I see. What say does the company have in running the parks?

None, really. They service the equipment now, that's all.

Do many of the Beltrane people work as park guides too?

A few, part-time. They are in the area, they know it well, they have all the necessary skills.

I would like to see whatever medical reports there were.

I have them here, complete with photos of the bodies.

What about the man from Andros, Rudy Myers? What did he do?

He'd trained as a nurse. Worked in several homes for the aged. Taken in a couple of times on charges of stealing from the patients. Charges dropped once. A suspended sentence the second time. Sort of blackballed from that line of work afterward. That was six or seven years back. Held a variety of small jobs then and kept a clean record. He had been working on the island for the past couple of years in a sort of bar.

What do you mean 'sort of bar'?

It has only an alcohol license, but it serves drugs, too. It's way out in the boonies, though, so nobody's ever raised a fuss.

What's the place called?

The Chickcharny.

What's that mean?

A piece of local folklore. A chickcharny is a sort of tree spirit. Mischievous. Like an elf.

Colorful enough, I guess ... Isn't Andros where Martha Millay, the photographer, makes her home?

Yes, it is.

I'm a fan of hers. I like underwater photography, and hers is always good. In fact, she did several books on dolphins. Has anyone thought to ask her opinion of the killings?

She's been away.

Oh. Hope she gets back soon. I'd like to meet her.

Then you will take the job?

Yes, I need one just now.

He reached into his jacket, withdrew a heavy envelope, passed it to me.

There you have copies of everything I have. Needless to say ...

Needless to say, I said, the life of a mayfly will be as eternity to them.

I slipped it into my own jacket and turned away.

Be seeing you, I said.

Leaving already?

I've a lot to do.

Good luck, then.

Thanks.

I went left and he went right, and that was that for then.

Station One was something of a nerve center for the area. That is, it was larger than the other extraction plants and contained the field office, several laboratories, a library, a museum, a dispensary, living quarters, and a few recreational features. It was an artificial island, a fixed platform about seven hundred feet across, and it monitored and serviced eight other plants within the area. It was within sight of Andros, largest of the Bahama Islands, and if you like plenty of water about you, which I do, you would find the prospect peaceful and more than a little attractive.

After the tour and introductions that first day, I learned that my duties were about one-third routine and two-thirds response to circumstances. The routine part was inspection and preventive maintenance. The rest was unforeseen repair, retrieval, and replacement work, general underwater handyman stuff whenever the necessity arose.

It was Dr. Leonard Barthelme, the Area Director, who met me and showed me around. A pleasant little fellow who seemed to enjoy talking about his work, muddle-aged, a widower, he had made his home at Station One for almost five years. The first person to whom be introduced me was Frank Cashel, whom we found in the main laboratory, eating a sandwich and waiting for some test to run its course.

Frank swallowed and smiled, rose, and shook hands with me as Barthelme explained, This is the new man, James Madison.

He was dark, with a touch of gray here and there, a few creases accentuating a ruggedness of jawline and cheekbone, the beginnings of a bulge above his belt.

Glad to have you around, he said. Keep an eye out for pretty rocks, and bring me a branch of coral every now and then. Well get along fine.

Frank's hobby is collecting minerals, Barthelme said. The display in the museum is his. We'll pass that way in a few minutes and you can see it. Quite interesting.

I nodded.

Okay. I'll remember. See what I can find you.

Know anything about the subject? Frank asked me.

A little. I used to be something of a rock hound.

Well, I'd appreciate it.

As we walked away, Barthelme remarked, He makes some money on the side selling specimens at gem shows. I would bear that in mind before I gave him too much in the way of my spare time, or samples.

Oh.

What I mean is, if you feel like going in for that sort of thing on a more than occasional basis, you ought to make it clear that you want a percentage.

I see. Thanks.

Don't misunderstand me, he said. He's a fine fellow. Just a little absentminded.

How long has he been out here?

Around two years. Geophysicist. Very solid.

We stopped by the equipment shed then, where I met Andy Deems and Paul Carter: the former, thin and somewhat sinister in appearance because of a scribbling of scars on his left cheek, which a full beard did not completely conceal; the latter, tall, fair, smooth-faced, and somewhere between husky and fat. They were cleaning some tanks when we entered, and wiped their hands, shook mine, and said they were glad to meet me. They both did the same sort of work I would be doing, the normal staffing calling for four of us, working in pairs. The fourth man was Paul Vallons, who was currently out with Ronald Davies, the boatmaster, replacing an instrument package in a sampler buoy. Paul, I learned, had been Mike's partner, the two of them having been friends since their Navy days. I would be working with him much of the time.

You will soon be reduced to this miserable state yourself, Carter said cheerfully, as we were leaving. Enjoy your morning. Gather rosebuds.

You are miserable because you sweat most obscenely, Deems observed.

Tell it to my glands.

As we crossed the islet, Barthelme observed that Deems was the most capable underwater man he had ever met. He had lived in one of the bubble cities for a time, lost his wife and daughter in the RUMOKO II disaster, and come topside to stay. Carter had come across from the West Coast about five months ago, immediately following a divorce or separation he did not care to talk about. He had been employed by Beltrane out there and had requested a transfer.

Barthelme took me through the second lab, which was vacant just then, so that I could admire the large, illuminated map of the seas about Andros, beads of light indicating the disposition and well-being of the devices that maintained the sonic 'walls' about the parks and stations. I saw that we were enclosed by a boundary that took in the nearest park also.

In which one was the accident? I asked. He turned and studied my face, then pointed, indicating our own.

It was farther in, over there, he said. Toward the northeast end of the park. What have you heard about it?

Just the news report, I said. Has anything new been discovered?

No. Nothing.

With my fingertip, I traced the reversed L of lights that outlined the area.

No holes in the 'wall'? I asked.

There haven't been any equipment failures for a long while.

Do you think it was a dolphin?

He shrugged. Then, I'm a chemist, he said, not a dolphin specialist. But it strikes me, from everything I've read, that there are dolphins and there are dolphins. The average dolphin seems to be quite pacific, with an intelligence possibly equivalent to our own. Also, they should follow the same old normal distribution curve, the bulk of them in the middle, a few morons on one end, a few geniuses on the other. Perhaps a feebleminded dolphin who was not responsible for his actions did it. Or a Raskolnikov dolphin. Most of what is known about them comes from a study of average specimens. Statistically, in the relatively brief while such investigations have been going on, this has to be so. What do we know of their psychiatric abnormalities? Nothing, really. He shrugged again. So yes, I think it is possible, he finished.