The Science Fiction Anthology. Филип Дик
synchronized and the expedition got under way.
They had put in three months’ work on Vuanu already. Their morale was high, in spite of inevitable conflicts between members. This schooner, bringing in supplies from Sydney and Rabaul, was the last civilized contact they would have for another six months.
While Sorensen nervously supervised, the crew of the schooner unloaded the cargo. He didn’t want any of the equipment, some of it shipped over six thousand miles, to be broken now. No replacements were possible; whatever they didn’t have, they would have to do without. He breathed out in relief when the last crate, containing a metals detector, was safely hoisted over the side and put on the beach above the high-water mark.
There was something odd about that box. He examined it and found a quarter-sized hole in one end. It had not been properly sealed.
Dan Drake, the co-manager of the expedition, joined him. “What’s wrong?” Drake asked.
“Hole in that crate,” Sorensen said. “Salt water might have gotten in. We’ll be in tough shape if this detector doesn’t work.”
Drake nodded. “We better open it and see.” He was a short, deeply tanned, broad-chested man with close-cropped black hair and a straggly mustache. He wore an old yachting cap jammed down over his eyes, giving his face a tough bulldog look. He pulled a big screwdriver from his belt and inserted it into the crack.
“Wait a moment,” Sorensen said. “Let’s get it up to the camp first. Easier to carry the crate than something packed in grease.”
“Right,” Drake said. “Take the other end.”
The camp was built in a clearing a hundred yards from the beach, on the site of an abandoned native village. They had been able to re-thatch several huts, and there was an old copra shed with a galvanized iron roof where they stored their supplies. Here they got the benefit of any breeze from the sea. Beyond the clearing, the gray-green jungle sprang up like a solid wall.
Sorensen and Drake set the case down. The skipper, who had accompanied them with the newspapers, looked around at the bleak huts and shook his head.
“Would you like a drink, Skipper?” Sorensen asked. “Afraid we can’t offer any ice.”
“A drink would be fine,” the skipper said. He wondered what drove men to a godforsaken place like this in search of imaginary Spanish treasure.
Sorensen went into one of the huts and brought out a bottle of Scotch and a tin cup. Drake had taken out his screwdriver and was vigorously ripping boards off the crate.
“How does it look?” Sorensen asked.
“It’s OK,” Drake said, gently lifting out the metals detector. “Heavily greased. Doesn’t seem like there was any damage—”
He jumped back. The skipper had come forward and stamped down heavily on the sand.
“What’s the matter?” Sorensen asked.
“Looked like a scorpion,” the skipper said. “Damned thing crawled right out of your crate there. Might have bit you.”
Sorensen shrugged. He had gotten used to the presence of an infinite number of insects during his three months on Vuanu. Another bug more or less didn’t seem to make much difference.
“Another drink?” he asked.
“Can’t do it,” the skipper said regretfully. “I’d better get started. All your party healthy?”
“All healthy so far,” Sorensen said. He smiled. “Except for some bad cases of gold fever.”
“You’ll never find gold in this place,” the skipper said seriously. “I’ll look in on you in about six months. Good luck.”
After shaking hands, the skipper went down to the beach and boarded his ship. As the first pink flush of sunset touched the sky, the schooner was under way. Sorensen and Drake watched it negotiate the pass. For a few minutes its masts were visible above the reef. Then they had dipped below the horizon.
“That’s that,” Drake said. “Us crazy American treasure-hunters are alone again.”
“You don’t think he suspected anything?” Sorensen asked.
“Definitely not. As far as he’s concerned, we’re just crackpots.”
Grinning, they looked back at their camp. Under the copra shed was nearly fifty thousand dollars worth of gold and silver bullion, dug out of the jungle and carefully reburied. They had located a part of the Santa Teresa treasure during their first month on the island. There was every indication of more to come. Since they had no legal title to the land, the expedition was not eager to let the news get out. Once it was known, every gold-hungry vagabond from Perth to Papeete would be heading to Vuanu.
“The boy’ll be in soon,” Drake said. “Let’s get some stew going.”
“Right,” Sorensen said. He took a few steps and stopped. “That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“That scorpion the skipper squashed. It’s gone.”
“Maybe he missed it,” Drake said. “Or maybe he just pushed it down into the sand. What difference does it make?”
“None, I guess,” Sorensen said.
II
Edward Eakins walked through the jungle with a long-handled spade on his shoulder, sucking reflectively on a piece of candy. It was the first he’d had in weeks, and he was enjoying it to the utmost. He was in very good spirits. The schooner yesterday had brought in not only machinery and replacement parts, but also candy, cigarettes and food. He had eaten scrambled eggs this morning, and real bacon. The expedition was becoming almost civilized.
Something rustled in the bushes near him. He marched on, ignoring it.
He was a lean, sandy-haired man, amiable and slouching, with pale blue eyes and an unprepossessing manner. He felt very lucky to have been taken on the expedition. His gas station didn’t put him on a financial par with the others, and he hadn’t been able to put up a full share of the money. He still felt guilty about that. He had been accepted because he was an eager and indefatigable treasure-hunter with a good knowledge of jungle ways. Equally important, he was a skilled radio operator and repairman. He had kept the transmitter on the ketch in working condition in spite of salt water and mildew.
He could pay his full share now, of course. But now, when they were practically rich, didn’t really count. He wished there were some way he could—
There was that rustle in the bushes again.
Eakins stopped and waited. The bushes trembled. And out stepped a mouse.
Eakins was amazed. The mice on this island, like most wild animal life, were terrified of man. Although they feasted off the refuse of the camp—when the rats didn’t get it first—they carefully avoided any contact with humans.
“You better get yourself home,” Eakins said to the mouse.
The mouse stared at him. He stared back. It was a pretty little mouse, no more than four or five inches long, and colored a light tawny brown. It didn’t seem afraid.
“So long, mouse,” Eakins said. “I got work to do.” He shifted his spade to the other shoulder and turned to go. As he turned, he caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he ducked. The mouse whirled past him, turned, and gathered itself for another leap.
“Mouse, are you out of your head?” Eakins asked.
The mouse bared its tiny teeth and sprang. Eakins knocked it aside.
“Now get the hell out of here,” he said. He was beginning to wonder if the rodent was crazy. Did it have rabies, perhaps?
The mouse gathered itself for another charge. Eakins lifted the