by John Rickham
“What I figured.” He sighed. “Now we are no longer popular. We are interfering with their gods.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” Fiona argued. “Give me a minute.” After a lot more howling and yelping to and fro she turned back to us with a wry grin.
“I thought so. No sacrilege about it. They just think were crazy. In their terms, what the old ones put away, only the old ones can get out, and we haven’t a hope!”
“They are so right,” I said, but Carson ignored that blandly.
“Fair enough, Fiona. Now, you better tell them, too, that there are bad men about, men who will kill them and rob them of their touching-stone, given half a chance. Warn them to be on the lookout.”
More howling and yipping to and fro, and I noticed that Lowloo kept her place by my side, returning little throaty snarls to the old man and his aide from time to time. Fiona had a strained grin on her face as she finally made her report to us.
“They are in a hurry to get back. They don’t mind going alone; they’d have had to do it in any case. And they will watch out for trouble. But they are bothered about us, on this island. Seems to be some kind of taboo, not to be lived on. They could be right, bless ‘em. But here’s the capper”—and she aimed her blue eyes at me—”to do with your darling Lowloo. She doesn’t want to leave. Wants to stay here with us!”
It was a compliment I could have done without. “Can’t you tell her it’s not possible? We have troubles enough already.”
“You tell her,” she invited, and I put my hand down to touch Lowloo on the shoulder, to urge her away, to join her colleagues. But she clung, and howled, and looked so damned pathetic that I hadn’t the heart to be rough. I looked to Carson for help, and be shrugged.
“Let it go, Noble,” he suggested. “She won’t be in anyone’s way, and it is her island, after all.”
“What about food?”
“We’ve enough for an extra mouth for a week or two, that’s no great problem. We’ll work out something.”
So, much against my will, Lowloo stayed, and watched the two men as they trotted down to the little harbor and plunged in without ceremony, to start the long swim home.
“Better them than me,” Carson said, as the two bobbing heads went away. “I wouldn’t fancy it. But they’ve done it before, both ways, so I suppose it’s no great trick to them. I’d give a lot to have their sense of direction, though. That is really something. Now—” and we returned to the business of suicide.
There was no more argument about who was to go down. Fiona had made her point, and there was nothing to gain by rehashing it. I was in a minority, but that only made it the more imperative that I do everything I could to make the scheme work out. Carson planned it meticulously, rehearsing us again and again until we had it right. The plan was like this:
He would mount the rock where the cleft was, and stand firmly on the tube-bar he had wedged there. One end of a line was secured to that and went to the middle of the hole, there to pass through an alloy-ring and back to him, to be weaved around the bar and held so that he could haul in or lower away as needed. Another line was secured by one end to the back bar of the seat-niche, went out to meet that alloy-ring again, and came back also to reeve around the bar and thus hold that ring poised above the center of the hole. That line was my responsibility, but we expected it to remain fast. From the ring itself depended the block and tackle, with Fiona and her harness slung from the purchase, and me holding the line from my seat. The operation was as simple as we could make it. I would lower away, or haul up, and otherwise receive signals by tugs on the line. Carson would haul or lower as needed to swing her from dead center to the side, as she signaled. And that was all. The rest was timing, and that was crucial.
“If we do it right,” he said, “there’ll be very little strain on the lines at all. You’ll go down as fast as you can with the backwash, and keep on going down, because once you’re below that thirty-foot level the water will be comparatively still, and there’ll be a little weight to haul on. Signals, of course, and you know the main points to look for. That kit will give you a full hour if you need it, and the water’s warm, so you’ll have no trouble with that. Coming back up will be tricky, but if we assume, as I think we can, that you will know when the spout comes and goes, you will take off as soon as the backwash settles, go like hell for the surface, and then ride up on the next spout, unless you have time to get completely clear without it. Can you hoist her thirty feet in six minutes, Noble?”
“I can try. If you slack off, and she walks the wall at the same time, I can have her up and in that nook with me in that time.”
“That’s it, then. The best we can do. Don’t forget the net bag. And don’t”—he pinned Fiona with a bleak stare—”don’t take any stupid chances. We want you out of that hole, not a body!”
“Fear not,” she said lightly. “I’m rather fond of my skin, and the shape it’s in. You be sure you have those signals right, Alan. In pairs, only. Pay no attention to a single tug, that could be a trick of the water, or anything. All right, let’s go.”
Carson and I took up our positions, he braced in the cleft, me wedged in my seat with one hand on the guy-rope and the other holding the free end of the tackle, the spare of it dangling down in the water. That took only a minute or two. Fiona sat herself on the edge, half-way between us, with the line to her harness stretching away to the suspended black, and her slim legs over the edge, the face-piece of her kit ready to slip over her face and the gleaming cylinder at her hack. My line held her not quite tight, in readiness for the next mad rush of water. I was not at all happy. We had done everything we could think of to anticipate trouble, but there were so many unknowns, not least the dark and glassy-sided hole in front of me. And the sheer vehemence of that water was the main factor. The ropes would withstand any strain we might put on them, but could we, mere flesh and blood, stand up to it?
Beyond Carson, out there in the sea, I saw two feathering wave-crests rush headlong into each other and leap into fury. The time for worrying was over. I raised my arm in a signal, carried it around to her, and braced myself. Here it came, bellowing and shouting, to my mind more savage than ever before, smashing and growling through the funnel of the rock-split, spouting into the great pipe with a giant blast of wet air, and then leaping straight up, to engulf me in a solid green mass. For a long moment it boiled and swirled around me, then paused, holding its breath. My cue to reeve in on Fiona’s line, to help her to plunge in the column. The solid mass of water dragged at my efforts. Then away down it went, sucking at me with a devil’s clutch, and I felt the line spin out through my palm. And tension came on the guy-rope too. Shaking the blur out of my eyes, I saw those two ropes dipping, singing under the awful strain as the down-dropping flood dragged at Fiona’s body below, and the hoist-line screamed, burning my palm, as it ran out.
Then, just as I was aching all over in sympathy for the weight that must be on her, it calmed. The guy-ropes eased, and the line in my hand ran more slowly, steadily, with surges that told me she was swimming. It was a glad astonishment to me that she was even alive, still. I hadn’t expected anything like that gigantic drag downward. I held back on her slipping line, gently, and felt two double tugs, the signal that she was all right and going on. I let the line run and waved a thumb’s up signal to Carson. After about a minute her line stopped and went slack, so I hauled in just enough to get taut, and felt one double tug, a pause, then two sets. That was her signal for Carson to slack away, and I passed it along to him with a circular wave. Now the guy-ropes sagged until the ring and hook were far below me. I wondered what she had found. Her line had gone slack again, so I reached in, and there came two more doubles. Still all right, still going. I was so engrossed in wondering what she was doing that I almost missed the warning signs of the next onslaught. With a furious wave to Carson, I drew her line taut and gave three quick jerks, and then it was upon us again, roaring and snarling as if in demonic anger at our de
fiance, smashing its furious way up the bore and drowning me again in solid green water. On top of that, to churn my wits into wild apprehension, I felt both the lines in my charge grow taut as bowstrings.
Once, long ago, I was foolish enough to go swimming off a shelving pebble beach in a large surf, and I have never forgotten the disdainful ease with which that rolling sea caught me up and threw me down; tossed me about on the stones like a matchstick. That awful memory came back vividly now, as the vibrating lines told me of immense strain down there. I could no more move either of them than I could have uprooted the mountain, until the fearsome water had fallen back in bafflement. Then they both went slack, and I hauled in swiftly on her lifeline. And it came up hard! There was no possible doubt. The difference between the lively drag of her body-weight, and this utterly unyielding stop, was unmistakable. The line was snagged on something as solid as the mountain itself. I had no signals for this, at all. I hauled hard, racking my wits for what to do next. We had prepared only two distress signs. Four tugs meant “haul me up fast”—and that was the one thing I couldn’t do now. Or, should the rope run free without signals, haul up anyway. But this dead solidity was a baffler! I let out a little slack, hauled in again, and there it was, solid as ever.
Then, as I was trying to work out some weird combination of waves to tell Carson what was happening, I felt a vibration in the line. I slacked, and drew taut, and there she was, two sets of jerks. All clear and proceeding! I became conscious of shivers in my arms and an ache all down my hack. As soon as I could manage it steadily, I passed another thumb’s up to Carson and took a few much needed breaths. The line in my hand ran out steadily, slowly, and I imagined her possibly plunging further and further down. It would be cold down there, surely? And what about the pressure at sixty feet? I didn’t know enough to guess. I had to assume that the knew what she was doing. But I couldn’t help worrying, if over nothing else, at the way the line was running out. Then it stopped again, went slack, and when I hauled taut, I got one pair of jerks. My wits were so scrambled by now that it took me a moment to remember what she had sent. Then it came, and I waved crazily to Carson. She had found it. Something, anyway. My imagination shifted now, pictured her crawling around in some narrow recess, possibly gathering water-stained treasures into that net bag. The line slackened in my hand, and I gathered it in steadily until I felt three quick pairs of tugs.
All over and she was coming back. So quickly? I gathered in the slack steadily, hand over hand, and then, once again, it snagged and came solid. My heart went into my mouth. I glanced at my wrist. Another spout was due, was a second or two overdue! I held tight, hating that solid feeling. Then, thankfully, it gave again, was alive. Again that quick succession of tugs to signal that she was coming hack. But so was the spout. I waved madly to Carson. Tugged to warn her, and the line slacked in my hand. I hauled in frantically— and here came the tempestuous water again, rioting into the pipe, smashing against the walls and roaring upward. In the midst of that fury, signals were out of the question. All I could do was hang on and hold my breath until the maelstrom subsided and dropped away, dragging and gurgling. And again both my lines sprang wire-taut and hummed like harp strings, the lifeline scorching my hand as I tried to let it run fast enough. As if in a dream I saw Carson stagger and fall flat, saw his lines whip away down there, saw him scramble up and come running like a stag along and around and scrambling along the ledge to where I was hauling in on that lifeline as fast as I could go.
He dropped by me and took hold of the guy-ropes; started heaving them in. “Something parted!” he snapped. “Don’t know what. Damned near had me in. That blasted backwash! I never figured it would be so fierce!”
He yanked furiously until he had the ring and the head-block right up to the lip of the hole, then he made fast around the back-bar behind me. A moment later and he had clapped on my line, alternating his grip with mine, and the line raced in rapidly. I saw the red stains of blood where he gripped, but there was no time for asking foolish questions. I heaved as never before and he matched me in furious concentration. We had to beat that next spout. Now I thought I saw the faint fugitive gleam of light clown there, and then, yes, there it was, drifting and sparkling off the blackly glossy wall opposite.
“Hitting the side!” I panted, and he grunted without stopping, “No time to worry about that, It’s smooth anyway. Haul, damn you!”
I was hauling, but I didn’t blame him for being angry. He must have felt what I did, that she was heavy. A dead weight. I knew, long before her head came within sight, that she was unconscious, if not worse. There came the moment when the two sets of blocks met—my cue to lean perilously out and down, grab hold of her harness, and hoist her bodily up alongside us. Carson was scooping in the tangle of cordage as I lifted her.
“What’s the time?”
“Less than a minute, at the outside!” I panted, as I gathered her onto my knees and held tight.
“Too chancy. We’ll ride this one out. Make her secure!”
It was a squeeze. Two of us crowded the little nook, but I managed to get up and around, and lay her out on that rough seat, so that we two could stand with our hacks to the coming convulsion and thus make sure that she would not be swept out and away again. I took a moment to put my ear to her breast and finger to her throat, ignoring the blood that oozed thickly from her nostrils.
“She’s alive,” I said. “A good strong beat.”
Carson made no comment but busied himself gathering the mass of cordage into some kind of manageable heap. And then that damnable fury of water was dashing at us again, foaming into the pipe, spouting crazily up and submerging us. It seemed to be stronger every time, and it was all I could do to hold on to the back-bar and save myself from being carried away as it sank swiftly back and down. Then, tapping me on the shoulder, Carson said, “Grab her, and go. Head for our boat, fast as you can, but not until you ye stripped her of that gear. Don’t bother about anything else. I’ll gather up the rest of it.”
I needed no further instructions. Slinging her over my shoulder, I trod that ledge as fast as I could until I was safely clear of the spout, then laid her down flat and peeled away the straps and ties, unable to avoid seeing the purple bruises that were already starting to show where the straps had bitten into her flesh. The buckles on her thigh-straps had become inextricably tangled in her loincloth, so that came away too, and I had no time to care. I didn’t like the bubbling noises in her throat, nor the blood that she was coughing up, but I knew one thing that would help, because it bad once been done to me, in a similar case. As soon as she was divested, I slung her over my shoulder again, face down, and started off. She was no featherweight. I imagine she had understated her one hundred and thirty pounds. And I was far from fresh. But I knew I had to keep up this jog-trot stride for a while, at least. With her limp body jack-knifed over my shoulder, and all her weight jouncing on her stomach with each step I took—something ought to happen. And it did. I had just passed the bay of our original harbor when she started to snort and cough, and retch, and it was a pleasant sound to my ears.
A moment later, I felt something wet dribbling down my back, and that was good too. I suppose I must have been a little light-headed by that time, with relief, for I remember distinctly reaching across with my free hand to pat her affectionately on the most prominent curve handy, and saying, “Good girl. Throw it all up, you’ll feel better.”
I do not remember in any clear detail the rest of that staggering tramp over the rocks, except that I was obsessed with the idea that I must not put her down, or waste any time. I have vague flashes of Lowloo, spinning in front of me and then trotting back to whine wonderingly at my painful progress. She had stayed well clear of our insane exploit and couldn’t possibly have understood what was happening, but she definitely knew something was wrong. I remember weaving to a halt at the edge of the harbor where our craft was tied up, and staring at it, and wondering why it looked so dreamlike unreal, until I re
called the camouflage screen. Then I blundered on, boarded, descended the brief ladder to the after cabin, and then, at last, put down my burden.
From that point, although I was shaking with fatigue, my mind was pinpoint clear, assorting and arranging all the things I had to do, in the best order. I laid her flat on the central table, took one look at the frightening smears of blood and slime all down her front, and made for the shower cubicle, to switch on and fumble with the injector until I had put in a strong dose of antibiotic additive. This, too, as Carson had told us, was standard fitting on any expedition into unknown territory. Then I gathered her up and dumped her, as gently as I could manage, in one tiled corner and got busy with the sprays. The bloody mess didn’t bother me unduly. I’ve seen that kind of blood before and it looks scary, but the slightest cut can sometimes produce alarming quantities of blood. I went over her with the hand-spray, noting the purple bruises, and in particular, a nasty-looking one over her right eye.
She was knocked out. I hoped it was nothing more. What reassured me most was her breathing, which was strong and regular now. When she was clean, I gathered her up again, along with a towel, and put her back on the table, then broke out the medikit. I heard the tramp of Carson’s feet on the deck over my head, but I was too busy to bother about that. With Lowloo watching me, I opened a tube of oil-based goo and smeared my fingers liberally with it, then started to make sure she had no broken bones. I was pretty certain anyway, but it always pays to check up, and the goo was for those angry-looking scrapes and abrasions.
“How is she?” Carson spoke from the region of my elbow.