Chapter 4

Westervelt sat at his little desk in the corner, doodling out possible ways and means of breaking out of a cell thirty fathoms or so under water. From time to time Beryl or Simonetta offered a suggestion. He knew that everyone in the office was probably engaged in the same puzzle. Smith believed in general brain-storming in getting a project started, since no one could tell where a good idea might not originate.

“If I ever get into space,” Willie muttered, “it will never be to a planet as wet as Trident. What ever made this Harris think he was a pearl diver?”

“Is that what he was after?” asked Beryl.

“No, I just made that up.”

He glanced over at Simonetta, who winked and continued with the letter she was transcribing. An earphone reproduced Smith’s dictation from his tape. As she listened, she edited mentally and spoke into the microphone of her typing machine, which transcribed her words as type. Westervelt realized that it was more difficult than it seemed to do the job so smoothly. He had noticed Beryl rewriting letters two or three times, and Parrish was more likely than the boss to set down his thoughts in a logical order.

“I’ve heard so many wild ideas in this office,” said Beryl, “that I simply don’t know where to start. How do they decide on a good way?”

“They guess, just the way we’ve been doing. They’re better guessers than we are, from experience.”

“It’s just a matter of judgment, I suppose,” Beryl admitted.

“They make their share of mistakes,” Simonetta put in.

“Yeah, I read an old report on a great one,” said Westervelt. “Ever hear of the time they were shipping oxygen tanks to three spacers jailed out around Mizar?”

Simonetta stopped talking her letter, and the girls gave Willie their attention.

“It seems,” he continued, “that an exploring ship landed on a planet of that star and found a kind of civilization they hadn’t bargained for. The natives breathed air with a high chlorine content; so when they grabbed three of the crew for hostages, the ship had to keep supplying fresh tanks of oxygen.”

“How long could they keep that up?” asked Beryl.

“Not indefinitely, anyway. They weren’t recovering any carbon dioxide for processing, the way they would in the ship. The captain figured he’d better lift and orbit while he tried to negotiate. Meanwhile, he sent to the Department for help, and they came up with a poor guess.”

“What?”

“They got the captain to disguise some spacesuit rockets as oxygen tanks and send them down by the auxiliary rocket they were using to make deliveries and keep contact. The idea was that the prisoners would fly themselves over the walls like angels, the rocket would snatch them up, and they’d all filter the green-white light of Mizar from their lenses forever.”

“And why didn’t it work?”

“Oh, it worked,” said Westervelt. “It worked beautifully. The only trouble was that when they got these three guys aboard and were picking up stellar speed, they found that the Mizarians had pulled a little sleight of hand. They’d stuck three of their own into the Terran spacesuits--pretty cramped, but able to move--and sent them to spy out the ship. Well, the captain took one look and realized it was all over. He couldn’t supply the Mizarians with enough chlorine to keep them alive until they could be sent back. He just kept going.”

“But the men they left behind!” exclaimed Beryl. “What happened to them?”

Westervelt shrugged.

“They never exactly found out.”

Beryl, horrified, turned to Simonetta, who stared reflectively at the wall.

“For all we know,” said the dark girl, “they were dead already.”

“It was about even,” said Westervelt. “The Mizarians never heard exactly what happened to theirs either.”

There was a period of silence while they considered that angle. Simonetta finally said, “Why don’t you tell her about the time they gave that spacer the hormone treatment for a disguise?”

“Oh ... you tell it,” said Westervelt, trapped. “You know it better than I do.”

“That one,” began Simonetta, “happened on a world where there’s a colony from Terra that isn’t much talked about. It’s a sort of Amazon culture, and they don’t allow men. They were set to execute this fellow who smuggled himself in for a lark, when the Department started shipping him drugs that changed his appearance.”

Westervelt admired Beryl’s wide-eyed intentness.

“Finally,” Simonetta continued, “his appearance changed so much that he could dress up and pass for a woman anywhere. He just walked out when the next scheduled spaceship landed, and was halfway back to Terra before they finished searching the woods for him. It made trouble, though.”

“What happened?” breathed Beryl.

“They never quite succeeded in changing him back. His wife wound up divorcing him for infidelity when he gave birth to twins.”

Beryl straightened up abruptly.

“Oh... ! You--come on, now!”

Westervelt reminded himself that the blush must have resulted less from the joke than from having been taken in. They were still laughing when a buzzer sounded at Beryl’s desk phone. She flipped the switch, listened for a moment, then rose with a toss of her blonde head at Westervelt.

“Mr. Parrish wants me to help him research in the dead files,” she said. “I bet he won’t try that kind of gag on me!”

“No,” muttered Westervelt as she strode out, “he has some all his own.”

He looked up to find Simonetta watching him with a grin. She shook her head ruefully as Westervelt grew a flush to match Beryl’s.

“Willie, Willie!” she said sadly. “You aren’t letting that bottle blonde bother you? I didn’t think you were that kind of boy!”

Westervelt grinned back, at some cost.

“Is there another kind?” he asked. “After, all, Si, she’s only been around a few weeks. It’s the novelty. I’ll get used to her.”

“Sure you will,” said Simonetta.

She returned to her letters, and Westervelt hunched over his desk to brood. He wondered what Parrish and Beryl were up to in the file room. He could think of no innocent reason to wander in on business of his own. Perhaps, he reflected, he did not really want to; he might overhear something he would regret.

He passed some time without directing a single thought to the problems of the Department. Then the door beyond Simonetta opened and Smith strolled out. He carried a pad as if he, too, had been doodling.

“Well, Willie,” he said cheerfully, “what are we going to do about this Harris fellow?”

“All I can think of, Mr. Smith, is to offer to trade them a few people we could do without,” said Westervelt.

Smith grinned. He seemed to be willing to make up a little list.

“Some who never would be missed, eh? And let’s head the page with people who take messages from thinking fish!”

He pottered about for a few moments before winding up seated on a corner of the unoccupied secretarial desk.

“I was actually thinking of skin divers,” he confided. “Then I realized that if it takes a twenty foot monster to wander the undersea wilds of Trident without being intimidated, maybe those waters wouldn’t be too safe for Terran swimmers.”

“Unless they could get one of the monsters for a guide,” suggested Westervelt.

The three of them pondered that possibility.

“I can see it now,” said Simonetta. “My name Swishy. Me good guide. You want find pearl? Not allowed here; we no steal from other fish!”

They laughed, and Smith demanded to know how one thought in pidgin talk. They discussed the probability of fraud in the reports that Smith had received, and concluded reluctantly that, whether or not some trick might be involved, there was bound to be some truth in the story.

“I suppose we’ll have to use this fishy network to locate him,” sighed Smith at last. “It would take too long to ship out parts of a small sub to be assembled on Trident. The whole thing makes me wonder if I’ll ever eat another seafood dinner!”

“Maybe somebody else will think of something,” said Westervelt, partly to conceal the fact that he himself had come up with nothing.

“Tell you what,” said Smith, nodding. “Suppose you go along and see how Bob Lydman is making out, while I sign these letters. You might check at the com room sometime, too, in case anything else on the case comes in.”