CHAPTER XII
Night Recovery
On the way back from the airport, Steve Ames listened intently to thereport of the day's activities, but delayed comment until supplies hadbeen purchased, and a dozen eggs turned into an omelet that a Frenchchef might have praised.
Rick was eager to discuss the whole affair with Steve, but the youngagent was adroit at fending off questions without being rude, andfinally the boy gave up.
Over after-dinner coffee, Steve smiled at both of them. "End of today'slesson in patience, which is one virtue neither of you has developedsufficiently. Okay, where are those two pictures?"
Scotty whipped them from the breast pocket of his shirt and handed themover without comment. Steve studied them for long minutes, then went toa table and took a magnifying glass from the table drawer. He placed thepictures directly under a lamp and studied them with the aid of themagnifier.
"It _is_ Thomas Camillion," he said finally. "Your friend Sandy Allenhas a sharp eye. I wouldn't have known him, either."
That surprised Rick. Steve had never met the owner of Calvert's Favor,but because of Camillion's notorious reputation, Rick had been certainthat Steve would recognize him on sight.
Steve saw the expression on Rick's face. He grinned. "You disappointed?First of all, my knowledge of Camillion is not greater than yours. I'venever seen him in person, or had any reason to study him. Crime isn'tJANIG's business. Second, one expects to see a duck near water, or asquirrel near a tree. Criminals are generally found near centers ofcrime. They're not common in historic mansions, far from largepopulation centers, so one doesn't expect to find them there. My reasonsfor not recognizing Camillion, without Allen's identification, areexactly the same as yours."
"It's just that we expect you to know everything," Scotty saidhalf-seriously.
"Then I'm glad you're learning better. Joking aside, it's interestingthat Camillion should be here. It's even more interesting that hissidekick is a crooked electronics engineer or scientist. When you addflying stingarees to that combination, it totals up to something novelin criminal ideas. But what?"
"We thought you might have an idea," Rick prodded.
"Yes and no," Steve said ambiguously. "What ideas do you have?"
Rick stared at him accusingly. "Are you holding out on us? Do you knowsomething we don't?"
"Not yet," Steve said, and grinned at their expressions. "I mean thatliterally. I think I may possibly know something, but the evidence isn'tin yet. It's that computer run I mentioned. We should have the resultstomorrow."
"All right," Rick said. He knew better than to push Steve for moreinformation. The agent went in for speculation only when it served apurpose. With only a hint of evidence, he avoided guessing until theevidence had been checked out. "We figured out that the flyingstingarees probably are balloons," Rick reported, recapitulating theirconclusions of the previous evening.
Steve nodded approvingly. "Very good reasoning. Now connect up anelectronics crook, Camillion, and that peculiar antenna."
"The balloons carry radio equipment," Scotty said promptly. "The antennapicks up their signals."
Steve nodded again. "That's reasonable. Now, why do the balloons carryradio equipment? And why are they launched?"
"We're like a dog chasing his tail," Rick said with a grin. "We're notgetting anywhere, but we're covering plenty of ground."
"Maybe we are getting somewhere," Steve corrected. "You found somethingtoday that may be the balloon payload. You also found out that peoplefrom the mansion were interested in your activities, but didn't want tobe seen. It's obvious that the object you found must be recovered.You've got a plan. I'm sure of it."
"We do," Rick agreed.
Scotty added, "First of all, we have to warn Orvil Harris. If he goescrabbing in the middle of the night, he might foul a prop on the stakewe left there."
"The people in the mansion can't be suspicious of Orvil," Rick went on."He goes crabbing there every day. They must be used to him by now.Suppose we call him, to warn him about the stake, and to see if he'llhelp out."
"He'll be glad to help," Scotty said.
"Help how?" Steve asked. "By providing cover?"
Rick nodded. "Exactly. Scotty and I will suit up, so our skins won'tshow at night, and have our Scuba equipment on. Harris could come by andtake the runabout in tow with us in it. We would drop off near the creekentrance and push the runabout into the channel where it would behidden. Then we would swim into the cove and recover the object. Withtwo of us, it would be a cinch to find the fish line."
"If the thing is too heavy to swim with," Scotty went on, "we'll hand itinto Orvil's boat. Of course we'll pull up the sapling and hand that toOrvil. If the gadget is light, we'll swim back to the runabout with it,push the runabout away from the cove into the river, and then get aboardand come home."
Rick concluded, "With Orvil's motor going, no one would hear ourbubbles."
Steve had followed the plan carefully. "Fair enough," he agreed. "It's agood plan. No one will see you enter the cove, and no one will see youleave. There will be only Orvil Harris catching crabs as usual."
Scotty spoke up. "We could make one change, Steve. You could be with us,either in the water or in the runabout."
Steve shook his head. "No thanks, Scotty. I have some business of my ownlater tonight. You carry out your plan and I'll carry out mine."
"Is your business connected with ours?" Rick asked.
"Yes, but I'm going to follow a different line of investigation. If itbrings results, we'll compare notes at breakfast."
"We could postpone recovery and help you tonight," Scotty suggested.
Steve smiled warmly. "Thanks, but no thanks. What I have to do is for alone hand. Rick, you phone Orvil Harris and make arrangements."
Rick consulted the telephone directory and turned to Steve. "Any chancethe line may be bugged?"
"I doubt it. You might ask Orvil if he's on a party line, though. If heis, be careful. If not, go ahead and talk."
Orvil Harris had a private line, so Rick described their adventure inthe cove and asked for the crabber's help. Harris responded at once, asthe boys had known he would.
"I'll come by at half past three. You hook on and I'll tow you to themouth of the creek, then you cut loose. We'll fix up the details when Isee you."
Rick thanked him and hung up. "All set," he reported. "But we'll getlittle sleep tonight."
"It's only about eight," Steve pointed out. "You could go to bed rightaway." He managed to say it with a straight face.
"We could," Scotty agreed. "But we won't. How about a little televisiontonight?"
Steve waved a hand. "Take your pick. Medical drama, crime drama, westerndrama."
"The purpose of television drama," Rick declared, "is to provide anescape from the real world into the world of fantasy. So no crime dramafor us because that's the real world. We will watch a medical-typeshow."
"Western," Scotty said. "Trot-trot, bang-bang."
"Medical." Rick held out a hand dramatically. "Scalpel! Sponge! Quick,nurse, tighten the frassen-stat! The patient is going into nurbelingaspoxium!"
"Western." Scotty crouched, hand curved at his thigh. "Make your play,Brant!"
"Medical." Rick tapped an imaginary stethoscope on his palm. "I regretthat you have all the symptoms of thickus headus, Mr. Scott."
Steve held up both hands. "Whoa, Mr. Scott. You too, Dr. Brant. As theonly impartial participant, I will select. We will improve your minds byfinding a panel show about the problems of agriculture in Basutoland."
The boys groaned.
It turned out to be an entertaining TV evening, with one good showfollowing another, and the late show an exciting sea adventure filmedmany years before the boys were born, but one of their favorites fromother late-night movies. The three had no intention of staying up towatch it, but lingered for the first reel--and were lost.
It was the same with the late, late show, a horror movie so badly donethat it served as a
new type of comedy. By this time, all were too tiredto go to bed, and by mutual consent, they watched the program to theend, then rallied in the kitchen for sandwiches and coffee.
By the time the boys had retired to the houseboat, checked theirequipment, and climbed into diving suits of black neoprene with helmetsand socks, Orvil Harris was coming down the creek.
Scotty checked the runabout outboard to make sure it would start easilyand that there was plenty of gas, while Rick put their tanks andregulators aboard. Then, with a final farewell to Steve, the boys gotaboard Orvil's boat, secured the runabout to the stern, and started off.
On the way to Swamp Creek, Rick and Scotty described their plan to thecrabber. Harris slapped his thigh. "Now we're gettin' somewhere. Youjust lay the pole and rope up on the gunwale as I go by, and leave therest to me. If the thing on the bottom is too heavy, I can pull it in.Got a line to put on it?"
Rick admitted they had forgotten that detail. "We can cut a length offthe pole line."
"No need. Plenty of short lengths in that rope locker behind you. Takewhat you need."
The boys each selected a ten-foot length of half-inch nylon rope,sufficiently long for hauling the object up, if need be.
Harris asked, "Sure you can find your way underwater in the dark?"
"We have wrist compasses with luminous dials," Scotty explained.
"Good. Any danger of you comin' up under me?"
"No. We'll see the white bubbles from your prop. They'll bephosphorescent." Rick pointed to the crab boat's wake. Thousands of tinybay creatures, most of them almost invisible bits of jelly, flashed bluewhite as the prop disturbed them, so that the wake twinkled as thoughstudded with stars.
They fell silent as Harris crossed the Little Choptank, the steady beatof his motor nearly lost in the darkness. Rick could not make outdetails or landmarks, but Harris knew the way as well as he knew theinside of his own boat. Rick enjoyed the coolness of the night, and eventhe heavy scent of the salted eel the crabber used as bait.
Harris tapped each boy on the shoulder in turn, and pointed. They couldbarely make out the entrance to the creek. They nodded, and shook hands,then Rick pulled the runabout towline and brought the smaller boat tothe crabber's stern. Scotty stepped aboard and held out a hand. Rickjoined him, casting off as he embarked. In a moment they were adrift.
It took only five minutes to get their tanks in place, put on fins, andgo through their routine of checking weight belt releases, makingcertain that the emergency valves were in the "up" position on thetanks, and ensuring that regulators were operating smoothly. Rickslipped into the water with only a small splash, and Scotty followed.They took the runabout's bow rope and swam easily and quietly.
There was no hurry. Orvil Harris would need a little time to put out hislines. He would avoid the pole they had placed; its top would be abovewater at this stage of the tide.
Scotty led the way to the opening into the small waterway through whichthey had gone to the duck blind. He found it without difficulty, and forthe thousandth time Rick marveled at his pal's sure sense of positionand direction, even in darkness. The boat was pushed backward into theopening and tied to a root.
Rick rinsed his mask, put it on, and slid noiselessly under the water.Scotty followed in a direct line, letting Rick pick the course, andfollowing by the feeling of Rick's flipper wash on his cheeks.
It was like swimming in ink. Rick kept his hands out in case ofunexpected underwater objects, but forged ahead at a good speed. He kepttrack of his own rate of progress through the water by timing the numberof flutter kicks per minute. At the count of fifty he turned to theleft, heading directly into the creek's mouth. He could hear the steadybeat of Orvil's motor. When he estimated he had covered the properdistance, he stopped and let Scotty catch up with him. He put a hand onhis pal's shoulder and pressed down, a signal to hold position. Then,very carefully, he swam to the top of the water and lifted his headabove the surface. He could see the sapling a dozen yards away, slightlyto his right. Orvil was putting out lines upstream, near the point whereSwamp Creek widened into the cove.
Rick went under again and tapped Scotty. He headed for the pole, handsoutstretched to intercept it. His left hand hit it and held. Scotty camealongside and they swam to the bottom. Both gripped the pole, put finsflat against the muddy bottom, and heaved. The pole came up withoutdifficulty. While Scotty held it, Rick wrapped rope around it until theline was fully wound again. Orvil's motor was nearer now. Rick took oneend of the pole while Scotty took the other. They operated entirely bytouch; nothing was visible except the luminous dials of their compasses.The motor sound was muted in the burbling exhaust of their bubbles.
It was almost possible to stand on flipper tips with head above water.The boys thrust their heads out with care, and saw Orvil bearing down onthem, peering forward anxiously. He waved when he saw the two helmetedheads. There was a slight gleam from the masks even in the darkness. Ashe came alongside, the boys held the pole overhead, water churning undertheir flippers. Orvil bent and took it, lifted it on board, andcontinued on his path.
The boys went under again, operating on a prearranged plan. This timethey swam side by side, hands searching for the fish line. Since Rickknew the approximate position where he had tied it to the projectingstump, he led the way toward shallow water, hoping to intercept it.
The water shoaled rapidly as the boys approached the shore. Scotty'shand suddenly gripped Rick's, and Rick felt the line.
At the same instant, Rick was aware of bubbles in the water, a trail offaint phosphorescence shooting downward past his mask. Then somethingglanced from his tank and he heard a sharp clang like a brazen bell inhis ears. The impact rolled him partly over, and as he turned, anotherline of phosphorescence streaked past his eyes.
The skin on his back crawled in the blazing moment of recognition. Theywere being shot at!
The Flying Stingaree: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story Page 12