"Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur C., Lee Gentry)

4

KEY West was proud of its new marina. Completed in 1992 just after the explosion in cruises had brought an influx of new visitors to the old city, the marina was thoroughly modem. Scattered around the jetties on high towers were automatic cameras that constantly surveyed the marina. These cameras and the rest of the electronic surveillance systems were just one facet of an elaborate security setup that protected the slips when the boat owners were absent. Another of the new features of the Hemmingway Marina (it was naturally named after the most famous resident of Key West) was a centralized navigation control center. Here, using a virtually automatic traffic control system, a single controller was able to pass instructions to all the vessels in the harbor and provide for efficient handling of the burgeoning water traffic.

The marina was built on Key West Bight, on what had been a decaying part of the waterfront. It had slips for almost four hundred boats and its completion changed the nature of the city’s commerce. Young professionals wanting to be near their boats at the marina quickly purchased and upgraded all the wonderful nineteenth-century houses that lined Caroline and Eaton streets on what was known as the Pelican Path. Smart shops, toney restaurants, even little theaters crowded into the area around the marina to create an atmosphere of bustle and excitement. There was even a new Japanese hotel, the Miyako Gardens, which was famous for its magnificent collection of tropical birds that played in the waterfalls and ferns of its atrium.

Just before noon Carol Dawson walked into the marina headquarters and approached the circular information desk in the middle of the large room. She was wearing a sharp silk blouse, light purple in color, and a pair of long white cotton slacks that covered the tops of her white tennis shoes. Two petite ruby and gold bracelets were wrapped around her right wrist, and a huge amethyst set in a gold basket at the end of a neck chain dangled perfectly at the vertex of the “V” in her open blouse. She looked stunning, like a well-heeled tourist about to rent a boat for the afternoon.

The young girl behind the information desk was in her early twenties. She was blonde, fairly attractive in the clean-cut American style originally typified by Cheryl Tiegs. She watched Carol with just a tinge of competitive jealously as the journalist moved purposefully across the room. “Can I help you?” she said with feigned cheer as Carol reached the desk.

“I would like to charter a boat for the rest of the day.” Carol began. “I want to go out to do a little diving and a little swimming and maybe see some of the interesting ship-wrecks around here.” She planned to say nothing about the whales until she had picked the boat.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the girl responded. She turned to the computer on her left and prepared to use the keyboard. “My name is Julianne and one of my jobs here is to help tourists find the boats that are just right for their recreational needs.” Carol noted that Julianne sounded as if she had memorized the little speech. “Did you have any particular price in mind? Although most of the boats here at Hemingway are private vessels, we still do have all sorts of boats for charter and most of them meet your requirements. Assuming of course that they’re still available.”

Carol shook her head and in a few minutes she was handed a computer listing that included nine boats. “Here are the boats that are possible,” the girl said. “As I told you, there’s quite a range in price.”

Carol’s eyes scanned down the list. The biggest and most expensive boat was the Ambrosia, a fifty-four-footer that chartered for eight hundred dollars a day, or five hundred for a half day. The list included a couple of intermediate entries as well as two small boats, twenty-six-footers, that rented for half the price of the Ambrosia. “I’d like to talk to the captain of the Ambrosia first,” Carol said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Where do I go?”

“Do you know Captain Homer?” Julianne replied, a strange smile starting to form at the corner of her mouth. “Homer Ashford,” she said again slowly, as if the name should be recognized. Carol’s mind began going through a memory search routine. The name was familiar. Where had she heard it? A long time ago, in a news program…

Carol had not quite retrieved the memory when the girl continued. “I’ll let them know that you’re coming.” Below the desk counter on the right was a huge bank of relay switches, several hundred in all, apparently connected to a speaker system. Julianne flipped one of the switches and turned to Carol. “It should only be a minute,” she said.

“Vat is it, Julianne?” a booming feminine voice inquired within about twenty seconds. The voice was foreign, German Judging from the way the first word was pronounced. And the voice was also impatient.

“There’s a woman here, Greta, a Miss Carol Dawson from Miami, and she wants to come down to talk to Captain Homer about chartering the yacht for the afternoon.”

After a moment’s silence, Greta was heard again, “Ya, okay, send her down.” Julianne motioned for Carol to walk halfway around the circular desk to where a familiar keyboard was sitting in a small well on the counter. Carol had been through this process many times since the UIS (Universal Identification System) was first introduced in 1991. Using the keyboard, she entered her name and her social security number. Carol wondered which verification question it would be this time. Her birthplace? Her mother’s maiden name? Her father’s birth date? It was always random, selected from the twenty personal facts that were immutable and belonged to each individual. To impersonate someone now really took an effort.

“Miss Carol Dawson, 1418 Oakwood Gardens, Apt. 17, Miami Beach.” Carol nodded her head. Blonde Julianne obviously enjoyed her role of checking out the prospective clients. “What was your birth date?” Carol was asked.

“December 27, 1963,” Carol responded. Julianne’s face registered that Carol had given the correct answer. But Carol could see something else in her face, something competitive and even supercilious, almost a “Ha-ha-de-ha-ha, I’m lots younger than you are and now I know it.” Usually Carol didn’t pay attention to such trivia. But for some reason, this morning she was uncomfortable about the fact that she was now thirty. She started to indicate her annoyance to smug little Julianne but thought better of it and held her tongue.

Julianne gave her instructions. “Walk out that door over there, at the far right, and walk straight until you come to Jetty Number 4. Then turn left and insert this card in the gate lock. Slip “P” as in Peter is where the Ambrosia is berthed. It’s a long walk, way down at the end of the jetty. But you can’t miss the yacht, it’s one of the largest and most beautiful boats at Hemingway.”

Julianne was right. It was quite a hike to the end of Jetty Number 4. Carol Dawson probably passed a total of thirty boats of all sizes, on both sides of the jetty, before she reached the Ambrosia. By the time Carol could discern the bold blue identifying letters on the front of the cabin, she had started to sweat from the heat and humidity of late morning.

Captain Homer Ashford walked up the gangplank to meet her when she finally reached the Ambrosia. He was in his mid to late fifties, an enormous man, well over six feet tall and weighing close to two hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was still thick, but the original black color had now almost completely surrendered to the gray.

Captain Homer’s wild eyes had followed Carol’s approach with undisguised lubricious delight. Carol recognized the look and her reaction was one of immediate disgust. She started to turn around and go back to the marina headquarters. But she stopped herself, realizing that it was a long walk back and that she was already hot and tired. Captain Homer, apparently sensing her disapproval by the change in her gait, changed his leer to an avuncular smile.

“Miss Dawson, I presume?” the captain said, bowing slightly with fake gallantry. “Welcome to the Ambrosia. Captain Homer Ashford and his crew at your service. “Carol reluctantly smiled. This buffoon in the outrageous blue Hawaiian shirt at least did not appear to take himself too seriously. Still slightly wary, she took the proffered Coke from his out-stretched hand and followed him along the smaller side jetty beside the boat. The two of them then descended onto the yacht. It was huge.

“We understand from Julianne that you are interested in a charter for this afternoon. We would love to take you out to one of our favorite spots, Dolphin Key.” They were standing in front of the wheelhouse and the covered cabin area as they talked. Captain Homer was clearly already into his sales pitch. From somewhere nearby Carol could hear the clang of metal. It sounded like barbells.

“Dolphin Key is a marvelous isolated island,” Captain Homer continued, “perfect for swimming and even nude sunbathing, if you like that sort of thing. There’s also a sunken wreck from the eighteenth century not more than a couple of miles away if you’re interested in doing some diving.” Carol took another drink from her Coke and looked at Homer for an instant. She quickly averted her eyes. He was leering again. His peculiar emphasis on the word “nude” had somehow changed Carol’s mental picture of Dolphin Key from a quiet tropical paradise to a gathering place for debauchery and peeping Toms. Carol recoiled from Captain Homer’s light touch as he guided her around the side of the yacht. This man is a creep, she thought. I should have followed my first instincts and turned around.

The clang of metal grew louder as they walked past the entrance to the cabin and approached the front of the luxurious boat. Carol’s journalistic curiosity was piqued; the sound seemed so out of place. She hardly paid attention as Captain Homer pointed out all the outstanding features of the yacht. When they finally had a clear view of the front deck of the Ambrosia, Carol saw that the sound had indeed been barbells. A blonde woman with her back toward them was working out with weights on the front deck.

The woman’s body was magnificent, even breathtaking. As she strained to finish her repetitive presses, she lifted the barbells high over her head Rivulets of sweat cascaded down the muscles that seemed to descend in ripples from her shoulders. She was wearing a low-cut black leotard, almost backless, whose thin straps did not seem capable of holding up the rest of the outfit. Captain Homer had stopped talking about the boat. Carol noticed that he was standing in rapt admiration, apparently transfixed by the sensual beauty of the sweaty woman in the leotard. This place is weird, Carol thought. Maybe that’s why the girl asked me if I knew these people.

The woman put the weights back on the small rack and picked up a towel When she turned around Carol could see that she was in her mid to late thirties, pretty in an athletic sort of way. Her breasts were large and taut and clearly visible in the scant leotard. But it was her eyes that were truly remarkable. They were gray-blue in color and they seemed to look right through you. Carol thought that the woman’s first piercing glance was hostile, almost threatening.

“Greta,” said Captain Homer, when she looked at him after her first glance at Carol, “this is Miss Carol Dawson. She may be our charter for this afternoon.”

Greta did not smile or say anything. She wiped the sweat off her brow, took a couple of deep breaths, and put the towel behind her neck and over her shoulders. She squared herself off to face Carol and Captain Homer. Then with her shoulders back and her hands on her hips, she flexed her chest muscles. With each flexure her abundant breasts seemed to stretch up toward her neck. Throughout this routine her incredibly clear eyes evaluated Carol, checking out her body and clothing in minute detail. Carol squirmed involuntarily.

“Well, hello, Greta,” she said, her usual aplomb strangely absent in this awkward moment, “nice to meet you.” Jesus, Carol thought, as Greta just looked at Carol’s outstretched hand for several seconds, let me out of here. I must be on a strange planet or having a nightmare.

“Greta sometimes likes to have fun with our customers,” Captain Homer said to Carol, “but don’t let it put you off.” Was he irritated with Greta? Carol thought she detected some unspoken communication between Greta and Captain Homer, for at length Greta smiled. But it was an artificial smile.

“Velcome to the Ambrosia,” Greta said, mimicking Captain Homer’s first remarks to Carol. “Our pleasure avaits you.” Greta lifted her arms over her head, watching Carol again, and began to stretch. “Come vit us to paradise,” Greta said.

Carol felt Captain Homer’s burly hand on her elbow, turning her around. She also thought she saw an angry glance from Homer to Greta. “The Ambrosia is the finest charter vessel in Key West,” he said, guiding her back toward the stem and resuming his sales pitch. “It has every possible convenience and luxury. Giant screen cable television, compact disc player with quad speakers, automatic chef programmed with over a hundred gourmet dishes, robot massage. And nobody knows the Keys like Captain Homer. I’ve been diving and fishing these waters for fifty years.”

They had stopped at the entrance to the cabin area in the middle of the yacht. Through the glass door Carol could see stairs descending to another level. “Would you like to come down and see the galley and the bedroom?” Captain Homer said, without a trace of the earlier suggestiveness. He was a clever chameleon, there was no doubt about that. Carol revised her earlier judgment of him as a buffoon. But what was this business with muscle-bound Greta, whoever she is, Carol wondered. And just what is going on here? Why are they so strange?

“No, thank you, Captain Ashford.” Carol saw her opportunity to exit gracefully. She handed him what was left of the unfinished Coke. “I’ve seen enough. It’s a magnificent yacht but I can tell it’s much too expensive for a single woman wanting to spend a relaxing afternoon. But thanks a lot for your time and the brief tour.”

She started to walk toward the gangplank to the jetty. Captain Homer’s eyes narrowed, “But we haven’t even discussed price, Miss Dawson. I’m certain that for someone like you we could make a special deal…”

Carol could tell that he was not going to let her go without some additional discussion. As she started to leave the yacht, Greta came up beside Captain Homer. “It vould give you sometink to write about for your paper,” Greta said with a bizarre smile. “Sometink unusual.”

Carol turned, startled. “So you recognized me?” she said, stating the obvious. The strange pair grinned back at her. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Captain Homer simply shrugged his huge shoulders. “We thought maybe you were traveling incognito, or were looking for some special fun, or maybe even were working on a story…” His voice trailed off Carol smiled and shook her head. Then she waved good-bye, mounted the gangplank, and turned on the jetty toward the distant marina headquarters. Who are those people? she asked herself again. Now I’m certain that I have seen them before. But where?

Twice Carol looked over her shoulder to see if Captain Homer and Greta were still watching her. The second time, when she was almost a hundred yards away, they were no longer in sight. She sighed with relief. The experience had definitely unnerved her.

Carol walked on slowly. She pulled the computer listing that Julianne had given her from a small purple beach bag. Before she could look at it, she heard a telephone ring on her left and her eyes lifted naturally to follow the sound. The telephone was ringing on a boat just in front of her. A husky man in his early thirties was sitting in a folding chair on the same boat. Wearing only a red baseball cap, a pair of swim trunks, dark sunglasses and some thongs, the man was intently watching a small television propped up on a flimsy tray of some kind. He held a sandwich in one hand (Carol could see the white mayonnaise oozing out between the slices of bread even from her distance of ten yards or so) and a can of beer in the other. There was no sign that the man in the red cap even heard the telephone.

Carol moved closer, a little curious. A basketball game was in progress on the television. On about the sixth ring of the phone, the man gave a small cheer (with his mouth full of sandwich) in the direction of the six-inch picture tube, took a swig from his beer, and abruptly jumped up to answer the call. The telephone was underneath a canopy in the center of the boat, on a wooden paneled wall behind the steering wheel and next to some built-in counters that appeared to contain the navigation and radio equipment for the boat. The man fiddled with the steering wheel unconsciously during the brief conversation and never took his eyes off the television. He hung up, issued another short cheer, and returned to his folding chair.

Carol was now standing on the jetty, just inches away from the front of the boat and no more than ten feet away from where the man was sitting. But he was oblivious to her, totally absorbed in his basketball game. “All right,” he shouted all at once, reacting to something pleasing in the game. He jumped up. The sudden movement caused the boat to rock and the jerrybuilt tray underneath the television gave way. The man reached out quickly and grabbed the TV before it hit the ground, but in so doing he lost his balance and fell forward on his elbows.

“Shit,” he said to himself, wincing from the pain. He was lying on the deck, his sunglasses cocked sideways on his head, the game still continuing on the little set in his hands. Carol could not suppress her laughter. Now aware that he was not alone for the first time, Nick Williams, the owner and operator of the Florida Queen, turned in the direction of the feminine laugh.

“Excuse me,” Carol began in a friendly way, “I just happened to be walking by and I saw you fall…” She stopped. Nick was not amused.

“What do you want?” Nick fixed her with a truculent glare. He stood up, still holding (and watching) the television and now trying as well to put the tray back together. He didn’t have enough hands to do everything at once.

“You know,” Carol said, still smiling, “I could help you with that, if it wouldn’t injure your masculine pride.” Uh oh, Nick thought in a flash, Another pushy, assertive broad.

Nick put the television down on the deck of the boat and began to reassemble the tray. “No thank you,” he said. “I can manage.” Obviously ignoring Carol, he set the TV back on the tray, returned to his folding chair, and picked up his sandwich and beer.

Carol was amused by what Nick had clearly intended as a putdown. She looked around the boat. Neatness was not one of the strengths of the proprietor. Little odds and ends, including masks, snorkels, regulators, towels, and even old lunches from fast-food restaurants were scattered all over the front of the boat. In one of the corners someone had obviously taken apart a piece of electronic equipment, perhaps for repair, and left the entire works a jumbled mess. Mounted on the top of the blue canopy were two signs, each with a different type of print, one giving the name of the boat and the other saying THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.

The boat looked out of character for the sleek modern marina and Carol imagined the other boat owners reacting with disgust each day as they passed the Florida Queen. On an impulse Carol looked at the computer listing in her hand. She almost laughed out loud when she saw the boat listing as one of the nine available for hire.

“Excuse me,” she began, intending to start the discussion about chartering the boat for the afternoon.

Nick heaved an exaggerated sigh and turned away from his televised basketball game. The miffed look on his face was unmistakable. It said, What? Are you still here? I thought we’d finished our conversation. Now go away and let me enjoy the afternoon on my boat.

Mischievous Carol couldn’t resist the opportunity to harass the arrogant Mr. Williams (she assumed that the name on the computer listing and the man in front of her were the same, for she couldn’t imagine a crew member acting with such apparent confidence and authority on someone else’s boat). “Who’s playing?” she said cheerfully, as if she had no idea that Nick was trying to get rid of her.

“Harvard and Tennessee,” he answered gruffly, amazed that Carol hadn’t got the message.

“What’s the score?” she said quickly, now enjoying the game she had just created.

Nick turned around again, his quizzical look acknowledging his exasperation. “It’s 31-29 Harvard,” he said sharply, “just before the end of the first half.” Carol didn’t move. She simply smiled and returned his fierce stare without blinking. “And it’s the first round of the NCAA tournament and they’re playing in the Southeast Regional. Any more questions?”

“Just one,” she said. “I would like to charter this boat for the afternoon. Are you Nick Williams?”

He was taken by surprise. “Whaat?” Nick said. At that minute Tennessee tied the basketball game again, distracting Nick even further. He watched the game for a couple of seconds and then tried to collect himself. “But I have had no calls from Julianne. Anyone who wants to charter a boat here at Hemingway has to sign in at the desk and…”

“I came down to look at another boat first. I didn’t like it. So I stopped by here on the way back.” Nick was watching the television again and Carol was losing her patience with him. At first he had been amusing. At least I don’t have to worry about his pawing me, she thought. The guy can’t even concentrate on me enough to get his boat chartered. “Look,” she added, “do you want a charter for this afternoon or not?

The first half of the basketball game ended. “All right… I guess so,” Nick said slowly, thinking to himself, only because I need the money. He gestured to Carol to descend onto the deck of the boat. “Let me just call Julianne and make sure you’re legit. You never know these days.”

While Nick confirmed Carol’s identification with the marina headquarters, a jaunty young black man in his early twenties came down the jetty and stopped just opposite the Florida Queen. “Hey, Professor,” he said, the moment Nick was off the phone, “am I in the wrong place?” He motioned to Carol. “You didn’t tell me you were entertaining beauty, style, and class today. Wooee! Look at that jewelry. And that silk blouse. Should I go now and come back to hear your stories later?” He winked at Carol. “He’s no good, angel. All his girlfriends eventually end up with me.”

“Cut the crap, Jefferson,” Nick reacted, “this woman is a potential customer. And you’re late, as usual. How do you expect me to run a charter dive boat when I don’t have any idea when or if my crew is going to show up?”

“Professor,” the newcomer jumped down on the boat and walked up to Carol, “if I had known that you had something that looked like this down here, I would have been here before dawn. Hello, there, young lady, my name is Troy Jefferson. I am the rest of the crew on this lunatic asylum of a boat.”

Carol had been slightly discombobulated by the arrival of Troy and the quick repartee that followed. But she adapted swiftly and regained her composure. She took Troy’s out-stretched hand and smiled. He immediately leaned up and almost brushed his cheek against hers. “Ooueee,” Troy pulled back grinning. “I just caught a whiff of Oscar de la Renta. Professor, didn’t I tell you this woman had class? Well, angel,” he looked at Carol in mock admiration, “I just can’t tell you how much it means to me to finally meet up with someone like you on this tub. Usually we get old ladies, I mean old ladies, who want to—”

“Enough, Jefferson,” Nick interrupted him. “We have work to do. It’s almost noon already and we’re still at least half an hour away from being ready to leave. We don’t even know what Miss Dawson wants to do.”

“Carol is fine,” she said. She paused for a moment, assessing the two men in front of her. Might as well, Carol thought, nobody is going to suspect anything if I’m with these two. “Well, I told the desk that I wanted to go out to do some swimming and diving. But that’s only partially true. What I really want to do is go out here (she pulled a folded map out of her beach bag and showed them an area of about ten square miles in the Gulf of Mexico to the north of Key West) and look for whales.”

Nick’s brow furrowed. Troy peered over Carol’s shoulder at the map. “There have been numerous irregularities in the behavior of whales in this area lately, including a major beaching at Deer Key this morning,” Carol continued. “I want to see if I can find any pattern in their actions. I may need to do some diving so one of you will have to accompany me. I assume that at least one of you is a licensed diver and that your dive gear is onboard?”

The two men regarded her with disbelieving stares. Carol felt on the defensive. “Really… I’m a reporter.” she said as an explanation. “I work for the Miami Herald. I just did a story this morning on the Deer Key beaching.”

Troy turned to Nick. “Okay, Professor, I guess we have a live charter here. One who says she wants to look for whales in the Gulf of Mexico. What do you say? Should we accept her money?”

Nick shrugged his shoulders indifferently and Troy took it as assent. “All right, angel,” Troy said to Carol, “we’ll be ready in half an hour. We’re both licensed divers if we’re really needed. Our gear is onboard and we can get more for you. Why don’t you pay Julianne at the desk and get your things together.”

Troy turned and walked over to the jumbled mess of electronics at the front of the boat. He picked up one of the boxes with its housing partially removed and began toying with it. Nick pulled another beer out of the refrigerator and opened the built-in counters, exposing racks of equipment. Carol did not move. After about twenty seconds Nick noticed that she was still there. “Well,” he said in a tone of dismissal, “didn’t you hear Troy? We won’t be ready for half an hour.” He turned around and walked toward the back of the boat.

Troy looked up from his repair work. He was amused by the friction already developing between Nick and Carol. “Is he always so pleasant?” Carol said to Troy, nodding in Nick’s direction. She was still smiling but her tone conveyed some irritation. “I have a few pieces of equipment that I want to bring onboard. Can you give me a hand with it?”

Thirty minutes later Troy and Carol returned to the Florida Queen. Troy was grinning and whistling “Zippity-Do-Dah” as he pulled a cart down the jetty and came to a stop in front of the boat. A partially filled footlocker was resting on the cart. Troy could hardly wait to see Nick’s face when he saw Carol’s “few pieces of equipment.” Troy was excited by the turn of events. He knew that this was no casual afternoon charter. Reporters, even successful ones (and Troy’s street intelligence had quickly informed him that Carol was not just an ordinary reporter), did not have everyday access to the kind of equipment that she was carrying. Already Troy was certain that the whale story was just a cover. But he wasn’t going to say anything just yet; he wanted to wait and see how things developed.

Troy liked this confident young woman. There was not a trace of superiority or prejudice in her manner. And she had a good sense of humor. After they had opened the back of her station wagon and she had showed him the footlocker full of equipment, Troy had demonstrated to Carol that he was fairly sophisticated about electronics. He had recognized immediately the MOI insignia on Dale’s ocean telescope and Troy had even guessed the meaning of the MOI-IPL acronym on the back of the large monitor and data storage system. When he had looked at her for an explanation, Carol had just laughed and said, “So I need some help finding the whales. What can I say?”

Carol and Troy had loaded the gear on the cart and wheeled it through the parking lot. She had been a little dismayed at first by Troy’s recognition of the origin of the equipment and his friendly, probing questions (which she handled adroitly with vague answers—she was helped by the fact that Troy wanted mostly to know how the electronics worked and she, in truth, didn’t have the foggiest idea). But as they talked, Carol developed a comfortable feeling about Troy. Her intuitive sense told her that Troy was an ally and could be counted on to be discreet with any important information.

Carol had not, however, planned for a security check inside the Hemingway Marina headquarters. One of the primary selling points of the slips at the new marina had been the almost unparalleled security system offered the boat owners. Every person who went in or out of the marina had to pass through computerized gates adjacent to the headquarters building. A full listing of each individual entrance and exit, including the time of passage through the gate, was printed out each night and retained in the security office files as a precaution in case any suspicious or untoward events were reported.

Materiel entering and leaving the marina was also routinely scrutinized (and logged) by the security chief to prevent the theft of expensive navigation equipment and other electronics. Carol was only mildly irked when, after she paid for the charter, Julianne asked her to fill out a sheet describing the contents of the closed footlocker. But Carol really objected when the summoned security chief, a typical Boston Irish policeman who had retired in the Key West area, Forced her to open the locker to verify the contents. Carol’s objections and Troy’s attempts to help her were to no avail. Rules were rules.

Because the cart would not fit through the door into the adjacent security office, the footlocker was opened in the main clearing room of the marina headquarters. A couple of curious passersby, including one giant, friendly woman about forty named Ellen (Troy knew her from somewhere, probably she was one of the boat owners, Carol thought), came over and watched while Officer O’Rourke carefully compared the contents of the locker with the list that Carol had prepared.

Carol was a little rattled as she and Troy pulled the cart down the jetty toward the Florida Queen. She had hoped to attract as little attention as possible and she was now angry with herself for not anticipating the security check. Nick, meanwhile, after performing a few routine preparations on the boat and opening another beer, had become engrossed again in the basketball game. His beloved Harvard was now losing to Tennessee. He did not even hear Troy’s whistling until his crewman and Carol were just a few yards away.

“Jesus,” Nick turned around, “I thought you had gotten lost…” His voice trailed off as he saw the cart and the foot-locker. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s Miss Dawson’s equipment, Professor,” Troy answered with a big grin. He reached into the locker, first picking up a cylinder with a clear glass face, a large flashlight-looking object on a mounting bracket. It was about two feet long and weighed about twelve pounds. “Here, for example, is what she tells me is an ocean telescope. We attach it to the bottom of the boat by this bracket and it takes pictures that are displayed on this here television monitor and also stored on this other device, a recorder of some—”

“Hold it,” Nick interrupted Troy imperiously. Nick walked up the gangplank and stared incredulously into the locker. He shook his head and looked from Troy to Carol. “Do I have this right? We are supposed to set up all this shit just to go out into the Gulf for one afternoon to look for whales?” He scowled at Troy. “Where is your head, Jefferson? This stuff is heavy, it will take time to set it up, and it’ s already after noon.

“And as for you, sister,” Nick continued, turning to Carol, “take your toys and your treasure map elsewhere. We know what you’re up to and we have more important things to do.”

“Are you through?” Carol shouted at Nick as he walked back down the gangplank onto the Florida Queen. He stopped and turned partially around. “Look, you asshole.” Carol raged, giving vent to the frustration and anger that had been building inside of her, “it is certainly your right to deny me the use of your boat. But it is not your right to act like God almighty and treat me or anyone else like shit just because I’m a woman and you feel like pushing somebody around.” She stepped toward him. Nick backed up a step in the face of her continued offensive.

“I told you that I want to look for whales and that’s what I intend to do. What you might think I’m doing is really of no significance to me. As for the important things that you have to do, you haven’t moved from that goddamn basketball game in the last hour, except to get more beer. If you’ll just stay out of the way. Troy and I can set all this gear in place in half an hour. And besides,” Carol slowed down just a bit, starting to feel a little embarrassed about her outburst, “I have already paid for the charter and you know how hard it is to straighten out these computer credit card accounts.”

“Oooeee, Professor,” Troy grinned wickedly and winked at Carol. “Isn’t she something else?” He stopped and became serious. “Look, Nick, we need the money, both of us. And I would be happy to help her. We can take off some of the excess diving gear if it’s necessary to balance the weight.”

Nick walked back to the folding chair and the television. He took another drink from his beer and did not turn around to look at Carol and Troy. “All right,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. “Get started. But if we’re not ready to sail by one o’clock it’s no deal.” The basketball players swam in front of his eyes. Harvard had tied the game again. But this time he wasn’t watching. He was thinking about Carol’s outburst. I wonder if she’s right. I wonder if I do think that women are inferior. Or worse.