"I think Commander Murray wants to see Le Marr."
"And that is the truth!" As if the mention of his name had been a conjure spell to summon him, Breck Murray materialized just within the doorway. "Glad to meet you, Le Marr." He held out his hand. "Yes, I know, Mr. Holmes, he hasn't been cleared by security. Le Marr, I'm told you know a lot about this island and what makes it tick. There's some sort of a wild thing down in that sea coast hole. It's taken my diver, and now Dr. Gunston's out of the picture, too. Have you any idea of what it is or how we can get it out of there?"
Dobrey Le Marr's ivory hands fluttered in a quick gesture. "This debble thing be new to the island, sir. It comes up from the deeps—"
"Why?" Murray demanded flatly.
"Who knows? Maybeso trouble there—I think that. But I know it not fo' true. Debble thing run from trouble; it 'fraid, it hungry. It find hidey hole an' wait. Pretty soon maybe it forget—it not like mon." He tapped his own chest. "Then maybeso it go—"
"Well," Murray shrugged. "We can't afford to sit it out. But you haven't hunted these things then?"
Le Marr shook his head.
"What killed that one found on the shore?" Holmes asked the question as though trying to force Le Marr into some damaging admission. Again Griff struck into the conversation. The circumstances, he thought, released him from the promise he had given his father.
"The Geiger said it was 'hot.' Maybe radiation got it."
He was amazed at the result of his perfectly truthful statement. Both of the officers froze, almost as if the thing they discussed had appeared in the center of the floor. Holmes opened his mouth and then closed it tightly. But Murray strode to the table and glared down at Griff.
"That the truth?"
"Ask Hughes. He discovered it during dissection. It was 'hot'—so's that plague scum—"
Murray ran both hands through his thick brush of hair and then glanced over his shoulder at Holmes. "D'you know that?"
"I have nothing to say," snapped the younger officer in return.
The commander bit off a forceful word. "That answers me." He was curbing his temper with a visible effort. "Maybe someday they'll give a man all the facts before—" He swallowed. "So this menace may be radioactive along with all the rest! That's pleasant. I guess Casey's answer is the only one."
"Bomb it out?" Griff's earlier uneasiness awoke as he saw Le Marr give a start.
"You put bomb down there, sir? That be bad thing— very bad thing!"
"Why?"
"Sea run under the land—far, far." Le Marr's hands moved in graphic motions. "You break that—land fall —into the sea."
"You've got a point. But we can't lie around here waiting for that thing to move out. We've got to get it out and fast! We're working against time—"
Out of the tail of his eye Griff saw Holmes make a warning gesture in a vain attempt to stop Breck Murray's explanation. But Griff, remembering a problem of his own and how he and Chris Waite had solved it, dared to interrupt once more.
"Look here, sir—could you rig some sort of small explosive which could be planted in bait. If we could get that thing to eat it—"
"Hmmm—" The commander stopped pacing. Even Le Marr looked thoughtful. "You tried something like that before?"
"Chris Waite, he's the mate of the Island Queen, and I got rid of a big moray in that way. We baited a hook and pulled the eel out of its hole—though we had to use a block and tackle to do it. We couldn't hope to drag this out of hiding, not if it is the size of the dead one we found on the beach. But supposing it was eating and a small charge blew up in its face—that ought to kill it."
They held a conference, Hughes, Casey, the commander, another demolition man, and Griff. A party went inland with rifles and returned before the hour was up with the rangy carcass of a wild pig. The scrawny frame now occupied the position of honor in the center of the table while Hughes examined the bristly corpse and asked questions of Casey and his second-in-command.
"We may be able to do it," was Hughes's verdict, "assuming that the thing doesn't like its dinner alive and kicking when it gets it and assuming that you can measure out a charge which will answer the purpose." He glanced out of the window to where evening shadows were purple-black and thick. "A lot of the big ones feed at sunset—"
Griff, remembering octopi activity, nodded at that. Now that they had made up their collective minds, he was eager to get into action. Anything was better than to sit in this half-finished building listening to the clatter of work without, waiting for the arrival of a messenger with a new radio report—
But there proved to be little that he could do except watch the visceration of the corpse and the rigging therein of some complicated wiring and grenades dreamed up by the demolition people. Casey straightened up at last from the gory table with a tired ghost of a grin.
"That ought to do it, skipper." He spoke across the smelly board to Murray. "Just let the whatsis get its back teeth into that and whamo!"
They could not depend upon the sea to deliver their prize package. It must be introduced by hand into the ominous cave opening. And it was Casey who overrode all the others in his demand to be the one for that job.
Armed with a harpoon gun-spear, a lifeline fast to his harness, his face very sober behind his mask, he entered the combers and hung, one hand anchoring him to a rock, as his assistant gingerly lowered the bait into his reach.
With the pig bomb in hand he went under water. And those above had to depend upon the reports from Hughes and Murray, crouched by the water glass, as to his movements. Almost immediately he was beyond their point of vision, and they could only stand on the natural jetty, the spray soaking through their clothing as the dusk with its odd greenish glow gathered fast.
Griff's fingers were on the lifeline. He caught the signal and he shouted. "He's in the cave!"
The commander's hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Griff nursed the line, now taut, waiting for the second pull, which would mark Casey's escape. It was far too long in coming.
"What's Bert doing?" That was his superior officer, tossing away a half-smoked cigarette in order to light another with hands that shook a little. "Shoving its dinner right into the thing's teeth?"
"Now!" Griff caught the "mission accomplished" twitch.
Casey had better make it fast. If he had waited to see the bait seized, he might have waited far too long—for, in spite of all their care, the charge might be too strong and would bring the cliff down as Le Marr had warned. Yet the islander did not appear to heed his own warning. He was teetering back and forth on the wet rocks as intent upon seeing the end of the game as the rest of them.
Casey's head broke water. He swam for the rocks and found a reception committee scrambling down to lift him in. But before he made land, he thrust out his spear, a weird armored captive still wriggling upon it. Hughes automatically grabbed at that. Casey snapped up his mask and drew a deep breath.
"Did it take the bait?" demanded Murray.
Casey's usual lightheartedness was gone. "Something which was mighty hungry did. I didn't see it close—I didn't want to!"
Murray was watching his wrist watch, and now he counted aloud: "—five—six—seven—eight—nine—"
But he never reached "ten." Griff could not have told afterwards whether it was sound, or vibration, or both. There was a tremor, a muffled noise—
"That's it." Casey broke the hush.
"Look out!"
Holmes' shout brought them about to face the cliff wall. A section split off, crashed down into the swirling water. A wave licked knee-high about the men on the rocks. They waited for more. But nothing came, and then Murray gave an order.
"Get into the cutter—we'll take the sea route back."
Griff was crowded against Hughes. The other had out a pocket flash, examining the fish impaled on Casey's spear. It was a new variety to Griff, with a warty, thorned skin, an odd pugged face.
"What is it?"
Hughes replied with more than a little amazement coloring his tone. "Something which does not belong here. Scorpion fish—from the Barrier Reef. If this is what got the chief—" He stopped almost in mid-word.
"Maybe we're too late. We're doing much too little, too late. Halfway around the world from where it belongs! Lord, who's mixing us up—or what is happening?"
VII
THE ISLAND QUEEN DOES NOT REPLY
"you say it's a what?" Commander Murray regarded the ugly, spined body of Casey's capture with obvious distaste.
"It's a stonefish—a scorpion fish— We saw enough of them on the Pacific—Banda Sea project. They range from Polynesia to the Red Sea—"
"But not here?" Murray caught him up on that.
"Not known to be here," Hughes corrected cautiously. "But how can we make any definite statements? In 1954 they brought in a live Latimeria Chalumnae near the Comore Islands. And by rights the thing should have been dead more than a million years ago. It was a living fossil. In 1949 fish scales, as large as those from a tarpon, but from a totally unknown fish, were sold to a souvenir dealer in Tampa, Florida. And none of the experts in Washington could identify them. So there might be a whole colony of stonefish cruising about here—"
"They're deadly?" Casey surveyed his catch with open curiosity. "It made a run at the pig, that's why I speared it. Then I forgot about it—I was too interested in the other thing."
Commander Murray leaned back in his chair. "Which, luckily, we don't have to worry about now!"
Casey nodded confirmation. An hour after his exploit Hughes had insisted on making a night dive. He returned with the information that the entrance to the monster cave had been sealed by the landslip they had witnessed and that, living or dead, they need worry no more about attack from the unknown.
Griff stared at the stonefish dully. He knew that the poison from its spines was as vicious as cobra venom. If this was what had struck his father, he could only marvel that Dr. Gunston had survived. But Hughes had an answer to that also. Using a pencil he prodded the warty skin.
"This will be proof for Gongware—"
"Dr. Gongware?" Casey alone recognized the name. Hughes shot him a surprised glance.
"Yes. He's been working on anti-poison serums for divers on the pearl banks. The chief volunteered to play guinea pig. If he was attacked by this, it must have been Gongware's stuff which kept him alive—though it's been over a year since he was inoculated. You sent news about this to the States, Commander? It may give the doctors a lead in treatment."
Murray nodded and then yawned. Griff looked at his watch. It was close to midnight. But he didn't want to leave until they had some word. Holmes came in, blinking at the bright light.
"There's a row going on down island, sir," he announced.
Murray had echoed the word "row" when Griff stepped past the security officer to the door and out into the night. The flood lamps made a harsh white day for a little circle, and there was the clatter of machines to fill it. But some trick of the wind brought another sound, faint enough, but in its very faintness depressing. Griff had heard it before—but never in such volume.
"What is it?" Murray had followed him out.
"The voodoo drums, sir." Griff could feel that beat eating under his own skin. He knew that there were certain rhythms of those ritual drums that were not for the hearing of his race, that would twist and turn emotions to a pitch a paler-skinned northerner could not stand. And this was fast approaching that point. A Sea-bee near him halted a bulldozer to listen.
"I don't like it!" Breck Murray snapped. "Voodoo, eh?"
"The island brand. But I've never heard it like that before. Not since old Kristina died the week after I came here. She was the Mama-loi, the priestess, a kind of witch, I think. Most of the islanders were afraid of her. She cursed more than she cured—different from Le Marr. And they were drumming out her spirit so she wouldn't haunt them."
"What are they drumming out now?"
"It might be the cave monster, Commander. They consider that to be a dupee—a voodoo devil. Or—"
"It might be us? Le Marr hinted at something of that sort before he faded away this evening."
"Well, the islanders are a close-knit lot. A few of them —Le Marr, Captain Murdock of the Queen and his crew, the shopkeeper—have been off island and know more about the world. The rest of them—they are apt to be suspicious of any new thing. It's in their history. They came here as slaves, rebel-convicts, or pirates—fugitives from the law—and they have an instinctive distrust for our brand of civilization. I'd listen to Le Marr, sir; he has more real power than the commissioner, though there're still some who follow the spirit of old Kristina and would like to return—"
"To the ways of the bad old days? Such as this for example?" Murray produced a tiny bag of brilliant scarlet calico. In the light of the working lamps it lay a dollop of blood in the hollow of his palm. "What is it?"
Griff did not touch it. "That's a gris-gris, and not a good one, I'd say, though I'm not a student of voodoo. A gris-gris—amulet—can work either for good or evil. A good one you carry as a luck charm for protection. And an evil one you plant on an enemy. Where did you find that, Commander?"
"Lying just within the door of my office."
"Take it back, put it down in the same place, and then get Le Marr to remove it for you," advised Griff.
"Using the right formula?" One of Murray's expressive eyebrows slid up.
"You lost a diver today. Every bit of bad luck you have from now on will be credited to voodoo, and the reputation of the one who made that gris-gris will grow accordingly. It could add up to bad trouble. Listen!"
The beat of those drums was steady, pulsing in time with one's blood, or pulling the blood into rhythm with it. Griff was breathing faster; he found it difficult to stand still. He wanted to be out of this place of light and machines—to run into the quiet dark where he could crouch and cover his ears in blissful silence. And yet that windborne sound pulled at him, as if to draw him across the island to its unknown source.
"We don't depend on native labor," Murray pointed out. "Our supplies are brought in from our own ships. I don't see that we have to worry about any trouble with the islanders."
Griff leaned back against a coral slab wall. Maybe the base didn't have to worry about ill will of the men of San Isadore. But he was sure that voodoo or no voodoo, if he were in trouble he would want Le Marr on his side of the barricade. Maybe the islander had no supernatural powers but he had something—something that even the scientist in Dr. Gunston had been forced to acknowledge. And Griff respected Dobrey Le Marr as a man of authority.
"Griff!" Hughes bore down upon him. His eyes were shining and his hands dropped on Griff's shoulders, whirling the slighter and younger man around with him in a circling that had nothing to do with the distant drum, an outburst as foreign to the assistant's usually staid control as Apache war paint.
"They've got it under control! The chief'll pull through! We just heard it by radio. It was the serum that kept him going until they could get the proper antidote."
Griff could never remember afterwards how he got back to the lab. Drugged with fatigue, he made his way up the path from the cutter to his cot at the lab. And then even the beat of the drums, now loud and steady, could not keep him awake any longer.
He did not quite sleep the clock around, but by the slant of the sun across the floor, it was well into afternoon when he rolled over and blinked blearily at the scuttling lizards on the ceiling. Wind rustled in a dry clatter through palm fronds, and beneath that hummed the eternal pound of the surf. He sat up, aware of an aching void in his middle.
The house was quiet. He went down the hall to the shower and saw that the lab door was shut. When he knocked, there was no answer. Hughes must have gone out. Showering was a luxury, dressing a lazy process. He raided the food safe. It was so very peaceful that he decided to visit his spray pool.
&nbs
p; But as he stood in the thrust of the wind and looked out over the bay he knew again that vague uneasiness. Something was missing—Carterstown was a deserted town, but that was usual at this hour. Two fishing boats rocked at anchor in the bay. Boats—!
Griff knew now what had bothered him. The Island Queen was not at her accustomed berth below. Yet she had been gone three days—and she should have returned that morning. In all the months he had been on San Isadore, he had learned that Angus Murdock, unlike the majority of his compatriots, ran his communication service between the islands with the regularity of a clock. The Island Queen had been due to drop her anchor before noon today—yet there was no Island Queen to be seen.
Andre Norton - Sea Siege Page 7