I
The big gaff-headed schooner was pointed directly at the reef-enclosed
island, moving toward it with the solidity of an express train. The
sails billowed under powerful gusts of the northwest breeze, and the
rusty Allison-Chambers diesel rumbled beneath a teak grating. The
skipper and mate stood on the bridge deck and watched the reef approach.
"Anything yet?" the skipper asked. He was a stocky, balding man with
a perpetual frown on his face. He had been sailing his schooner among
the uncharted shoals and reefs of the Southwest Pacific for twenty-five
years. He frowned because his old ship was not insurable. His deck
cargo, however, _was_ insured. Some of it had come all the way from
Ogdensville, that transshipment center in the desert where spaceships
landed.
"Not a thing," the mate said. He was watching the dazzling white wall
of coral, looking for the gleam of blue that would reveal the narrow
pass to the inner lagoon. This was his first trip to the Solomon
Islands. A former television repairman in Sydney before he got the
wanderlust, the mate wondered if the skipper had gone crazy and planned
a spectacular suicide against the reef.
"Still nothing!" he shouted. "Shoals ahead!"
"I'll take it," the skipper said to the helmsman. He gripped the wheel
and watched the unbroken face of the reef.
"Nothing," the mate said. "Skipper, we'd better come about."
"Not if we're going to get through the pass," the skipper said. He was
beginning to get worried. But he had promised to deliver goods to the
American treasure-hunters on this island, and the skipper's word was
his bond. He had picked up the cargo in Rabaul and made his usual stops
at the settlements on New Georgia and Malaita. When he finished here,
he could look forward to a thousand-mile run to New Caledonia.
"There it is!" the mate shouted.
A thin slit of blue had appeared in the coral wall. They were less than
thirty yards from it now, and the old schooner was making close to
eight knots.
* * * * *
As the ship entered the pass, the skipper threw the wheel hard over.
The schooner spun on its keel. Coral flashed by on either side, close
enough to touch. There was a metallic shriek as an upper main-mast
spreader snagged and came free. Then they were in the pass, bucking a
six-knot current.
The mate pushed the diesel to full throttle, then sprang back to help
the skipper wrestle with the wheel. Under sail and power the schooner
forged through the pass, scraped by an outcropping to port, and came
onto the placid surface of the lagoon.
The skipper mopped his forehead with a large blue bandanna. "Very snug
work," he said.
"_Snug!_" the mate cried. He turned away, and the skipper smiled a
brief smile.
They slid past a small ketch riding at anchor. The native hands took
down sail and the schooner nosed up to a rickety pier that jutted out
from the beach. Lines were made fast to palm trees. From the fringe of
jungle above the beach a white man came down, walking briskly in the
noonday heat.
He was very tall and thin, with knobby knees and elbows. The fierce
Melanesian sun had burned out but not tanned him, and his nose and
cheekbones were peeling. His horn-rimmed glasses had broken at the
hinge and been repaired with a piece of tape. He looked eager, boyish,
and curiously naive.
One hell-of-a-looking treasure-hunter, the mate thought.
"Glad to see you!" the man called out. "We'd about given you up for
lost."
"Not likely," the skipper said. "Mr. Sorensen, I'd like you to meet my
new mate, Mr. Willis."
"Glad to meet you, Professor," the mate said.
"I'm not a professor," Sorensen said, "but thanks anyhow."
"Where are the others?" the skipper asked.
"Out in the jungle," Sorensen said. "All except Drake, and he'll be
down here shortly. You'll stay a while, won't you?"
"Only to unload," the skipper said. "Have to catch the tide out of
here. How's the treasure-hunting?"
"We've done a lot of digging," Sorensen said. "We still have our hopes."
"But no doubloons yet?" the skipper asked. "No pieces of eight?"
"Not a damned one," Sorensen said wearily. "Did you bring the
newspapers, Skipper?"
"That I did," Sorensen replied. "They're in the cabin. Did you hear
about that second spaceship going to Mars?"
"Heard about it on the short wave," Sorensen said. "It didn't bring
back much, did it?"
"Practically nothing. Still, just think of it. _Two_ spaceships to
Mars, and I hear they're getting ready to put one on Venus."
The three men looked around them and grinned.
"Well," the skipper said, "I guess maybe the space age hasn't reached
the Southwest Pacific yet. And it certainly hasn't gotten to _this_
place. Come on, let's unload the cargo."
* * * * *
This place was the island of Vuanu, southernmost of the Solomons,
almost in the Louisade Archipelago. It was a fair-sized volcanic
island, almost twenty miles long and several wide. Once it had
supported half a dozen native villages. But the population had begun to
decline after the depredations of the blackbirders in the 1850s. Then
a measles epidemic wiped out almost all the rest, and the survivors
emigrated to New Georgia. A ship-watcher had been stationed here during
the Second World War, but no ships had come this way. The Japanese
invasion had poured across New Guinea and the upper Solomons, and
further north through Micronesia. At the end of the war Vuanu was still
deserted. It was not made into a bird sanctuary like Canton Island,
or a cable station like Christmas Island, or a refueling point like
Cocos-Keeling. No one even wanted to explode alphabet bombs on it.
Vuanu was a worthless, humid, jungle-covered piece of land, free to
anyone who wanted it.
William Sorensen, general manager of a chain of liquor stores in
California, decided he wanted it.
Sorensen's hobby was treasure-hunting. He had looked for Lafitte's
treasure in Louisiana and Texas, and for the Lost Dutchman Mine
in Arizona. He had found neither. His luck had been better on the
wreck-strewn Gulf coast, and on an expedition to Dagger Cay in the
Caribbean he had found a double handful of Spanish coins in a rotting
canvas bag. The coins were worth about three thousand dollars. The
expedition had cost very much more, but Sorensen felt amply repaid.
For many years he had been interested in the Spanish treasure galleon
_Santa Teresa_. Contemporary accounts told how the ship, heavily laden
with bullion, sailed from Manila in 1689. The clumsy ship, caught in a
storm, had run off to the south and been wrecked. Eighteen survivors
managed to get ashore with the treasure. They buried it, and set sail
for the Phillipines in the ship's pinnacle. Two of them were alive when
the boat reached Manila.
The treasure island was tentatively identified as one of the Solomons.
But which one?
No one knew. Treasure-hunters looked for the cache on Bougainville
and Buka. There was a rumor about it on Malaita, and even Ontong Java
received an expedition. But no treasure was recovered.
Sorensen, researching the problem thoroughly, decided that the _Santa
Teresa_ had sailed completely through the Solomons, almost to the
Louisades. The ship must have escaped destruction until it crashed into
the reef at Vuanu.
His desire to search for the treasure might have remained only a dream
if he hadn't met Dan Drake. Drake was also an amateur treasure-hunter.
More important, he owned a fifty-five-foot Hanna ketch.
Over an evening's drinks the Vuanu expedition was born.
Additional members were recruited. Drake's ketch was put into seagoing
condition, equipment and money saved or gathered. Several other
possible treasure sites in the Southwest Pacific were researched.
Finally, vacation time was synchronized and the expedition got under
way.
They had put in three months' work on Vuanu already. Their morale was
high, in spite of inevitable conflicts between members. This schooner,
bringing in supplies from Sydney and Rabaul, was the last civilized
contact they would have for another six months.
* * * * *
While Sorensen nervously supervised, the crew of the schooner unloaded
the cargo. He didn't want any of the equipment, some of it shipped over
six thousand miles, to be broken now. No replacements were possible;
whatever they didn't have, they would have to do without. He breathed
out in relief when the last crate, containing a metals detector, was
safely hoisted over the side and put on the beach above the high-water
mark.
There was something odd about that box. He examined it and found a
quarter-sized hole in one end. It had not been properly sealed.
Dan Drake, the co-manager of the expedition, joined him. "What's
wrong?" Drake asked.
"Hole in that crate," Sorensen said. "Salt water might have gotten in.
We'll be in tough shape if this detector doesn't work."
Drake nodded. "We better open it and see." He was a short, deeply
tanned, broad-chested man with close-cropped black hair and a straggly
mustache. He wore an old yachting cap jammed down over his eyes, giving
his face a tough bulldog look. He pulled a big screwdriver from his
belt and inserted it into the crack.
"Wait a moment," Sorensen said. "Let's get it up to the camp first.
Easier to carry the crate than something packed in grease."
"Right," Drake said. "Take the other end."
The camp was built in a clearing a hundred yards from the beach, on the
site of an abandoned native village. They had been able to re-thatch
several huts, and there was an old copra shed with a galvanized iron
roof where they stored their supplies. Here they got the benefit of any
breeze from the sea. Beyond the clearing, the gray-green jungle sprang
up like a solid wall.
Sorensen and Drake set the case down. The skipper, who had accompanied
them with the newspapers, looked around at the bleak huts and shook his
head.
"Would you like a drink, Skipper?" Sorensen asked. "Afraid we can't
offer any ice."
"A drink would be fine," the skipper said. He wondered what drove
men to a godforsaken place like this in search of imaginary Spanish
treasure.
Sorensen went into one of the huts and brought out a bottle of Scotch
and a tin cup. Drake had taken out his screwdriver and was vigorously
ripping boards off the crate.
"How does it look?" Sorensen asked.
"It's OK," Drake said, gently lifting out the metals detector. "Heavily
greased. Doesn't seem like there was any damage--"
He jumped back. The skipper had come forward and stamped down heavily
on the sand.
"What's the matter?" Sorensen asked.
"Looked like a scorpion," the skipper said. "Damned thing crawled right
out of your crate there. Might have bit you."
* * * * *
Sorensen shrugged. He had gotten used to the presence of an infinite
number of insects during his three months on Vuanu. Another bug more or
less didn't seem to make much difference.
"Another drink?" he asked.
"Can't do it," the skipper said regretfully. "I'd better get started.
All your party healthy?"
"All healthy so far," Sorensen said. He smiled. "Except for some bad
cases of gold fever."
"You'll never find gold in this place," the skipper said seriously.
"I'll look in on you in about six months. Good luck."
After shaking hands, the skipper went down to the beach and boarded his
ship. As the first pink flush of sunset touched the sky, the schooner
was under way. Sorensen and Drake watched it negotiate the pass. For a
few minutes its masts were visible above the reef. Then they had dipped
below the horizon.
"That's that," Drake said. "Us crazy American treasure-hunters are
alone again."
"You don't think he suspected anything?" Sorensen asked.
"Definitely not. As far as he's concerned, we're just crackpots."
Grinning, they looked back at their camp. Under the copra shed was
nearly fifty thousand dollars worth of gold and silver bullion, dug out
of the jungle and carefully reburied. They had located a part of the
_Santa Teresa_ treasure during their first month on the island. There
was every indication of more to come. Since they had no legal title to
the land, the expedition was not eager to let the news get out. Once it
was known, every gold-hungry vagabond from Perth to Papeete would be
heading to Vuanu.
"The boy'll be in soon," Drake said. "Let's get some stew going."
"Right," Sorensen said. He took a few steps and stopped. "That's funny."
"What is?"
"That scorpion the skipper squashed. It's gone."
"Maybe he missed it," Drake said. "Or maybe he just pushed it down into
the sand. What difference does it make?"
"None, I guess," Sorensen said.