt the new pain. He saw the haze moving slowly toward him again. Then, lying there, he fought against it with all his strength.
He knew only that he must not go under again. No matter what Weber did, he must not let the haze roll over him, drown him.
Pete turned slowly over on his back. Straining, the back of his tongue pushing, he at last got the word out of his mashed mouth.
^Tnough."
Then something came down on his face, across his mouth. Pete turned his head slowly. Mike was half sitting up, his hand down on Pete's mouth.
**Keep your yap shut, Mac," Mike said.
Pete shook his head from side to side, Mike's helpless hand grinding back and forth across his mouth. At last Pete raised his arms and pushed Mike's arm away.
"Topside," he said to Weber. "Chart."
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"Pete," Mike said. "Be quiet. You can take some more, Skipper."
Pete doggedly shook his head.
"Sure you can. He can't hurt you any more, Cap'n. All the rest is just coasting."
Then something white swooped down, and Pete saw Mike reel backward and fall against the drawer faces built under the bunk.
Gentle hands helped Pete up, guided him toward the companionway. They stopped there, and the two men got Mike and brought him, kicking and fighting, up beside Pete.
Mike looked at
Pete with his eyes hard and glittery. "Are you going to tell him?"
Pete nodded.
"You lousy punk," Mike said between his teeth.
Pushing Mike up the ladder first, Weber followed with Pete. Halfway up, Pete stopped and wordlessly held out his bound wrists.
"Sorry, my friend," Weber said, and got a gold penknife to cut the rope.
Pete's helpless hands dropped to his sides, and he went on up the ladder, stumbling at each step. At the top, as he stepped down into the cockpit, he swayed sideways. His shoulder swung against the downhaul of the flag hoist and he let his body fall against it until Weber grabbed him and held him upright again.
Faintly, coming down through the taut rope,
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Pete had felt small loops of twine snapping under the strain of his weight against them.
Pete licked the blood on his lips. "Water," he said.
Weber snapped an order. One man went below and came up with a pitcher of water. Pete drank it in gulps and then held it out toward Mike, holding the pitcher between his forearms, his swollen and purple hands useless.
"Go drown yourself," Mike said.
Pete lifted the pitcher, trying to pour the water on his head, but the pitcher slipped and fell.
"Are you stalling?" Weber asked.
Pete shook his head. "Sick," he said. "Wait."
"I will wait only one minute," Weber said, glancing at a wrist watch.
Pete nodded. He leaned back against the companion door, his back against the downhaul. A wind was blowing, rippling the blue Gulf, and he could feel the rope fluttering in it.
"Talk," Weber said.
"Bearings," Pete said. "Two islands." He fumbled with his hands at the knob of the chart case. Weber pushed his hands away and pulled out the chart.
"Which ones?" Weber asked. His voice was excited now and trembling and his eyes were bright. They looked like the eyes of that sea gull, Pete thought. Mean and hard.
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Pete put his swollen finger down on the first island.