For many years he had been interested in the Spanish treasure galleon Santa Teresa. Contemporary accounts told how the ship, heavily laden with bullion, sailed from Manila in 1689. The clumsy ship, caught in a storm, had run off to the south and been wrecked. Eighteen survivors managed to get ashore with the treasure. They buried it, and set sail for the Philippines in the ship’s pinnacle. Two of them were alive when the boat reached Manila.
The treasure island was tentatively identified as one of the Solomons. But which one?
No one knew. Treasure-hunters looked for the cache on Bougainville and Buka. There was a rumor about it on Malaita, and even Ontong Java received an expedition. But no treasure was recovered.
Sorensen, researching the problem thoroughly, decided that the Santa Teresa had sailed completely through the Solomons, almost to the Louisades. The ship must have escaped destruction until it crashed into the reef at Vuanu.
His desire to search for the treasure might have remained only a dream if he hadn’t met Dan Drake. Drake was also an amateur treasure-hunter. More important, he owned a fifty-five-foot Hanna ketch.
Over an evening’s drinks the Vuanu expedition was born.
Additional members were recruited. Drake’s ketch was put into seagoing condition, equipment and money saved or gathered. Several other possible treasure sites in the Southwest Pacific were researched. Finally, vacation time was synchronized and the expedition got under way.
They had put in three months’ work on Vuanu already. Their morale was high, in spite of inevitable conflicts between members. This schooner, bringing in supplies from Sydney and Rabaul, was the last civilized contact they would have for another six months.
While Sorensen nervously supervised, the crew of the schooner unloaded the cargo. He didn’t want any of the equipment, some of it shipped over six thousand miles, to be broken now. No replacements were possible; whatever they didn’t have, they would have to do without. He breathed out in relief when the last crate, containing a metal detector, was safely hoisted over the side and put on the beach above the high-water mark.
There was something odd about that box. He examined it and found a quarter-sized hole in one end. It had not been properly sealed.
Dan Drake, the co-manager of the expedition, joined him. “What’s wrong?” Drake asked.
“Hole in that crate,” Sorensen said. “Salt water might have gotten in. We’ll be in tough shape if this detector doesn’t work.”
Drake nodded. “We better open it and see.” He was a short, deeply tanned, broad-chested man with close-cropped black hair and a straggly mustache. He wore an old yachting cap jammed down over his eyes, giving his face a tough bulldog look. He pulled a big screwdriver from his belt and inserted it into the crack.
“Wait a moment,” Sorensen said. “Let’s get it up to the camp first. Easier to carry the crate than something packed in grease.”
“Right,” Drake said. “Take the other end.”
The camp was built in a clearing a hundred yards from the beach, on the site of an abandoned native village. They had been able to rethatch several huts, and there was an old copra shed with a galvanized iron roof where they stored their supplies. Here they got the benefit of any breeze from the sea. Beyond the clearing, the gray-green jungle sprang up like a solid wall.
Sorensen and Drake set the case down. The skipper, who had accompanied them with the newspapers, looked around at the bleak huts and shook his head.
“Would you like a drink, Skipper?” Sorensen asked. “Afraid we can’t offer any ice.”
“A drink would be fine,” the skipper said. He wondered what drove men to a godforsaken place like this in search of imaginary Spanish treasure.
Sorensen went into one of the huts and brought out a bottle of Scotch and a tin cup. Drake had taken out his screwdriver and was vigorously ripping boards off the crate.
“How does it look?” Sorensen asked.
“It’s okay,” Drake said, gently lifting out the metal detector. “Heavily greased. Doesn’t seem like there was any damage—”
He jumped back. The skipper had come forward and stamped down heavily on the sand.
“What’s the matter?” Sorensen asked.
“Looked like a scorpion,” the skipper said. “Damned thing crawled right out of your crate there. Might have bit you.”
Sorensen shrugged. He had gotten used to the presence of an infinite number of insects during his three months on Vuanu. Another bug more or less didn’t seem to make much difference.
“Another drink?” he asked.
“Can’t do it,” the skipper said regretfully. “I’d better get started. All your party healthy?”
“All healthy so far,” Sorensen said. He smiled. “Except for some bad cases of gold fever.”
“You’ll never find gold in this place,” the skipper said seriously. “I’ll look in on you in about six months. Good luck.”
After shaking hands, the skipper went down to the beach and boarded his ship. As the first pink flush of sunset touched the sky, the schooner was under way. Sorensen and Drake watched it negotiate the pass. For a few minutes its masts were visible above the reef. Then they had dipped below the horizon.
“That’s that,” Drake said. “Us crazy American treasure-hunters are alone again.”
“You don’t think he suspected anything?” Sorensen asked.
“Definitely not. As far as he’s concerned, we’re just crackpots.”
Grinning, they looked back at their camp. Under the copra shed was nearly fifty thousand dollars worth of gold and silver bullion, dug out of the jungle and carefully reburied. They had located a part of the Santa Teresa treasure during their first month on the island. There was every indication of more to come. Since they had no legal tide to the land, the expedition was not eager to let the news get out. Once it was known, every gold-hungry vagabond from Perth to Papeete would be heading to Vuanu.
“The boys’ll be in soon,” Drake said. “Let’s get some stew going.”
“Right.” Sorensen said. He took a few steps and stopped. “That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“That scorpion the skipper squashed. It’s gone.”
“Maybe he missed it,” Drake said. “Or maybe he just pushed it down into the sand. What difference does it make?”
“None, I guess,” Sorensen said.
II.
Edward Eakins walked through the jungle with a long-handled spade on his shoulder, sucking reflectively on a piece of candy. It was the first he’d had in weeks, and he was enjoying it to the utmost. He was in very good spirits. The schooner yesterday had brought in not only machinery and replacement parts, but also candy, cigarettes and food. He had eaten scrambled eggs this morning, and real bacon. The expedition was becoming almost civilized.
Something rustled in the bushes near him. He marched on, ignoring it.
He was a lean, sandy-haired man, amiable and slouching, with pale blue eyes and an unprepossessing manner. He felt very lucky to have been taken on the expedition. His gas station didn’t put him on a financial par with the others, and he hadn’t been able to put up a full share of the money. He still felt guilty about that. He had been accepted because he was an eager and indefatigable treasure-hunter with a good knowledge of jungle ways. Equally important, he was a skilled radio operator and repairman. He had kept the transmitter on the ketch in working condition in spite of salt water and mildew.
He could pay his full share now, of course. But now, when they were practically rich, didn’t really count. He wished there were some way he could—
There was that rustle in the bushes again.
Eakins stopped and waited. The bushes trembled. And out stepped a mouse.
Eakins was amazed. The mice on this island, like most wild animal life, were terrified of man. Although they feasted off the refuse of the camp—when the rats didn’t get it first—they carefully avoided any contact with humans.
“You better get yoursel
f home,” Eakins said to the mouse.
The mouse stared at him. He stared back. It was a pretty little mouse, no more than four or five inches long, and colored a light tawny brown. It didn’t seem afraid.
“So long, mouse,” Eakins said. “I got work to do.” He shifted his spade to the other shoulder and turned to go. As he aimed, he caught a flash of brown out of the comer of his eye. Instinctively he ducked. The mouse whirled past him, turned, and gathered itself for another leap.
“Mouse, are you out of your head?” Eakins said.
The mouse bared its tiny teeth and sprang. Eakins knocked it aside.
“Now get the hell out of here,” he said. He was beginning to wonder if the rodent was crazy. Did it have rabies, perhaps?
The mouse gathered itself for another charge. Eakins lifted the spade off his shoulders and waited. When the mouse sprang, he met it with a carefully timed blow. Then carefully, regretfully, he battered it to death.
“Can’t have rabid mice running around,” he said.
But the mouse hadn’t seemed rabid; it had just seemed very determined.
Eakins scratched his head. Now what, he wondered, had gotten into that little mouse?
In the camp that evening, Eakins’ story was greeted with hoots of laughter. It was just like Eakins to be attacked by a mouse. Several men suggested that he go armed in case the mouse’s family wanted revenge. Eakins just smiled sheepishly.
Two days later, Sorensen and Al Cable were finishing up a morning’s hard work at Site 4, two miles from the camp. The metal detector had shown marked activity at this spot. They were seven feet down and nothing had been produced yet except a high mound of yellow-brown earth.
“That detector must be wrong,” Cable said, wiping his face wearily. He was a big, pinkish man. He had sweated off twenty pounds on Vuanu, picked up a bad case of prickly heat, and had enough treasure-hunting to last him a lifetime. He wished he were back in Baltimore taking care of his used-car agency. He didn’t hesitate to say so, often and loudly. He was one member who had not worked out well.
“Nothing wrong with the detector,” Sorensen said. “Trouble is, we’re digging in swampy ground. The cache must have sunk.”
“It’s probably a hundred feet down,” Cable said, stabbing angrily at the gluey mud.
“Nope,” Sorensen said. “There’s volcanic rock under us, no more than twenty feet down.”
“Twenty feet’ We should have a bulldozer.”
“Might be costly bringing one in,” Sorensen said mildly. “Come on, Al, let’s get back to camp.”
Sorensen helped Cable out of the excavation. They cleared off their tools and started toward the narrow path leading back to the camp. They stopped abruptly.
A large, ugly bird had stepped out of the brush. It was standing on the path, blocking their way.
“What in hell is that?” Cable asked.
“A cassowary,” Sorensen said.
“Well, let’s boot it out of the way and get going.”
“Take it easy,” Sorensen said. “If anyone does any booting, it’ll be the bird. Back away slowly.”
The cassowary was nearly five feet high, a black-feathered ostrichlike bird standing erect on powerful legs. Each of its feet was three-toed, and the toes curved into heavy talons. It had a yellowish, bony head and short, useless wings. From its neck hung a brilliant wattle colored red, green, and purple.
“Is it dangerous?” Cable asked.
Sorensen nodded. “Natives on New Guinea have been kicked to death by those birds.”
“Why haven’t we seen it before?” Cable asked.
“They’re usually very shy,” Cable said, as the cassowary took a step toward them. “Can we run?”
“The bird can run a lot faster,” Sorensen said. “I don’t suppose you have a gun with you?”
“Of course not. There’s been nothing to shoot.”
Backing away, they held their spades like spears. The brush crackled and an anteater emerged. It was followed by a wild pig.
The three beasts converged on the men, backing them toward the dense wall of the jungle.
“They’re herding us,” Cable said, his voice going shrill.
“Take it easy,” Sorensen said. “The cassowary is the only one we have to watch out for.”
“Aren’t anteaters dangerous?”
“Only to ants.”
“The hell you say,” Cable said. “Bill, the animals on this island have gone crazy. Remember Eakins’ mouse?”
“I remember it,” Sorensen said. They had reached the far edge of the clearing. The beasts were in front of them, still advancing, with the cassowary in the center. Behind them lay the jungle—and whatever they were being herded toward.
“We’ll have to make a break for it,” Sorensen said.
“That damned bird is blocking the trail.”
“We’ll have to knock him over,” Sorensen said. “Watch out for his feet. Let’s go!”
They raced toward the cassowary, swinging their spades. The cassowary hesitated, unable to make up its mind between targets. Then it turned toward Cable and its right leg lashed out. The partially deflected blow sounded like the flat of a meat cleaver against a side of beef. Cable grunted and collapsed, clutching his ribs.
Sorensen stabbed, and the honed edge of his spade nearly severed the cassowary’s head from its body. The wild pig and the anteater were coming at him now. He flailed with his spade, driving them back. Then, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he stooped, lifted Cable across his shoulders and ran down the path.
A quarter of a mile down he had to stop, completely out of breath. There were no sounds behind him. The other animals were apparently not following. He went back to the wounded man.
Cable had begun to recover consciousness. He was able to walk, half-supported by Sorensen. When they reached the camp, Sorensen called everybody in for a meeting. He counted heads while Eakins taped up Cable’s side. Only one man was missing.
“Where’s Drake?” Sorensen asked.
“He’s across the island at North Beach, fishing,” said Tom Recetich. “Want me to get him?”
Sorensen hesitated. Finally he said, “No. I’d better explain what we’re up against. Then we’ll issue the guns. Then we’ll try to find Drake.”
“Man, what’s going on?” Recetich asked.
Sorensen began to explain what had happened at Site 4.
Fishing provided an important part of the expedition’s food and there was no work Drake liked better. At first he had gone out with face mask and spear gun. But the sharks in this comer of the world were numerous, hungry, and aggressive. So, regretfully, he had given up skin diving and set out handlines on the leeward side of the island.
The lines were out now, and Drake lay in the shade of a palm tree, half asleep, his big forearms folded over his chest. His dog, Oro, was prowling the beach in search of hermit crabs. Oro was a good-natured mutt, part Airedale, part terrier, part unknown. He was growling at something now.
“Leave the crabs alone,” Drake called out. “You’ll just get nipped again.”
Oro was still growling. Drake rolled over and saw that the dog was standing stiff-legged over a large insect. It looked like some kind of scorpion.
“Oro, leave that blasted—”
Before Drake could move, the insect sprang. It landed on Oro’s neck and the jointed tail whipped out. Oro yelped once. Drake was on his feet instantly. He swatted at the bug, but it jumped off the dog’s neck and scuttled into the brush.
“Take it easy, old boy,” Drake said. “That’s a nasty-looking wound. Might be poisoned. I better open it up.”
He held the panting dog firmly and drew his boat knife. He had operated on the dog for snake bite in Central America, and in the Adirondacks he had held him down and pulled porcupine quills out of his mouth with a pair of pliers. The dog always knew he was being helped. He never struggled.
This time, the dog bit.
“Oro!” Drake
grabbed the dog at the jaw hinge with his free hand. He brought pressure to bear, paralyzing the muscles, forcing the dog’s jaws open. He pulled his hand out and flung the dog away. Oro rolled to his feet and advanced on him again.
“Stand!” Drake shouted. The dog kept coming, edging around to get between the ocean and the man.
Turning, Drake saw the bug emerge from the jungle and creep toward him. His dog had circled around and was trying to drive him toward the bug.
Drake didn’t know what was going on, and he decided he’d better not stay to find out. He picked up his knife and threw it at the bug. He missed. The bug was almost within jumping distance.
Drake ran toward the ocean. When Oro tried to intercept him, he kicked the dog out of the way and plunged into the water.
He began to swim around the island to the camp, hoping he’d make it before the sharks got him.
III.
At the camp, rifles and revolvers were hastily wiped clean of cosmoline and passed around. Binoculars were taken out and adjusted. Cartridges were divided up, and the supply of knives, machetes, and hatchets quickly disappeared. The expedition’s two walkie-talkies were unpacked, and the men prepared to move out in search of Drake. Then they saw him, swimming vigorously around the edge of the island.
He waded ashore, tired but uninjured. He and the others put their information together and reached some unhappy conclusions.
“Do you mean to say,” Cable demanded, “that a bug is doing all this?”
“It looks that way,” Sorensen said. “We have to assume that it’s able to exercise some kind of thought control. Maybe hypnotic or telepathic.”
“It has to sting first,” Drake said. “That’s what it did with Oro.”
“I just can’t imagine a scorpion doing all that,” Recetich said.
“It’s not a scorpion,” Drake said. “I saw it close up. It’s got a tail like a scorpion, but its head is damn near four times as big, and its body is different. Up close, it doesn’t look like anything you ever saw before.”
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