one, in the canvas bag. It felt good to move around. The water inside her wet suit was warming to body temperature, and when she moved her arms or legs, pockets of water were squeezed from one part of the suit to another. She tried to count the ampules in the bag, but there were too many. She worried that if she kept adding more and more ampules, they might be crushed when she took them out of the water. Here they weighed almost nothing; out of water the liquid might be dense enough to cause the ampules on the bottom of the bag to crack. She tapped Sanders on the shoulder and pointed to Treece, a hazy gray figure only three or four feet away. Sanders tapped Treece, who raised the air lift off the sand.
Gail kicked over to him and showed him the bag. He nodded and pointed upward.
As she surfaced, the bag acted as a sea anchor, holding her back. She had to struggle to make way, kicking as hard as she could and using her hand to force herself upward. She looked down and saw Treece tap Sanders and beckon him toward the reef.
Coffin had seen her bubbles, and he was waiting on the diving platform. He took the bag from her, and as he looked into it, his eyes glazed in recollection.
All he said was “Aye.”
Gail hauled herself onto the platform and lay on her stomach, panting.
“Next time,” Coffin said, “leave your weights on the bottom. Makes it easier.”
Gail said, “Yes,” and chided herself for not having thought of it.
“I’ll have this bag emptied for you in a jiff; just want to stow the glass.”
She pushed herself into a sitting position. “No rush.”
Coffin walked forward, and Gail could hear a tinkling sound as he removed the ampules from the bag.
“No trouble?” she called.
“Not a peep. I don’t guess the bastard’ll try anything with all them folks on the beach. He’s a piece of work underwater, ain’t he?”
“Treece? I suppose. Is the air lift hard to handle?”
“For most men. It can buck like a goat. But Treece’ll hold it steady as a tree for five and six hours at a go. I think he’d stay down there all his life if he could. He’s been happiest down there, away from people, for a long time.” Coffin’s voice trailed off.
“What do you mean, a long time?”
“You don’t know?”
“I guess not.”
“Well, it ain’t my place to tell tales.”
“Mr. Coffin,” Gail said, controlling her annoyance, “I’m not asking you to tell tales. But there’s something about Treece that everybody but us seems to know, and nobody will say. We’re living in the man’s house, sleeping in his bed. I think we have a right to know
Coffin picked the last of the ampules from the bag.
“Maybe you do. All I’ll tell you is this: He was married.” He walked aft.
“Where’s his wife?”
“Dead.” He handed her the bag. “Two hundred and forty-six. Got a long way to go.”
Gail looked at Coffin, debating whether to press him for more information. She decided not to try: If he wanted to talk, he would-when he close to.
Pressing might anger him. She lowered her mask over her face, bit down on her mouthpiece, and slipped off the diving platform into the water.
Underwater, she rolled the bag into a ball to keep it from dragging. She looked down and saw Treece and Sanders working in the reef, several yards to the left of the cave. Through the cloud of sand that billowed above them she could not tell which man was which. She started down, and the water that seeped into her wet suit felt cold.
She wondered how much air she had left, looking forward to the interlude that would come when she had to change tanks. The sun would feel good, and perhaps she could coax Coffin into sharing a few more facts about Treece’s wife.
She swam through the floating sand and felt dusty motes cling to her hair. She heard a hammering sound, as though someone were working on an anvil.
Blinded by the sand, she was suddenly rammed in the chest by a blast of air and pebbles; she had swum to within inches of the discharge from the air lift. She recoiled and let herself fall to the bottom. Debris rained around her as she crawled forward.
Treece was banging the end of the air lift against the coral, trying to break off a piece so he could put his hand in a hole. A fist-size chunk of coral broke loose and rattled up the tube. Treece felt with his fingers, then shook his head: his hand was too large. He pointed to Sanders, who worked his fingers into the hole and withdrew them, clutching a green crusty piece of metal, which he passed to Treece.
Gail tapped Treece, to let him know she was there.
He turned and gestured for her to open the bag. She unfolded it, and he dropped the relic inside.
Then he led them back toward the cave.
Sand had drifted into the hole Treece had made, and now there was a barely perceptible dent in the bottom. Treece positioned the Sanderses as they had been before and touched the air gun to the sand.
For the first six inches, as Treece redug the hole, there was nothing but sand. But soon he found the carpet of ampules, and Sanders plucked them, in twos and threes, from the shifting bottom and passed them to Gail.
Lying prone on the bottom, moving nothing but her hands, Gail felt a deep, unpleasant chill.
The water in her suit was still and clammy.
Her body, needing to generate heat, sent a shiver into her arms, then her shoulders, then her neck. She hoped she would run out of air soon.
Sanders picked the last two ampules from the hole.
Treece backed up a foot or two, touched the gun to fresh sand, and, in half a minute, exposed countless new ampules.
A lump appeared in the bottom of the hole, a hard cone. Sand slipped away from it until Sanders could see a metallic green peak. Suddenly he knew what it was: an artillery shell. He reached for it, and quickly Treece hit his hand with the air lift, then raised the air lift over his head and looked at Sanders. He held up the index finger of his left hand: Pay attention, he was saying. He pointed to the green cone and shook his finger, then pointed at himself: You stay clear; I’ll handle it. He pointed at Sanders, at the air lift, at the cone: Take this and train it on that thing. Sanders nodded and reached for the tube. There was a circular grip near the mouth.
Treece kept his hand on the grip until Sanders seemed to have firm grasp, and then Treece let go.
Watching Treece use the gun-his hand on the grip, the tube tucked snugly under his arm-Sanders had concluded that the air lift was a docile beast, so he held the grip loosely. The mouth of the tube drifted across the bottom, sucking up sand and stones. Suddenly the tube inhaled a stone it couldn’t pass, and, clogged, it jumped from Sanders’ hand and slammed into his armpit. Whipped by a hundred feet of hose full of compressed air, the tube bounced Sanders along the bottom like a Yo-Yo.
Sanders wrapped his arms around the tube and tried to dig his heels into the sand, but the tube snapped him upward and swung him back and forth. He saw flashes of the surface and streaks of gray and brown as he was swept past the reef. He relaxed his hold, trying to free himself from the tube, and it cracked him across the ribs.
Then the tube fell still. Gasping, peering through a swirl of sand and bubbles, Sanders saw Treece holding the bottom of the jumping air lift against the reef, banging it on a rock. He slammed it down again and again until, finally, the stone was disgorged.
The tube swayed slowly in the tide.
Treece made the “okay” sign and raised his eyebrows, questioning. Sanders touched his ribs and nodded. Treece gestured at the grip: Hold it steady, and it’ll behave. He led Sanders back to the hole.
Gail touched his shoulder and looked worriedly into his eyes. He made the “okay” sign and dropped to his knees. Treece handed him the grip and fit the tube under his arm. Sanders held the grip so tightly that his knuckles whitened. When he was sure he was in control, he nodded at Treece and dipped the gun to the sand. It twitched and hummed against his body, but held firm.
Treece swam to the other side of the hole, facing Sanders, guiding him around the green cone, directing that
