Riptide

five—but he had the narrow eyes and roughened skin of a sailor. There was something different about him— something almost otherworldly, an air of ascetic intensity—that Hatch found intriguing.

Hatch introduced himself as his visitor stepped forward and offered his hand. The hand was dry and light, the handshake short and to the point.

'Could we speak in private?' the man asked quietly.

Bruce spoke up again. 'What should I do about these colonies, Dr. Hatch? They shouldn't be left out too long in—'

'Why don't you put them back in the refrigerator? They won't be growing legs for at least a few billion more years.' Hatch glanced at his watch, then back into the man's steady gaze. He made a quick decision. 'And then you might as well head home, Bruce. I'll put you down for five. Just don't tell Professor Alvarez.'

Bruce flashed a brief smile. 'Okay, Dr. Hatch. Thanks.'

In a moment Bruce and the colonies were gone, and Hatch turned back to his curious visitor, who had strolled toward the window.

'Is this where you do most of your work, Doctor?' he asked, shifting a leather portfolio from one hand to the other. He was so thin he would have seemed spectral, were it not for the intensity of calm assurance he radiated.

'It's where I do just about all of it.'

'Lovely view,' Neidelman murmured, gazing out the window.

Hatch looked at the man's back, mildly surprised that he felt unoffended by the interruption. He thought of asking the man his business but decided against it. Somehow, he knew Neidelman had not come on a trivial matter.

'The water of the Charles is so dark,' the Captain said. ''Far off from these a slow and silent stream/Lethe the river of oblivion rolls.'' He turned. 'Rivers are a symbol of forgetfulness, are they not?'

'I can't remember,' Hatch said lightly, but growing a little wary now, waiting.

The Captain smiled and withdrew from the window. 'You must be wondering why I've barged into your laboratory. May I ask a few minutes of your indulgence?'

'Haven't you already?' Hatch indicated a vacant chair. 'Have a seat. I'm about finished for the day here, and this important experiment I've been working on'—he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the incubator—'is, how shall I put it? Boring.'

Neidelman raised an eyebrow. 'Not as exciting as fighting an eruption of breakbone fever in the swamps of Amazonia, I imagine.'

'Not quite,' Hatch said after a moment.

The man smiled. 'I read the article in the Globe'

'Reporters never let the facts stand in the way of a story. It wasn't nearly as exciting as it seems.'

'Which is why you returned?'

'I got tired of watching my patients die for lack of a fifty-cent shot of amoxycillin.' Hatch spread his hands fatalistically. 'So isn't it odd that I wish I were back there? Life on Memorial Drive seems rather tepid by comparison.' He shut up abruptly and glanced at Neidelman, wondering what it was about the man that had gotten him talking.

'The article went on to talk about your travels in Sierra Leone, Madagascar, and the Comoros,' Neidelman continued. 'But perhaps your life could use some excitement right now?'

'Pay no attention to my grousing,' Hatch replied with what he hoped was a light tone. 'A little boredom now and then can be tonic for the soul.' He glanced at Neidelman's portfolio. There was some kind of insignia embossed into the leather that he couldn't quite make out.

'Perhaps,' came the reply. 'In any case, it seems you've hit every spot on the globe over the last twenty-five years. Except Stormhaven, Maine.'

Hatch froze. He felt a numbness begin in his fingers and move up his arms. Suddenly it all made sense: the roundabout questions, the seafaring background, the intense look in the man's eyes.

Neidelman stood very still, his eyes steady on Hatch, saying nothing.

'Ah,' Hatch said, fighting to recover his composure. 'And you, Captain, have just the thing to cure my ennui.'

Neidelman inclined his head.

'Let me guess. Does this, by any freak of chance, have to do with Ragged Island?' A flicker in Neidelman's face showed that he had guessed right. 'And you, Captain, are a treasure hunter. Am I right?'

The equanimity, the sense of quiet self-confidence, never left Neidelman's face. 'We prefer the term 'recovery specialist.''

'Everyone has a euphemism these days. Recovery specialist. Sort of like 'sanitary engineer.' You want to dig on Ragged Island. And let me guess: Now, you're about to tell me that you, and only you, hold the secret to the Water Pit.'

Neidelman stood quietly, saying nothing.

'No doubt you also have a high-tech gizmo that will show you the location of the treasure. Or perhaps you've enlisted the help of Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyant?'

Neidelman remained standing. 'I know you've been approached before,' he said.

'Then you'll know the common fate of those who've approached me. Dowsers, psychics, oil barons, engineers, everybody with a foolproof scheme.'