Arthur Clarke: Cradle

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.