One of the motionless bodies laid out on the deck stirred. It was the diver. 'Sunde,' I called.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he got to his feet and came aft. 'Where are we meeting your partner?' I asked.
'Fjaerland,' he answered.
'He'll be coming up to Fjaerland in Einar Sandven's boat?'
'Ja.'
'When?'
'Dunno. Yer see, Oi only left a message fer 'im.'
'So he might be coming down the fjord right now?'
'That's roight.' He shaded his eyes and gazed up the wide stretch of shimmering water. Then he picked up the glasses. But he shook his head. 'Don't see 'im,' he said.
I took the glasses from him and examined the wide sweep of the fjord. There were several boats in sight, but none small enough. I swung the glasses towards the mountains and the narrowing gap of Fjaerlandsfjord. Fir-clad slopes dropped steeply to water that was curiously different in colour — a cold green. On a tongue of land that was green and fertile the white facade of a big hotel gleamed in the sunlight. It was all very peaceful and serene. The tongue of land was Balestrand and a steamer was moving in to the quay. A white plume of steam showed for an instant above its red funnel. A moment later the mountains reverberated to the distant sound of the vessel's siren.