Riptide

phrenologiste?'

'Streeter, report!' Neidelman barked over the radio.

'They're aboard, sir,' Streeter said. 'Bonterre seems to be fine.'

'I am fine, except for this meddlesome doctor!' she cried, struggling.

'Just a moment while I look at your stomach,' Hatch said, gently restraining her.

'Those stones, they looked like the foundation to something,' she continued, lying back. 'Sergio, did you see that? What could it be?'

With a single movement, Hatch unzipped the wetsuit down to her navel.

'Hey!' cried Bonterre.

Ignoring the outcry, Hatch quickly explored the cut. There was a nasty scrape below her ribs, but it seemed superficial along its entire length.

'It is just a scratch,' protested Bonterre, craning her neck to see what Hatch was doing.

He snatched his hand from her belly as a distinctly unprofessional stirring coursed through his loins. 'Perhaps you're right,' he said a little more sarcastically than he intended, fishing in his bag for a topical antibiotic ointment. 'Next time let me play in the water, and you can be the doctor. Meanwhile, I'm going to apply some of this anyway, in case of infection. You had a close call.' He rubbed ointment into the scrape.

'That tickles,' said Bonterre.

Scopatti had stripped off his suit to the waist, and stood with his arms crossed, his tanned physique gleaming in the sun, grinning fondly. Rankin stood next to him, hirsute and massive, watching Bonterre with a distinct gleam in his eyes. Everyone, thought Malin, is in love with this woman.

'I ended up in a big underwater cavern,' she was saying. 'For a moment I couldn't find the walls, and I thought that was the end. Fin.'

'A cavern?' Neidelman asked doubtfully over the open channel.

'Mais oui. A big cavern. But my radio was dead. Why would that be?'

'The tunnel must have blocked the transmission,' Neidelman said.

'But why the backcurrent?' Bonterre said. 'The tide was going out.'

There was a brief silence. 'I don't have an answer to that,' Neidelman's voice came at last. 'Perhaps once we've drained the Pit and its tunnels, we'll learn why. I'll be waiting for a full report. Meanwhile, why don't you rest? Grampus out.'

Streeter turned. 'Markers set. Returning to base.'

The boat rumbled to life and planed across the water, riding the gentle swells. Hatch stowed his gear, listening to the chatter on the radio bands. Neidelman, on the Grampus, was talking to Island One.

'I'm telling you, we've got a cybergeist,' came the voice of Wopner. 'I just did a ROM dump on Charybdis, and ran it against Scylla. Everything's messed up nine ways to Sunday. But that's burned-in code, Captain. The goddamn system's cursed. Not even a hacker could rewrite ROM—'

'Don't start talking about curses,' said Neidelman sharply.

As they approached the dock, Bonterre peeled off her wetsuit, packed it into a deck locker, wrung out her hair, and turned toward Hatch. 'Well, Doctor, my nightmare came true. I did need your services, after all.'

'It was nothing,' said Hatch, blushing and furiously aware of it.

'Oh, but it was very nice.'

Chapter 16

The stone ruins of Fort Blacklock stood in a meadow looking down on the entrance to Stormhaven harbor. The circular fort was surrounded by a large meadow dotted with white pines, which fell away to farmers' fields and a 'sugarbush,' a thick stand of sugar maples. Across the meadow from the old fort a large yellow-and-white pavilion had been erected, decorated with ribbons and pennants that fluttered merrily in the breeze. A banner over the pavilion proclaimed in hand-painted letters: 71ST ANNUAL STORMHAVEN LOBSTER BAKE!!!

Hatch headed apprehensively up the gentle slope of the grassy hill. The lobster bake was the first real opportunity for him to meet the town at large, and he wasn't at all sure what kind of reception to expect. But there was little doubt in his mind about what kind of reception the expedition itself would receive.

Although Thalassa had been in Stormhaven little more than a week, the company's impact had been considerable. Crew members had taken most of the available rental houses and spare rooms, sometimes paying premium prices. They had filled the tiny bed-and-breakfast. The two restaurants in town, Anchors Away and The Landing, were packed every night. The gas station at the wharf had been forced to triple its deliveries, and business at the Superette—though Bud would never admit to it—was up at least fifty percent. The town was in such a fine mood about the Ragged Island treasure hunt that the mayor had hastily made Thalassa the collective guest of honor at the lobster bake. And Neidelman's quietly picking up half the tab—at Hatch's suggestion—had simply been icing on the cake.

As he approached the pavilion, Hatch could make out the table of honor, already occupied by prominent town citizens and Thalassa officials. A small podium and microphone had been placed behind it. Beyond, townspeople and expedition members were milling around, drinking lemonade or beer, and lining up to get their lobsters.

As he ducked inside, he heard a familiar nasal shout. Kerry Wopner was carrying a paper plate groaning under the weight of twin lobsters, potato salad, and corn on the cob. A huge draft beer was balanced in his other hand. The cryptanalyst walked gingerly along, arms straight ahead, trying to keep the food and beer from dripping on his trademark Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, high white socks, and black sneakers.