Roger Zelazny - My Name is Legion

I nodded.

Okay, I said, as we headed toward the next cluster of buildings. That makes me feel a lot better.

I was going to get around to that in a little while anyway, he said. I was looking for the best way to get into it, though. I feel better, too, this part is offices. Should be empty now.

He pulled open the door and I followed him through: desks, partitions, filing cabinets, office machines, water cooler, nothing unusual, and, as he had said, quite deserted. We passed along its center aisle and out the door at its far end, where we crossed the narrow breezeway that separated it from the adjacent building. We entered there.

This is our museum, he said. Sam Beltrane thought it would be nice to have a small one to show visitors. Full of sea things as well as a few models of our equipment.

Nodding, I looked about. At least the model equipment did not dominate, as I would have expected. The floor was covered with green indoor-outdoor carpeting, and a miniature version of the station itself occupied a tablelike frame near the front door, all of its underside equipment exposed. Shelves on the wall behind it held larger-scale versions of some of the more important components, placarded with a paragraph or two of explanation and history. There were an antique cannon, two lantern frames, several belt buckles, a few corns, and some corroded utensils displayed nearby, salvaged from a centuries-old vessel that still lay on the bottom not very far from the station, according to the plaque. On the opposite wall, with several of the larger ones set up on frames before it, was a display of marine skeletons accompanied by colored sketches of the fully fleshed and finned versions, ranging from tiny spinefish to a dolphin, along with a full-sized mock-up of a shark, which I determined to come back and compare a little more carefully on my own time. There was a large section containing Frank Cashel's mineral display, neatly mounted and labeled, separated from the fish by a window and overlooked by a slightly awkward but still attractive watercolor titled Miami Skyline, with the name Cashel scrawled in its lower comer. Oh, Frank paints, I said. Not bad.

No, that's his wife, Linda's, he replied. You will meet her in just a minute. She should be next door. She runs the library and takes care of all our clerical work.

So we passed through the door that led to the library and I saw Linda Cashel. She was seated at a desk, writing, and she looked up as we entered. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair was long, sun-bleached, pulled back, held with a jeweled clip. Blue eyes, in a longish face with a cleft chin, a slightly upturned nose, a sprinkling of freckles, and some very even, very white teeth were displayed as Barthelme greeted her and introduced us.

... Anytime you want a book, she said.

I looked around at the shelves, the cases, the machines.

We keep good copies of the standard reference works we use a lot, she said. I can get facsimile copies of anything else on a day's notice. There are some shelves of general fiction and light stun over there. She indicated a rack beside the front window. Then there are those banks of cassettes to your right, mostly undersea noises, fish sounds and such, for part of a continuing study we do for the National Science Foundation, and the last bank is music, for our own enjoyment. Everything is catalogued here. She rose and slapped a file unit, indicated an index key taped to its side. If you want to take something out and nobody's around, I would appreciate it if you would record its number, your name, and the date in this book. She glanced at a ledger on the comer of her desk. And if you want to keep anything longer than a week, please mention it to me. There is also a tool chest in the bottom drawer, in case you ever need a pair of pliers. Remember to put them back. That covers everything I can think of, she said. Any questions?

Doing much painting these days? I asked.

Oh, she said, reseating herself, you saw my skyline. I'm afraid next door is the only museum I'll ever get into. I've pretty much quit. I know I'm not that good.

I rather liked it.

She twisted her mouth.

When I'm older and wiser and somewhere else, maybe I'll try again. I've done everything I care to with water and shorelines.

I smiled because I couldn't think of anything else to say, and she did the same. Then we left, and Barthelme gave me the rest of the morning off to get settled in my cottage, which had been Michael Thomley's quarters. I went and did that.

After lunch, I went to work with Deems and Carter in the equipment shed. As a result, we finished early. Since it was still too soon to think of dinner, they offered to take me for a swim, to see the sunken ship.

It was about a quarter mile to the south, outside the wall, perhaps twenty fathoms down, what was left of it, and eerie, as such things always are, in the wavering beams we extended. A broken mast, a snapped bowsprit, a section of deck planking and smashed gunwale visible above the mud, an agitated horde of little fish we had disturbed at whatever they were about within and near the hulk, a partial curtain of weeds drawn and redrawn by the currents, and that was all that remained of someone's hopes for a successful voyage, some shipbuilders' labors, and possibly a number of people whose last impressions were of storm or sword, and then the gray, blue, green, sudden springs uncoiling, cold.

Or maybe they made it over to Andros and dinner, as we did later. We ate in a red-and-white-checked-tablecloth sort of place near to the shore, where just about everything man-made clung, the interior of Andros being packed with mangrove swamps, mahogany and pine forests, doves, ducks, quail, pigeons, and chickcharnies. The food was good; I was hungry.

We sat for a time afterward, smoking and talking. I still had not met Paul Vallons, but I was scheduled to work with him the following day. I asked Deems what he was like.

Big fellow, he said, around your size, only he's good-looking. Kind of reserved. Fine diver. He and Mike used to take off every weekend, go belling around the Caribbean. Had a girl on every island, I'll bet.

How's he taking things?

Pretty well, I guess. Like I said, he's kind of reserved, doesn't show his feelings much. He and Mike had been friends for years.

What do you think got Mike?

Carter broke in then.

One of those damned dolphins, he said. We should never have started fooling with them. One of them came up under me once, damn near ruptured me.

They're playful, Deems said. It didn't mean any harm.

I think it did ... And that slick skin of theirs reminds me of a wet balloon. Sickening!

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.