Margaret St. Clair: The Dolphins of Altair

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry I wasn’t of more use. Goodbye.”

On his way home next evening—he lived in San Bruno—Dr. Lawrence stopped at a pay telephone and called a local number. As I said before, he was a man with an unslaked thirst for marvels, and outside of office hours he knew some unusual people.

Over the telephone he was told to bring something the person he was interested in had handled. An appointment was made for eight the next night.

Next evening, Dr. Lawrence was punctual. He handed Mrs. Casson, the psychometrist, a sheet of paper. “This is the best I could do,” he said. “It’s a drawing the person I’m interested in made when I asked her to draw a picture of herself. I didn’t have access to anything that had belonged to her, like a comb or a piece of jewelry.”

“The picture will do nicely,” Mrs. Casson answered. She was a plump, soft woman who wore her graying hair in two heavy braids down her back. “You haven’t sat with me before, have you, Doctor?”

“No, I haven’t had that pleasure,” Dr. Lawrence replied.

“It’s quite simple. We sit opposite each other, and I hold to my forehead whatever my sitter has brought. Sometimes nothing happens, sometimes I go into a light trance, sometimes I can give information in my normal state. Sit down there, Doctor, and I’ll light some incense. It establishes the atmosphere.”

The incense was lit. It smelled, Dr. Lawrence thought, better than he had expected. Coils of smoke began to roll between him and Mrs. Casson.

They sat in silence. Once or twice Mrs. Casson cleared her throat. She was sitting, as far as he could see in the dull light, with her elbows on the arms of her chair and her forehead resting on the sheet of paper she held in her hands.

The moments passed. Dr. Lawrence began to wonder when Mrs. Casson would say that she was sorry, but she couldn’t get anything. Then he became aware that she was humming a tune.

What was it? Oh, yes, “Sailing, Sailing, Over the Bounding Main.” Yes, he thought that was it.

She began to speak. Her voice was considerably deeper than it had been earlier. “There’s a ship, an old, old ship with sails.

“There’s a mast in the middle. Now it’s beginning to sprout leaves. The vines are spreading out from it, there are leaves all over the ship. And the god—the god in the middle—the god—” Her voice faltered, and then strengthened. “The pirates threw him into the water. But the sweet sea beasts bore him up. He played the lyre and rode safe on their backs to Corinth.” Mrs. Casson breathed deeply. Then, almost in a shriek, she said, “Madelaine!”

She was still sitting with her head resting on her fingers. Very softly the doc tor ventured a question. “Where did they take her? Is it far?”

“No, not far. Out—outside the Gate. To the Rock.” Mrs. Casson exhaled deeply. Her body slowly collapsed to the right. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her head lolled back.

Dr. Lawrence did not know whether he ought to try to revive her. But after a moment she sat up and yawned. “I went into trance then,” she said. “Did I say anything?” “Yes, quite a bit.”

“Was it what you wanted?”

“I think so. I can’t be sure.”

“Good. I think I told you what my fee is. If you want to sit with me again, I’ll be glad—”

“I’ll keep you in mind, indeed,” the doctor said. He put a bill in her hand. “Thank you very much for your help.”

Lawrence drove home slowly, pondering. The stuff about the ship sprouting vines sounded like something from Greek mythology—Dionysus, he rather thought. Mrs. Casson seemed to have fused it with another story, that of Arion and the dolphin. Well. If Madelaine had been taken away from Drake’s Bay by a dolphin, or dolphins—well, where would she have gone?

Mrs. Casson had said, “Not far.”

“The Rock,” to anybody who lived near San Francisco bay, would mean Alcatraz, the former site of a Federal prison. But, apart from the fact that the Rock was under continual observation by bay shipping, and hence was an unsuitable place for anyone who wanted not to be seen, it was inside the Gate, since it was within San Francisco Bay. Was there any place that was “not far” from the bay area and outside the Golden Gate that was called “the Rock”?

When he got home, the doctor looked long and thoughtfully at a large-scale map of the central California coast.

Early next morning Lawrence called his secretary at the station and told her that he had been unexpectedly called to Los Angeles. An uncle of his was dying. He would be gone at least a week, perhaps more. He was sorry. He’d be back as soon as he could.

He drove to San Francisco, taking care never to exceed the legal speed limit. He didn’t want to be stopped by a highway patrolman. In the city, he left his car at a public garage in Union Square, and took the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf.

Since it was almost the middle of the morning, almost all of the boats that took fishing parties out to fish had already gone. Only two were still at their moorings. Dr. Lawrence went up to the nearer of them.

“Could you take me out to the Farallons?” he said to the skipper.

“The Farallons? What do you want to go there for?”

“Sorry,” Lawrence said. He walked on to where the other boat was moored. Here he repeated his question.

“The Farallons? There are twelve of them, mister. There’s the Northwest Farallons, and—would you be wanting any special one of them?”

“I want to go to Noonday Rock. Do you know it?”

“Oh, yes, I know the Rock.” The man—his name was probably Ben, since the sign over his berth said “Ben’s Private Fishing Trips”—nodded slowly. “It’s nothing but a rock, though. Straight up and down, about a third of a mile across.”

“Yes, I know. Can your boat take me there?”

“I think so,” Ben answered a little doubtfully. “It’s a good deal farther out than I usually go. It would take about three hours. Be an expensive trip.”

“How much?” Lawrence asked.

Ben named a sum. The doctor shifted his polished briefcase to his left hand and got out his wallet. He took out two bills and handed them to the skipper. “Half now, the rest when we get there.”

“Would you be wanting to stay long, mister?” Ben asked, folding up the bills and putting them in his purse. He looked doubtfully at the doctor—a small, neatly dressed man holding a briefcase, while the wind flapped his sharply creased trousers around his legs. “I’d have to get back before dark.”

“You won’t have to wait for me at all,” Lawrence answered. “I want you to leave me there.” And then, before the skipper could say anything, “I’m working for the government.”

“Oh!” Ben nodded, as if he had received a full and satisfying explanation. “Well, we’d better get started. I want to pick up an extra can of gasoline. Do you get sick?”

“Not usually.”

“Well, it’ll be a rough trip.”

They talked little on the way out. Once Lawrence said, “If anybody comes asking for me, it might be better to say you didn’t see me,” and Ben replied, “OK.” Then the water grew rougher, and Lawrence had to concentrate on keeping his breakfast in place.

They got to the Rock about noon. “This is it,” Ben said. “I can’t get in any nearer, but it’s only a couple of feet deep here.

“You sure you’ll be all right? Wait, I’ll give you a canteen. There’s no water here at all.” He handed Lawrence a canvas-wrapped canteen.

The doctor took it. He got out his wallet and paid the rest of his fare. “I think I’ll be OK, but come back for me in the morning—oh—five days from now.” He gave Ben two more bills, and let himself over the side.