that were only a few sizes too large for her.
“Where do we start?” she asked, and he remembered the sheet of paper. He fished it out of his pocket and flattened it on the table beside the blink. Quickly he ran his eyes over the columns of figures.
His first guess was right - it was a computer programme.
“Stay here,” he ordered Tracey.
“No.” Her response was immediate, and he grinned.
“Listen, I’m just going up on to the bridge to keep them busy there. I’ll come back for you, I promise. You won’t miss anything.”
How is she, boss?” Sergio Caporetti’s concern was genuine. Johnny realized that he must be worrying himself into a frenzy trying to guess the reason for Tracey’s arrival.
“She is pretty shaken up,“Johnny answered.
“What she want - that was big chance she takes. Nearly fish food.” “I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I want you to take over up here.
Keep Kingfisher working. I’m going to get her to bed - I’ll let you know what it’s all about as soon as I find out.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Oh, and
Sergio - keep an eye on those rocks. Don’t let her drift down any closer.” Johnny chose a powerful incentive to keep Sergio up on the bridge.
Johnny left him and went below, stopping only at the guest cabin.
“Come on.” Tracey followed him, lurching unsteadily with
Kingfisher’s antics in the high sea.
Two decks down they reached the computer control room and Johnny unlocked the heavy steel door, then locked it again behind them.
Tracey wedged herself against the bulkhead and watched as Johnny seated himself at the console and clipped the rumpled sheet into the board.
Reading from the sheet he typed the first line of figures on the keyboard. Immediately the computer registered a protest.
“Operator error,” it typed back. Johnny ignored its denial and typed the second line. This time it was more emphatic.
“No procedure. Operator error.” And Johnny typed the next line of figures. He guessed that whoever had stored this programme in the computer’s memory would have placed a series of blocks to prevent accidental discovery. Again the denial flashed back at him.
“Operator error.” And Johnny muttered, “Thrice before the cock crows,” striking an incongruously biblical note in the tense atmosphere of the control room.
He typed the last line of figures and the denial faded from the screen. The console clicked like a monstrous crab, then suddenly it started to print again.
KAMINIKOTO SECONDARY RECOVERY PROGRAMME.
INSTALLED OCTOBER 1969. AT LAS PALMAS BY HIDEKI KAMINIKOTO.
DOCTOR OF SCIENCE.
TOKYO UNIVERSITY.” The little Japanese had been unable to resist autographing his masterpiece. Tracey and Johnny crouched over the screen, staring at it with awful fascination as the computer began spelling out its report. It began with the number of hours worked, and the weight of gravel processed during that time. Next it reported the weight of concentrates recovered from the cyclone and finally, in a series of columns, it printed out the weights and sizes of all the diamonds won from the sea. The big Blue showed up in the place of honour, and wordlessly Tracey touched the figure 320 with a forefinger.
Johnny nodded grimly.
The computer ended by giving the grand total of carats recovered, and Johnny spoke for the first time.
“It’s true,” he said softly. “It doesn’t seem possible - but it is.” The click and hum of the computer ceased, and the screen went blank.
Johnny straightened up in the chair.
“Where would they put it?” he asked himself, as he ran quickly over the line of recovery. He stood up from the chair and peered through the leaded glass peephole into the X-ray room. “It must be this side of the cyclone, this side of the drier - ” He was speaking aloud. Between the drier and the X-ray room.” Then there bobbed to the surface of memory the modification in design which he had meant to query, but which he had forgotten.
“The inspection plate on the conveyor tunnel!” He punched his fist into his palm. “They moved the inspection plate! That’s it! It’s in the conveyor tunnel.” His hands were frantic with haste as he unlocked the steel door of the control room.
sergio, Caporetti paced his bridge like a captive bear, puffing so furiously on his cheroot that sparks flew from its tip. The wind howled hungrily around the wheelhouse, and the swells still marched in from the north.
Suddenly he reached a decision and turned to the helmsman.
“Watch those goddamn rocks - watch them good.” The helmsman nodded and Sergio shambled through the chartroom to his own cabin. He locked the door behind him, and crossed to his desk. Fumbling with his keys he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and reaching under the pile of cheroot packets he brought out the canvas bag.
Weighing it thoughtfully in his hand, he looked about the cabin for a more secure hiding place. Through the canvas he could feel the nutty irregular shape of the stones.
“That Johnny, he a clever bastard,” he muttered. “It better be good place.” Then he reached a decision. “Best place where I can watch them all a time.” He opened his jacket and stuffed the bag into his inside pocket. He buttoned the jacket and patted the bulge over his heart.
“Fine!” he said. “Good!” And stood up from the desk. He hurried back, unlocking the door into the chartroom, and headed for the bridge.
He stopped in the middle of the chartroom, and his head swung towards the repeater screen of the computer. The buzzer was going like a rattlesnake, and the red bulb that warned of a new procedure was blinking softly.
Fearfully Sergio approached the screen and stooped over it. A
single glance was enough, and he rushed from it to the chart table. He saw the cross-shaped tear in the chart.
“Mary Mother!” He ripped back the thick crackling paper and searched under it. He stepped back from the table and hit himself across the chest.
“Fool!” he said. “Idiot!” He spent ten seconds in selfcastigation, then he looked about for a weapon. The locking handle of the cabin was a twelve-inch steel bar with a heavy head. He pulled out the pin and worked it loose. He slipped it into the waistband of his trousers.
“I’m going below,” he told the helmsman curtly, and clambered down the companionway. Swiftly he moved through the ship, balancing easily to her roll and pitch.
When he reached the lowest deck he became more stealthy, creeping silently forward. Now he carried the steel bar in his right hand.
Every few paces he stopped to listen, but Kingfisher’s hull was groaning and popping as she worked in the swells.
He could hear no other sound. He crept up to the door of the control room and cautiously peered through the small armoured glass window. The control room was empty. He tried the handle, and found it locked.
Then he heard voices - from the open doorway of the conveyor room behind him. Quickly he crossed to it and flattened himself against the jamb.
Johnny’s voice came muffled and indistinct: “There’s another hatch in here. Get me a half-inch spanner from the tool cupboard.”
“What’s a half-inch spanner look like?”
“It’s a big one. The size is stamped on it.” Sergio glanced one-eyed around the door jamb. The cover was off the inspection hatch in the conveyor tunnel, and Tracey’s head was thrust into the opening.
It was clear that Johnny Lance was in there, and that he had found the secret compartment.
