Night Recovery
On the way back from the airport, Steve Ames listened intently to the report of the day's activities, but delayed comment until supplies had been purchased, and a dozen eggs turned into an omelet that a French chef might have praised.
Rick was eager to discuss the whole affair with Steve, but the young agent was adroit at fending off questions without being rude, and finally the boy gave up.
Over after-dinner coffee, Steve smiled at both of them. "End of today's lesson in patience, which is one virtue neither of you has developed sufficiently. Okay, where are those two pictures?"
Scotty whipped them from the breast pocket of his shirt and handed them over without comment. Steve studied them for long minutes, then went to a table and took a magnifying glass from the table drawer. He placed the pictures directly under a lamp and studied them with the aid of the magnifier.
"It is Thomas Camillion," he said finally. "Your friend Sandy Allen has 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 certain that 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've never seen him in person, or had any reason to study him. Crime isn't JANIG's business. Second, one expects to see a duck near water, or a squirrel near a tree. Criminals are generally found near centers of crime. They're not common in historic mansions, far from large population centers, so one doesn't expect to find them there. My reasons for not recognizing Camillion, without Allen's identification, are exactly the same as yours."
"It's just that we expect you to know everything," Scotty said half-seriously.
"Then I'm glad you're learning better. Joking aside, it's interesting that Camillion should be here. It's even more interesting that his sidekick is a crooked electronics engineer or scientist. When you add flying stingarees to that combination, it totals up to something novel in 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 know something we don't?"
"Not yet," Steve said, and grinned at their expressions. "I mean that literally. I think I may possibly know something, but the evidence isn't in yet. It's that computer run I mentioned. We should have the results tomorrow."
"All right," Rick said. He knew better than to push Steve for more information. The agent went in for speculation only when it served a purpose. With only a hint of evidence, he avoided guessing until the evidence had been checked out. "We figured out that the flying stingarees probably are balloons," Rick reported, recapitulating their conclusions of the previous evening.
Steve nodded approvingly. "Very good reasoning. Now connect up an electronics crook, Camillion, and that peculiar antenna."
"The balloons carry radio equipment," Scotty said promptly. "The antenna picks up their signals."
Steve nodded again. "That's reasonable. Now, why do the balloons carry radio equipment? And why are they launched?"
"We're like a dog chasing his tail," Rick said with a grin. "We're not getting anywhere, but we're covering plenty of ground."
"Maybe we are getting somewhere," Steve corrected. "You found something today that may be the balloon payload. You also found out that people from the mansion were interested in your activities, but didn't want to be 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 goes crabbing in the middle of the night, he might foul a prop on the stake we 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'll help 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't show at night, and have our Scuba equipment on. Harris could come by and take the runabout in tow with us in it. We would drop off near the creek entrance and push the runabout into the channel where it would be hidden. Then we would swim into the cove and recover the object. With two 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 it into Orvil's boat. Of course we'll pull up the sapling and hand that to Orvil. 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 aboard and come home."
Rick concluded, "With Orvil's motor going, no one would hear our bubbles."
Steve had followed the plan carefully. "Fair enough," he agreed. "It's a good plan. No one will see you enter the cove, and no one will see you leave. 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 own later 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 it brings 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 a lone hand. Rick, you phone Orvil Harris and make arrangements."
Rick consulted the telephone directory and turned to Steve. "Any chance the line may be bugged?"
"I doubt it. You might ask Orvil if he's on a party line, though. If he is, be careful. If not, go ahead and talk."
Orvil Harris had a private line, so Rick described their adventure in the cove and asked for the crabber's help. Harris responded at once, as the boys had known he would.
"I'll come by at half past three. You hook on and I'll tow you to the mouth of the creek, then you cut loose. We'll fix up the details when I see you."
Rick thanked him and hung up. "All set," he reported. "But we'll get little sleep tonight."
"It's only about eight," Steve pointed out. "You could go to bed right away." He managed to say it with a straight face.
"We could," Scotty agreed. "But we won't. How about a little television tonight?"
Steve waved a hand. "Take your pick. Medical drama, crime drama, western drama."
"The purpose of television drama," Rick declared, "is to provide an escape from the real world into the world of fantasy. So no crime drama for us because that's the real world. We will watch a medical-type show."
"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 nurbeling aspoxium!"
"Western." Scotty crouched, hand curved at his thigh. "Make your play, Brant!"
"Medical." Rick tapped an imaginary stethoscope on his palm. "I regret that you have all the symptoms of thickus headus, Mr. Scott."
Steve held up both hands. "Whoa, Mr. Scott. You too, Dr. Brant. As the only impartial participant, I will select. We will improve your minds by finding 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 show following another, and the late show an exciting sea adventure filmed many years before the boys were born, but one of their favorites from other late-night movies. The three had no intention of staying up to watch it, but lingered for the first reel—and were lost.
It was the same with the late, late show, a horror movie so badly done that it served as a new type of comedy. By this time, all were too tired to go to bed, and by mutual consent, they watched the program to the end, then rallied in the kitchen for sandwiches and coffee.
By the time the boys had retired to the houseboat, checked their equipment, and climbed into diving suits of black neoprene with helmets and socks, Orvil Harris was coming down the creek.
Scotty checked the runabout outboard to make sure it would start easily and that there was plenty of gas, while Rick put their tanks and regulators aboard. Then, with a final farewell to Steve, the boys got aboard 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 the crabber. Harris slapped his thigh. "Now we're gettin' somewhere. You just lay the pole and rope up on the gunwale as I go by, and leave the rest 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 off the pole line."
"No need. Plenty of short lengths in that rope locker behind you. Take what 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 be phosphorescent." Rick pointed to the crab boat's wake. Thousands of tiny bay creatures, most of them almost invisible bits of jelly, flashed blue white as the prop disturbed them, so that the wake twinkled as though studded with stars.
They fell silent as Harris crossed the Little Choptank, the steady beat of his motor nearly lost in the darkness. Rick could not make out details or landmarks, but Harris knew the way as well as he knew the inside of his own boat. Rick enjoyed the coolness of the night, and even the heavy scent of the salted eel the crabber used as bait.
Harris tapped each boy on the shoulder in turn, and pointed. They could barely make out the entrance to the creek. They nodded, and shook hands, then Rick pulled the runabout towline and brought the smaller boat to the crabber's stern. Scotty stepped aboard and held out a hand. Rick joined 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, and go through their routine of checking weight belt releases, making certain that the emergency valves were in the "up" position on the tanks, and ensuring that regulators were operating smoothly. Rick slipped 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 his lines. He would avoid the pole they had placed; its top would be above water at this stage of the tide.
Scotty led the way to the opening into the small waterway through which they had gone to the duck blind. He found it without difficulty, and for the thousandth time Rick marveled at his pal's sure sense of position and direction, even in darkness. The boat was pushed backward into the opening 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, and following by the feeling of Rick's flipper wash on his cheeks.
It was like swimming in ink. Rick kept his hands out in case of unexpected underwater objects, but forged ahead at a good speed. He kept track of his own rate of progress through the water by timing the number of flutter kicks per minute. At the count of fifty he turned to the left, heading directly into the creek's mouth. He could hear the steady beat of Orvil's motor. When he estimated he had covered the proper distance, he stopped and let Scotty catch up with him. He put a hand on his 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 head above the surface. He could see the sapling a dozen yards away, slightly to his right. Orvil was putting out lines upstream, near the point where Swamp Creek widened into the cove.
Rick went under again and tapped Scotty. He headed for the pole, hands outstretched to intercept it. His left hand hit it and held. Scotty came alongside and they swam to the bottom. Both gripped the pole, put fins flat against the muddy bottom, and heaved. The pole came up without difficulty. While Scotty held it, Rick wrapped rope around it until the line was fully wound again. Orvil's motor was nearer now. Rick took one end of the pole while Scotty took the other. They operated entirely by touch; 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 on them, peering forward anxiously. He waved when he saw the two helmeted heads. There was a slight gleam from the masks even in the darkness. As he came alongside, the boys held the pole overhead, water churning under their flippers. Orvil bent and took it, lifted it on board, and continued on his path.
The boys went under again, operating on a prearranged plan. This time they swam side by side, hands searching for the fish line. Since Rick knew the approximate position where he had tied it to the projecting stump, he led the way toward shallow water, hoping to intercept it.
The water shoaled rapidly as the boys approached the shore. Scotty's hand suddenly gripped Rick's, and Rick felt the line.
At the same instant, Rick was aware of bubbles in the water, a trail of faint phosphorescence shooting downward past his mask. Then something glanced from his tank and he heard a sharp clang like a brazen bell in his ears. The impact rolled him partly over, and as he turned, another line of phosphorescence streaked past his eyes.
The skin on his back crawled in the blazing moment of recognition. They were being shot at!