“All right, all right!” Da Silva said, and grinned at the outburst. “You can come along. Satisfied?”
“Well, it’s mighty sweet of you, mon! I suppose you’ll be expecting me to do the cooking!” She glared at him, far from mollified.
“Not quite,” Da Silva said, and then paused, thinking. “We’ll have to get in touch with Storrs and let him know what we’re doing.”
“I’ll do it while you two are getting some clothes on,” Diana said. “I’ll meet you at the dock.”
“Yes, Mother,” Da Silva said meekly, and reached for his trousers.
The powerboat could not be mistaken; it was the only boat of any stature tied to the pier. The fishing boats had already scattered for the day and were tiny white flash-marks against the blue of the horizon; only a few dinghies rose and fell on the pulsing sea, their loose painters tied to the slippery moss-covered posts of the dock. Da Silva jumped down and helped Diana aboard; Wilson came last, carrying a small overnight bag. He set it down and reached for the line holding the boat to the pier, but Da Silva held up his hand abruptly.
“Hold it — not so fast. If McNeil said he’d be around when the time came, it has to mean one of two things: that he’s on this boat now — which I admit is rather doubtful — or he’ll be on another boat in the neighborhood of that cove, waiting for us to come back from the cave with the stones.”
Wilson bent and opened the small overnight bag. He glanced about, saw nobody within sight, and brought out three revolvers, handing one to Da Silva, tucking one into his waistband, and then looking at Diana with a frown, as if wondering where she might accommodate hers. She smiled and took it, placing it on the small ledge holding the binnacle and the instruments. Wilson straightened up and looked at Da Silva.
“And since we’re armed, just how does Mr. McNeil plan on getting the stones away from us and leaving us on the island?” he demanded. “Using hypnosis?”
“I don’t know.” Da Silva slipped his revolver into his pocket and then brought it out again, holding it. “But I’m sure he has some idea. Before we cast off, let’s take a look around.”
He took on the task of investigating the small roundhouse, peering under the bunks, opening the lockers there, and even opening the doors beneath the chart table, revealing tiny cubbyholes filled with rolled-up maps. He checked the tiny space beneath the small galley and the sink, looked into the head; with a sigh he went back on deck. He watched as Wilson lifted the tarpaulin from the dinghy davited aft, and then pulled it tight again, looping the cord about the thole pins. Wilson walked over and raised the hatches that covered the inboard engines, although it was obvious there was no room in the shallow wells for anything other than the eight-cylinder marine power-plants, crowding the space with their V-shaped beauty. He dropped the hatch covers and secured them, coming to his feet, tucking his revolver back into his belt.
“If he’s in there, he’s hiding inside one of the cylinders.”
“And if he’s in the cabin, he’s hiding in a gasoline tin.” The reference reminded him. “How are we for fuel, by the way?”
“Plenty,” Wilson assured him. “Even for those thirsty monsters.” He grinned. “McNeil didn’t leave much to chance, I have to give him that. I gather he’d feel poorly if we got ourselves stranded halfway to the island, or something like that.”
“I have an even stronger feeling that he’d hate to be stranded himself, once he gave us the old heave-ho on Green Hell Island,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “All right, you’re the captain. Shall we be on our way?”
Diana had been watching silently. She stepped forward and pressed the self-starter buttons; the first engine ground a moment and then caught, followed almost instantly by the second. Water spurted in sudden gouts, bubbling loudly behind, rocking the boat in place. Wilson untied the rope holding them to the pier and stepped down into the boat; Diana let the tide move them clear of the dock and then slowly eased the throttle forward, swinging the wheel. The needle of the compass came about slowly, as if pushing through molasses. The tall girl waited until it reached eighty-eight degrees, between east-by-north and true east on the compass, and held the wheel steady there. Wilson reopened the engine hatches and listened appreciatively to the steady rumble, checked their oil level, and closed the hatches, coming to his feet and facing the prow, letting the wind whip through his hair.
Da Silva had disappeared into the cabin; he reappeared with ham sandwiches. “A woman’s work is never done,” he said with a grin, and handed them around.
Diana smiled at him. With the wind blowing her long hair back, and molding her blouse tightly against her firm, full breasts, with the sun glinting from her straight, strong profile, she was truly beautiful, Da Silva thought appreciatively. What the Brazilians would call a gorgeous morena. She looked like one of the figureheads mounted on the stemhead of some ancient barque, leaning into the wind, making the vessel travel by leading it fearlessly into the mysteries of the unknown sea. Da Silva sighed and turned to look around him, chewing his sandwich. Behind, the island of Barbados was visible almost in its entirety, with its low hills forming a figure similar to a sleeping giant. To the north of them the fishing fleet was closer, but still scattered, bobbing on the sea. Ahead the waves were empty, low and soft; the sun was rising, throwing heat. He turned to look at the girl again.
“How long a run?”
Diana glanced at the instruments. “A few hours. Why? Would you like to lie down and take a nap?”
“Maybe on the way back. This is too much fun.”
Da Silva turned to enjoy the loveliness of the day. It reminded him of yachting with friends in Guanabara Bay, heading for Paqueta — an island, now that he thought about it, not too dissimilar from their goal. Except for sharks; the lack of them wasn’t anything to be held against Paqueta, in his opinion.
Wilson finished his sandwich, lit a cigarette, and came over from his position near the rail. “I’ll take it,” he said to the girl, and put his hand on one of the wheel spokes. “You eat your sandwich.”
“All right.” Diana picked up her sandwich and gun and disappeared into the cabin; when she returned she had fashioned a wide belt from what looked like a pillowcase, pinned behind. Her gun was tucked into it securely; it looked like a pirate sash. She smiled at the two men. “Not exactly regulation holster design,” she said, “but I suppose there are several things about this trip that aren’t regulation.”
“Like, is this trip necessary?” Wilson grinned and paid attention to his task.
The sea rushed past them, foaming alongside and leaving a broad wake behind; the sun rose higher and higher. When at last Barbados had disappeared completely, the complete desolation of open sea could be felt. It was with relief that they finally could note, rising slowly above the waves, the faint outline of the island, increasing in size and clarity by the minute. Da Silva looked at his watch in surprise; Diana noted the gesture and smiled.