Warren Murphy - The Last Alchemist

"No, No. Forget the gold. Farther toward the prow you will find it."

"A man who does not value gold, a ship guarded by skulls."

"Gomez, I value gold more than anything. As for guarding by skulls, that was an old practice for treasure. One skull per fortune."

"But there is a stack of skulls back there."

"Yes," said Mr. Caldwell.

"What should I photograph?"

"You will see it. You cannot miss it. It is made of stone, simple black basalt. And it is round."

"Just that, sir?"

"That's what you are being paid for," came back the voice of Mr. Caldwell.

At that moment the air became just a bit more difficult to breathe, and not because of the line. Jesus was very careful about that line, jiggling it free from above and behind him every few feet, careful of the insurance coil of slack. At the first resistance of the line, he pulled no more and used the coil. He would not, he vowed, go one step beyond that coil.

If there was gold in the stern, stacks of it, then there has to be more of it for ballast, he thought. Unless, of course, the stone is the ballast. The big stone in the middle of the ship is the ballast.

And then he thought some more, stepping carefully over the floating hand of a man whose sword had been useless to defend his life under the water.

No, he thought. If I am to photograph the stone, then the gold is the ballast. The stone had to be the many treasures, the reason for the many skulls. Such was the stunning revelation that came to Jesus Gomez as he stumbled onto the stone. It hit his feet. It was round, almost a perfect circle the diameter of a short man.

"I have found it."

"Turn on the camera. There is a rubber plunger switch at the rear ... good. That's it. Don't kick up the mud." This from Mr. Caldwell, who could obviously see through this camera. But that did not explain why it was so large. Television cameras could be made as small as a loaf of bread.

"There are four quadrants," said Mr. Caldwell. "Do you see them?"

"Oh, yes," said Gomez. The stone was divided into four parts. In the days of the Spanish, gold coins were divided into pieces of eight, and quarters, where the modern Americans got the name of their silver pieces from, not from quarters of dollars as they liked to believe.

"Stand on the edge of the closest quadrant."

"Yes, Mr. Caldwell."

"Point the camera directly at your feet, and hold the camera steady."

"I am, Mr. Caldwell."

"Press the button on your left."

"I am doing that, Mr. Caldwell." Jesus felt the camera whir and felt little clicks. Jesus did that two times minimum for every section of the quadrant, sometimes doing it as many as five times. And by this he realized every picture he took was seen and recorded on the surface ship, because otherwise Mr. Caldwell would not know to ask for another picture unless he could see something he didn't like in the first ones.

Jesus thought he recognized some of the letters but could read no language. There were Arabic letters, he thought. Spanish letters, he thought. But the words were not Spanish, even though he thought he recognized one or two.

Perhaps, he thought while waiting for the camera to do its job, one language is Latin. I have seen words like this chiseled into church walls. Perhaps the Arabic is old, too, he thought. Other letters he could not even remotely recognize.

As he checked his watch he realized that if he had taken down tanks he would not have been able to stay so long. This made him feel better. There was some logic now to the risky suit. Mr. Caldwell wanted his photographs done in one dive. It would be fifty thousand dollars for a day. He had done all four quadrants. There was nothing left to do. He waited for Mr. Caldwell to call him up to the surface. Finally, he could wait no longer. "Are we done, Mr. Caldwell?" said Jesus Gomez.

There was no answer from above. He felt his ears ring. Something was pushing in on his skull. The breathing was hard, like his lungs were being pushed out into his rib cage. It was hot, very hot for this deep. Then he realized the air pressure in the suit was increasing. Becoming enormous. He tried to move across the planking but his weighted feet were rising. He was rising. And he couldn't stop it.

"Mr. Caldwell, Mr. Caldwell. Lower the pressure. Lower the pressure," cried Jesus Gomez. He felt himself lift from the base of the hull, rising toward the upper decks. The underside of the deck felt strangely soft. Very soft. It was as though the ceiling was as springy and as pliable as a balloon. Then he saw it-a gloved hand in a bloated arm. The pressure had pushed him into another diver, a diver who was also pinned to the roof. Dangling from the diver's hand was a camera similar to the one Mr. Caldwell had given Jesus, except it had a single light. Jesus had been sent a strong battery of lights. Did they try the first time and find out there were not enough lights to photograph the stone? But why did they strand the diver? At that moment, pinned inside the wreck of a ship two hundred feet and four centuries beneath the surface, Jesus Gomez knew exactly why Mr. Caldwell was willing to pay fifty thousand dollars for a week. He would have paid fifty million for a week. Because Mr. Caldwell never intended to pay him at all. Mr. Caldwell paid only in air pressure.

Jesus saw the air line and the camera line float away. Apparently they could disassemble them from above, plugging the air line at Jesus' end. He knew it was from his end because bubbles came from the retreating end like a snake, like a snake of life saying good-bye to Jesus Gomez pinned to the ceiling of an old ship, another skull to guard the many treasures. He wondered if he should cut open his suit, just to get free of the ceiling. Of course he would drown, but maybe he could somehow get to that bubbling hose going away, taunting him with the air he needed. But the arms of Jesus Gomez, trapped in a taut balloon of a suit, could not move. And besides, the pressure was turning everything black anyhow. Or was it the batteries going out in the lights? Could they turn those out from above? he wondered. His father had been right. It was too much money. And his last dim thoughts as his body gave up its quest for air, in the warm comforting narcotic of death, was that his father, the poor sponge diver, was right. Too much money. Too much.

Professor Augustine Cryx of Brussels had to laugh. Not only was it too much money, but anyone willing to pay money at all for his services had to be suspect.

"What? Calling from America? Is there something wrong with the postal service? Eh? I can't hear you."

"Professor Cryx, this is a perfect telephone connection. And you're hearing well. I want you to look at several photographs tomorrow. I will pay whatever you ask, just see me tomorrow."

Professor Cryx laughed. Even the laughter was old, almost a crackle coming from a dry throat. He was eighty-seven years old, lived a life of virtual obscurity, pensioned off by the university in quiet embarrassment after the Second World War, and now someone was offering him four times what his yearly salary had been just to look at some pictures.

"Mr. Caldwell," said Professor Cryx. "What would I do with the money? I have no need of money. How many years do you think I have left?"

"What do you want?" said Harrison Caldwell. "Name it."

"I wish to enjoy the feast of St. Vincense D'Ors. And that is tomorrow. And I have my wine, and I make libations in all four corners of the world, and chant the words so dear to his heart."

"I can build a statue for him or of him, Professor Cryx. I'll make a donation to the church in St. Vincense D'Ors' name."

"Wouldn't do any good, Mr. Caldwell. The Roman Catholic Church cleared poor Vincense out with St. Christopher and Philomena and so many others, years ago. We all no longer belong, including me. We are all finished and done with. Good day, Mr. Caldwell."