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!