"Wilson, Richard - Transitory Island" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Richard)

his hand. "Why, it's cool!" he exclaimed. "This warrants investigation."
CHARLIE HAYES was an American with a comfortable fortune who had bought himself
a plane and was determined to see the world as he chose, unassisted by steamship
lines or travel agencies. With his plane and pilot, Art Murray--a young man of
doubtful background but excellent qualifications--he had set out from San
Francisco early in July and, after a brief stop in Honolulu, headed southwest in
the general direction of Fiji. Halfway there he had found Doug and his island.
But the island seemed to defy him. It was certainly not rock. Hayes tried to
take a sample of it to test in the miniature laboratory aboard the plane, but
succeeded only in breaking a drill without marring the island's surface.
"Looks like it's no use, boss," said Murray, as he coiled the wire that was
attached to the drill.
"Nevertheless, I'm not giving up just yet. There must be an answer." Charlie
Hayes turned to Doug. "If you don't mind deferring your rescue for a day or so."
"Not a bit," replied Doug. "Now that someone's started me thinking about it, I'm
as interested as you are."
"Fine," said Hayes. He squinted at the horizon. They had spent the entire
afternoon in their attempts at analysis. "It's getting too dark to do anything
more tonight. We'll get an early start tomorrow."
But the next day Charlie Hayes had something else to worry about. Art Murray,
the pilot, had disappeared. He wasn't in the plane, or on the island. Nor had he
gone swimming. There was only one place left . . . Doug and Hayes looked at each
other. Under the island?
Charlie Hayes took a diving helmet and pumping apparatus out of the plane.
"Know how to work this gadget?" he asked.
"Sure," replied Doug. "I used to run a concession in Florida. 'See the fish and
flora on the ocean's floor. Ten cents'."
"Good," laughed Hayes. "I'm going down."
He had stripped to bathing trunks. He placed the diving helmet over his
shoulders and waded out into the water. Gradually he disappeared under the
surface.
Doug Pelton pumped rhythmically, watching the airhose snake into the water.
Five minutes later the hose stopped jerking. Doug looked out to where Hayes had
disappeared from view. Bubbles were coming to the surface in unnatural
profusion. He tugged on the airhose; there was no resistance. The hose was no
longer connected to the helmet!
Was it cut? Doug hauled it in. No; the end had been disconnected. What did it
mean? Was there air--somewhere--down under the island? He waited, tensely,
lighting a cigarette from the pack Murray had given him.
Minutes passed. Doug tossed his cigaret[sic] into the Pacific. Why didn't Hayes
come back? And where was Murray? What was down there? Were they in danger? He
determined to find out.
With a keen-bladed pearl knife strapped to his trunks, he swam out to where the
bubbles had come up. He breathed in a lungful of air--and dived. Eyes open under
water, he saw the metal of the island curve downward, to disappear in a
blue-green haze. Powerful strokes brought him nearer. The island seemed to be a
great gray sphere, submerged for seven-eights[sic] of its depth.
Doug propelled himself closer. He made out a ragged, gaping hole in the side of
the sphere. Nothing was visible within, save a forbidding blackness. When his
lungs began to ache, he expelled his breath and streaked for the surface.