You're prejudiced. They're friendly as puppies. It probably goes back to some sexual hangup.

Crap! Carter said. They ...

Since I had gotten it started, I felt obligated to change the subject. So I asked whether it was true that Martha Millay lived nearby.

Yes, Deems said, taking hold of the opportunity. She has a place about four miles down the coast from here. Very neat, I understand, though I've only seen it from the water. Her own little port. She has a hydrofoil, a sailboat, a good-sized cabin cruiser, and a couple little power launches. Lives alone in a long, low building right smack on the water. Not even a road out that way.

I've admired her work for a long while. I'd like to meet her sometime.

He shook his head.

I'll bet you never do. She doesn't like people. Doesn't have a listed phone.

That's a pity. Any idea why she's that way?

Well ...

She's deformed, Carter said. I met her once, on the water. She was at anchor and I was going past on my way to one of the stations. That was before I knew about her, so I went near, just to say hello. She was taking pictures through the glass bottom of her boat, and when she saw me she started to scream and holler for me to get away, that I was scaring the fish. And she snatched up a tarp and pulled it over her legs. I got a look, though. She's a nice, normal-looking woman from the waist up, but her hips and legs are all twisted and ugly. I was sorry I'd embarrassed her. I was just as embarrassed myself, and I didn't know what to say. So I yelled, 'Sorry,' and waved and kept going.

I heard she can't walk at all, Deems said, though she is supposed to be an excellent swimmer. I've never seen her myself.

Was she in some sort of accident, do you know?

Not as I understand it, he said. She is half Japanese, and the story I heard is that her mother was a Hiroshima baby. Some sort of genetic damage.

Pity.

Yes.

We settled up and headed back. Later, I lay awake for a long while, thinking of dolphins, sunken ships, drowned people, half people, and the Gulf Stream, which kept talking to me through the window. Finally, I listened to it, and it took hold of me and we drifted away together into the darkness to wherever it finally goes.

Paul Vallons was, as Andy Deems had said, around my size and good-looking, in a dark, clothing-advertisement sort of way. Another twenty years and he would probably even look distinguished. Some guys win all the way around. Deems had also been right about his reserve. He was not especially talkative, although he managed this without seeming unfriendly. As for his diving prowess, I was unable to confirm it that first day I worked with him, for we pulled shore duty while Deems and Carter got sent over to Station Three. Back to the equipment shed ...

I did not think it a good idea to ask him about his late buddy, or dolphins, which pretty much confined me conversation-wise to the business at hand and a few generalities. Thus was the morning passed.

After lunch, though, as I began thinking ahead, going over my plans for that evening, I decided he would be as good as anyone when it came to getting directions to the Chickcharny.

He lowered the valve he had been cleaning and stared at me.

What do you want to go to that dive for? he asked.

Heard the place mentioned, I said. Like to see it.

They serve drugs without a license, he told me. No inspection. If you like the stuff, you have no guarantee you won't be served some crap the village idiot cooks up in an outhouse.

Then I'll stick to beer. Still like to see the place.

He shrugged.

Not that much to look at. But here ...

He wiped his hands, tore an old leaf from the back of the wall calendar, and sketched me a quick map. I saw that it was a bit inland, toward the birds and mangroves, muck and mahogany. It was also somewhat to the south of the place I had been the previous evening. It was located on a stream, built up on pilings out over the water, he said, and I could take a boat right up to the pier that adjoined it.

Think I'll go over tonight, I said.

Remember what I said.

I nodded as I tucked away the map.

The afternoon passed quickly. There came a massing of clouds, a brief rainfall, about a quarter hour's worth, and then the sun returned to dry the decks and warm the just-rinsed world. Again, the workday ended early for me, by virtue of our having run out of business. I showered quickly, put on fresh clothes, and went to see about getting the use of a light boat.

Ronald Davies, a tall, thin-haired man with a New England accent, said I could take the speedboat called Isabella, complained about his arthritis, and told me to have a good time. I nodded, turned her toward Andros, and sputtered away, hoping the Chickcharny included food among its inducements, as I did not want to waste time by stopping elsewhere.

The sea was calm and the gulls dipped and pivoted, uttering hoarse cries, as I spread the wings of my wake across their preserve. I really had no idea what it was that I was going after. I did not like operating that way, but there was no alternative. I had no real line of attack. There was no handle on this one. I had determined, therefore, to simply amass as much information as I could as quickly as possible. Speed always seems particularly essential when I have no idea what it is that might be growing cold.

Andros enlarged before me. I took my bearings from the place where we had eaten the previous evening, then sought the mouth of the stream Vallons had sketched for me.

It took me about ten minutes to locate it, and I throttled down and made my way slowly up its twisting course. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a rough roadway running along the bank to my left. The foliage grew denser, however, and I finally lost sight of it completely. Eventually, the boughs met overhead, locking me for several minutes into an alley of premature twilight, before the stream widened again, took me around a corner, and showed me the place as it had been described.

I headed to the pier, where several other boats were moored, tied up, climbed out, and looked around. The building to my right, the only building, outside of a small shed, did extend out over the water, was a wood-frame job, and was so patched that I doubted any of its original materials remained. There were half a dozen vehicles parked beside it, and a faded sign named the place THE CHICKCHARNY. Looking to my left as I advanced, I could see that the road which had accompanied me was in better shape than I would have guessed.

Entering, I discovered a beautiful mahogany bar about fifteen feet ahead of me, looking as if it might have come from some ship. There were eight or ten tables here and there, several of them occupied, and a curtained doorway lay to the right of the bar. Someone had painted a crude halo of clouds above it.

I moved up to the bar, becoming its only occupant. The bartender, a fat man who had needed a shave yesterday as well as the day before, put down his newspaper and came over.

What'll it be?

Give me a beer, I said. And can I get something to eat?

Wait a minute.

He moved farther down, checked a small refrigerator.

Fish-salad sandwich? he said.

Okay.

Good. Because that's all we've got.

He put it together, brought it over, drew me my beer.

That was your boat I heard, wasn't it? he asked.

That's right.

Vacationing?

No. I just started work over at Station One.

Oh. Diver?

Yes.

He sighed.

You're Mike Thomley's replacement, then. Poor guy.

I prefer the word successor to replacement in these situations, because it makes people seem less like spark plugs. But I nodded.

Yeah, I heard all about it, I said. Too bad.

He used to come here a lot.

I heard that, too, and that the guy he was with worked here.