My Name is Legion Page 7

  Then on my hands and knees, gritting my teeth, I crossed to the remote-access terminal of the Information Network. Slapping at the console's control board, I succeeded in tripping the switches that brought it to life.

  Then, still on my knees, holding the screwdriver with both hands, I got the left side panel off the thing. It fell to the floor with a sound that drove spikes into my head. But the components were exposed. Three little changes and I could transmit, something that would eventually wind up in Central. I resolved that I would make those changes and send the two most damaging pieces of information I could guess at to the place where they might eventually be retrieved in association with something sufficiently similar to one day cause a query, a query that would hopefully lead to the destruction of that for which I was currently being tormented.

  I mean it! I said aloud. Stop right now! Or I'll do it!

  ... And it was like taking off a pair of unfamiliar glasses: rampant reality.

  I climbed to my feet, shut down the board.

  The next thing, I decided, was to have that cigarette I had wanted in the first place.

  With my third puff, I heard the outer door open and close.

  Dr. Barthelme, short, tan, gray on top and wiry, entered the room, blue eyes wide, one hand partly raised.

  Jim! What's wrong? he said.

  Nothing, I replied. Nothing.

  I saw you running. I saw you fall.

  Yes. I decided to sprint over here. I slipped. Pulled a muscle. It's all right.

  Why the rush?

  Nerves. I'm still edgy, upset. I had to run or something, to get it out of my system. Decided to run over and get a book. Something to read myself to sleep with.

  I can get you a tranquilizer.

  No, that's all right. Thanks. I'd rather not.

  What were you doing to the machine? We're not supposed to fool with ...

  The side panel fell off when I went past it. I was just going to put it back on. I waved the screwdriver. The little set-screws must have jiggled loose.

  Oh.

  I stooped and fitted it back into place. As I was tightening the screws, the telephone rang. Barthelme crossed to the desk, poked an extension button, and answered it.

  After a moment, he said, Yes, just a minute, and turned. It's for you.

  Really?

  I rose, moved to the desk, took the receiver, dropping the screwdriver back into the drawer and closing it. Hello? I said.

  All right, said the voice. I think we had better talk. Will you come and see me now?

  Where are you?

  At home.

  All right, I'll come. I hung up.

  Don't need that book after all, I said. I'm going over to Andros for a while.

  It's pretty late. Are you certain you feel up to it?

  Oh, I feel fine now, I said. Sorry to have worried you.

  He seemed to relax. At least, he sagged and smiled family.

  Maybe I should go take the trank, he said. Everything that's happened ... You know. You scared me.

  Well, what's happened has happened. It's all over, done.

  You're right, of course ... Well, have a good time, whatever.

  He turned toward the door and I followed him out, extinguishing the light as I passed it.

  Good night, then.

  Good night

  He headed back toward his quarters, and I made my way down to the docking area, decided on the Isabella, got in. Moments later, I was crossing over, still wondering. Curiosity may ultimately prove nature's way of dealing with the population problem.

  It was on May Day, not all that long ago, though it seems so, that I sat to the rear of the bar at Captain Tony's in Key West, to the right, near to the fireplace, drinking one of my seasonal beers. It was a little after eleven, and I had about decided that this one was a write-off, when Don came in through the big open front of the place. He glanced around, his eyes passing over me, located a vacant stool near the forward corner of the bar, took it, and ordered something. There were too many people between us, and the group had returned to the stage at the rear of the room behind me and begun another set, with a loud opening number. So, for a time, we just sat there, wondering, I guess.

  After ten or fifteen minutes, he got to his feet and made his way back to the rest room, passing around the far side of the bar. A short while later, he returned, moving around my side. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  Bill! he said. What are you doing down here?

  I turned, regarded him, grinned.

  Sam! Good Lord! We shook hands. Then, Too noisy in here to talk, he said. Let's go someplace else.

  Good idea.

  After a time, we found ourselves on a dim and deserted stretch of beach, smelling the salty breath of the ocean, listening to it, and feeling an occasional droplet.

  We halted, and I lit a cigarette.

  Did you know that the Florida current carries over two million tons of uranium past here every year? he said.

  To be honest, no, I told him.

  Well, it does ... What do you know about dolphins?

  That's better, I said. They are beautiful, friendly creatures, so well adapted to their environment that they don't have to mess it up in order to lead the life they seem to enjoy. They are highly intelligent, they're cooperative, and they seem totally lacking in all areas of maliciousness. They ...

  That's enough, and he raised his hand. You like dolphins. I knew you would say that. You sometimes remind me of one, swimming through life, not leaving traces, retrieving things for me.

  Keep me in fish. That's all.

  He nodded.

  The usual arrangement. But this one should be a relatively easy, yes-or-no thing, and not take you too long. It's quite near here, as a matter of fact, and the incident is only a few days old.

  Oh! What's involved?

  I'd like to clear a gang of dolphins of a homicide charge, he said.

  He expected me to say something, and he was disappointed. I was thinking, recalling a news account from the previous week. Two scuba-clad swimmers had been killed in one of the undersea parks to the east, at about the same time that some very peculiar activity on the part of dolphins was being observed in the same area. The men had been bitten and chewed by something possessing a jaw configuration approximating that of Tursiops truncatus, the bottle-nosed dolphin, a normal visitor and sometime resident of these same parks. The particular park in which the incident occurred had been closed until further notice. There were no witnesses to the attack, as I recalled, and I had not come across any follow-up story.

  I'm serious, he finally said.

  One of those guys was a qualified guide who knew the area, wasn't he?

  He brightened, there in the dark.

  Yes, he said. Michael Thomley. He used to do some moonlighting as a guide. He was a full-time employee of the Beltrane Processing people. Did underwater repair and maintenance at their extraction plants. Ex-Navy. Frogman. Extremely qualified. The other fellow was a landlubber friend of his from Andros. Rudy Myers. They went out together at an odd hour, stayed rather long. In the meantime, several dolphins were seen getting the hell out, fast. They leaped the 'wall,' instead of passing through the locks. Others used the normal exits. These were blinking on and off like mad. In a matter of a few minutes, actually, every dolphin in the park had apparently departed. When an employee went looking for Mike and Rudy, he found them dead.

  Where do you come into the picture?

  The Institute of Delphinological Studies does not appreciate the bad press this gives their subject. They maintain there has never been an authenticated case of an unprovoked attack by a dolphin on a human being. They are anxious not to have this go on record as one, if it really isn't.

  Well, it hasn't actually been established. Perhaps something else did it. Scared the dolphins, too.

  I have no idea, he said, lighting a cigarette of his own. But it was not all that long ago that the killing of dolphins was finally made illegal throu
ghout the world, and that the pioneer work of people like Lilly came to be appreciated, with a really large-scale project set up for the assessment of the creature. They have come up with some amazing results, as you must know. It is no longer a question of trying to demonstrate whether a dolphin is as intelligent as a man. It has been established that they are highly intelligent, although their minds work along radically different lines, so that there probably never can be a true comparison. This is the basic reason for the continuing communication problems, and it is also a matter of which the general public is pretty much aware. Given this, our client does not like the inferences that could be drawn from the incident, namely, that powerful, free-ranging creatures of this order of intelligence could become hostile to man.

  So the Institute hired you to look into it?

  Not officially. I was approached because the character of the thing smacks of my sort of investigation specialties as well as the scientific. Mainly, though, it was because of the urgings of a wealthy little old lady who may someday leave the Institute a fortune: Mrs. Lydia Bames, former president of the Friends of the Dolphin Society, the citizen group that had lobbied for the initial dolphin legislation years ago. She is really paying my fee.

  What sort of place in the picture did you have in mind for me?

  Beltrane will want a replacement for Michael Thomley. Do you think you could get the job?

  Maybe. Tell me more about Beltrane and the parks.

  Well, he said, I guess it was a generation or so back that Dr. Spencer at Harwell demonstrated that titanium hydroxide would create a chemical reaction that separated uranyl ions from seawater. It was costly, though, and it was not until years later that Samuel Beltrane came along with his screening technique, founded a small company, and quickly tamed it into a large one, with uranium-extraction stations all along this piece of the Gulf Stream. While his process was quite clean, environmentally speaking, he was setting up in business at a time when public pressure on industry was such that some gesture of ecological concern was pretty much de rigueur. So he threw a lot of money, equipment, and man-hours into the setting up of the four undersea parks in the vicinity of the island of Andros. A section of the barrier reef makes one of them especially attractive. He got a nice tax break on the deal. Deserved, though, I'd say. He cooperated with the dolphin studies people, and labs were set up for them in the parks. Each of the four areas is enclosed by a sonic 'wall', a sound barrier that keeps everything outside out and everything inside in, in terms of the larger creatures. Except for men and dolphins. At a number of points, the 'wall' possesses 'sound locks', a pair of sonic curtains, several meters apart, which are operated by means of a simple control located on the bottom. Dolphins are capable of teaching one another how to use it, and they are quite good about closing the door behind them. They come and go, visiting the labs at will, both learning from and, I guess, teaching the investigators.

  Stop, I said. What about sharks?

  They were removed from the parks first thing. The dolphins even helped chase them out. It has been over a decade now since the last one was put out.

  I see. What say does the company have in running the parks?

  None, really. They service the equipment now, that's all.

  Do many of the Beltrane people work as park guides too?

  A few, part-time. They are in the area, they know it well, they have all the necessary skills.

  I would like to see whatever medical reports there were.

  I have them here, complete with photos of the bodies.

  What about the man from Andros, Rudy Myers? What did he do?

  He'd trained as a nurse. Worked in several homes for the aged. Taken in a couple of times on charges of stealing from the patients. Charges dropped once. A suspended sentence the second time. Sort of blackballed from that line of work afterward. That was six or seven years back. Held a variety of small jobs then and kept a clean record. He had been working on the island for the past couple of years in a sort of bar.

  What do you mean 'sort of bar'?

  It has only an alcohol license, but it serves drugs, too. It's way out in the boonies, though, so nobody's ever raised a fuss.

  What's the place called?

  The Chickcharny.

  What's that mean?

  A piece of local folklore. A chickcharny is a sort of tree spirit. Mischievous. Like an elf.

  Colorful enough, I guess ... Isn't Andros where Martha Millay, the photographer, makes her home?

  Yes, it is.

  I'm a fan of hers. I like underwater photography, and hers is always good. In fact, she did several books on dolphins. Has anyone thought to ask her opinion of the killings?

  She's been away.

  Oh. Hope she gets back soon. I'd like to meet her.

  Then you will take the job?

  Yes, I need one just now.

  He reached into his jacket, withdrew a heavy envelope, passed it to me.

  There you have copies of everything I have. Needless to say ...

  Needless to say, I said, the life of a mayfly will be as eternity to them.

  I slipped it into my own jacket and turned away.

  Be seeing you, I said.

  Leaving already?

  I've a lot to do.

  Good luck, then.

  Thanks.

  I went left and he went right, and that was that for then.

  Station One was something of a nerve center for the area. That is, it was larger than the other extraction plants and contained the field office, several laboratories, a library, a museum, a dispensary, living quarters, and a few recreational features. It was an artificial island, a fixed platform about seven hundred feet across, and it monitored and serviced eight other plants within the area. It was within sight of Andros, largest of the Bahama Islands, and if you like plenty of water about you, which I do, you would find the prospect peaceful and more than a little attractive.

  After the tour and introductions that first day, I learned that my duties were about one-third routine and two-thirds response to circumstances. The routine part was inspection and preventive maintenance. The rest was unforeseen repair, retrieval, and replacement work, general underwater handyman stuff whenever the necessity arose.

  It was Dr. Leonard Barthelme, the Area Director, who met me and showed me around. A pleasant little fellow who seemed to enjoy talking about his work, muddle-aged, a widower, he had made his home at Station One for almost five years. The first person to whom be introduced me was Frank Cashel, whom we found in the main laboratory, eating a sandwich and waiting for some test to run its course.

  Frank swallowed and smiled, rose, and shook hands with me as Barthelme explained, This is the new man, James Madison.

  He was dark, with a touch of gray here and there, a few creases accentuating a ruggedness of jawline and cheekbone, the beginnings of a bulge above his belt.

  Glad to have you around, he said. Keep an eye out for pretty rocks, and bring me a branch of coral every now and then. Well get along fine.

  Frank's hobby is collecting minerals, Barthelme said. The display in the museum is his. We'll pass that way in a few minutes and you can see it. Quite interesting.

  I nodded.

  Okay. I'll remember. See what I can find you.

  Know anything about the subject? Frank asked me.

  A little. I used to be something of a rock hound.

  Well, I'd appreciate it.

  As we walked away, Barthelme remarked, He makes some money on the side selling specimens at gem shows. I would bear that in mind before I gave him too much in the way of my spare time, or samples.

  Oh.

  What I mean is, if you feel like going in for that sort of thing on a more than occasional basis, you ought to make it clear that you want a percentage.

  I see. Thanks.

  Don't misunderstand me, he said. He's a fine fellow. Just a little absentminded.

  How long has he been out here?

  Around two years. Geoph
ysicist. Very solid.

  We stopped by the equipment shed then, where I met Andy Deems and Paul Carter: the former, thin and somewhat sinister in appearance because of a scribbling of scars on his left cheek, which a full beard did not completely conceal; the latter, tall, fair, smooth-faced, and somewhere between husky and fat. They were cleaning some tanks when we entered, and wiped their hands, shook mine, and said they were glad to meet me. They both did the same sort of work I would be doing, the normal staffing calling for four of us, working in pairs. The fourth man was Paul Vallons, who was currently out with Ronald Davies, the boatmaster, replacing an instrument package in a sampler buoy. Paul, I learned, had been Mike's partner, the two of them having been friends since their Navy days. I would be working with him much of the time.

  You will soon be reduced to this miserable state yourself, Carter said cheerfully, as we were leaving. Enjoy your morning. Gather rosebuds.

  You are miserable because you sweat most obscenely, Deems observed.

  Tell it to my glands.

  As we crossed the islet, Barthelme observed that Deems was the most capable underwater man he had ever met. He had lived in one of the bubble cities for a time, lost his wife and daughter in the RUMOKO II disaster, and come topside to stay. Carter had come across from the West Coast about five months ago, immediately following a divorce or separation he did not care to talk about. He had been employed by Beltrane out there and had requested a transfer.

  Barthelme took me through the second lab, which was vacant just then, so that I could admire the large, illuminated map of the seas about Andros, beads of light indicating the disposition and well-being of the devices that maintained the sonic 'walls' about the parks and stations. I saw that we were enclosed by a boundary that took in the nearest park also.

  In which one was the accident? I asked. He turned and studied my face, then pointed, indicating our own.

  It was farther in, over there, he said. Toward the northeast end of the park. What have you heard about it?

  Just the news report, I said. Has anything new been discovered?

  No. Nothing.

  With my fingertip, I traced the reversed L of lights that outlined the area.

  No holes in the 'wall'? I asked.