The thud of powerful pumps and the splash of water came across the bay. The Mazy Zed looked like an elephant giving itself a shower-bath with its trunk.
Koeltas ran his eye over the Malgas's slim lines. It was not so much pride as reassurance. 'In a wind — look, six anchor cables out!'
'She'll need them all in a blow,' I said. 'The water is supposed to break right over her — that's the theory, anyway.'
Kim said, 'She sucks up the diamonds just like a bloody calf sucking milk!'
'You gamat, always sucking on the hind tit!' jeered Johaar.
It had been a long, tough beat from Mercury to Angras Juntas, hard inshore, dodging blinders and sandbars as Koeltas conned the Malgas from the bowsprit, which he had straddled like some strange figurehead in his yellow oilskin. His way of navigating had enabled me to see every feature of the Sperrgebiet: the desert wilderness, yellow-grey as smoke seen through a periscope; the iron-bound coast, indented, vicious; the glaring white mirror of a saltpan; a valley where the sand moved uncannily northwards in a broad, slow stream, almost as if of its own will. Koeltas had sailed almost under a great 170-foot high natural arch of rock known as Bogenfels, a gigantic crocodile's mouth held agape by an equally gigantic rock resembling a half-open flick-knife. Next to it was an angled patch of smooth white sand, perhaps half a mile long and a quarter broad. This crescent-shaped storm beach helped to create the legend of sudden, untold riches in South-west Africa; from it came diamonds worth a royal exchequer in a couple of months.
Later, my heart had been in my mouth when Koeltas took the Malgas among an awe-inspiring nightmare of rocks known as Die Doodenstadt — The Town of the Dead. Doodenstadt has never been inhabited; there are houses, streets and churches, but they are solid inside, solid rock; they have been fashioned as if by humans by a curious, macabre trick of the south-west wind. Among the dead rocks lay a dead ship, the British City of Baroda, a U-boat torpedo in her side.
'Polisie!'
Koeltas's astonishment turned to a snarl. He pointed. Astern, from behind a cluster of broken reefs, raced two motor-boats. On reaching open water, they rose up on what looked like water-skis on each side of the hull, and, keel clear of the sea, they arrowed forward. Hydrofoils! They broke company and made to circle the schooner, like two lions spreading for the kill
'We've got nothing to worry about,' I assured Koeltas. Maybe Duvenhage had sea patrols as well as his smart security land force at Oranjemund. 'Rhennin will vouch for me.'
Koeltas replied laconically. 'For you, yes, but not for me, or this ship.'
The schooner had to tack to clear Black Sophie Rock. Our innocuous change of course brought instant reaction. Like one, the two craft rose higher in the water; throttles were rammed wide open. One on either beam, they screamed past the Malgas.
'Look!' I exclaimed.
Tarpaulins were whipped off forward mountings. Heavy quick-firing guns followed us round. I realized then that they were not police craft but Rhennin's watchdogs, the fast patrol boats he had spoken of in court. My eye went to the top of Sinclair Island and there was the complementary half of the Mazy Zed's defence — a radar post. What looked like an enlarged version of the Hydrodist's cathode ray dish was tracking the schooner.
One of the boats throttled back and eased alongside the Malgas. The loudhailer snapped on. The voice was very English.
'Who are you and what do you want?'
I took Koeltas's hand megaphone. 'Tregard here. John Tregard. Tell Rhennin, the Praying Mantis, repeat Praying Mantis, has been lost off Mercury Island. No survivors except myself. This schooner is under my charter. She's okay.'
'She'd better be,' the voice replied. 'Keep away until I have presented your credentials. Especially, keep clear of the Mazy Zed. Today's the day,'
'You look bloody warlike.' I called.
'Have to be, old boy.' It was pure Royal Navy. 'Guarding the Bogenfels Approaches and all that, don't you know. You're the surveyor chappie, aren't you?'
'Was,' I corrected.
'Is the old whaler sunk?'
'That's what I said. Most of the equipment too.' I heard his whistle of surprise. 'You should have taken us along to keep your pants dry. Dirty work at the crossroads?'
'Plenty,' I replied grimly. 'It's a long story — later.'
'Good-oh! Anything to relieve the monotony, I say. Thanks for making our day with tales of pirates and deep water. Your clapped-out sailer is the first to try and run my blockade.'
'Others may.'
The voice became more cheerful. 'Greetings then to the bearer of joyful tidings. Now get those sails stowed, or what ever you do aboard the ancient mariner.'
We dropped anchor half a mile north of the low island. Angras Juntas was a replica of what we had seen all day: a rock-bound coast flanked by steep cliffs, inland, notched ridges and stark chains of naked hills, running north-south, and backing on to a drear, sand-shot infinitude of awe-inspiring desolation.
Inside ten minutes the patrol boat was back. 'Rhennin wants you aboard the Mazy Zed right away,' called the Royal Navy voice.
The sleek craft edged close. Hands grabbed me as I landed on the immaculate deck. The Royal Navy man eyed me quizzically. My trousers were shrunk to half-calf length and most of my shirt buttons were missing. My last shave had been aboard the Praying Mantis.
'Some people have all the fun,' he grinned. 'Rough house?'
I told my story briefly. He grinned again. 'Bob Sheriff's the name. I must admit to noticing a slight pong of seal now that you've come aboard.'
We sped towards the Mazy Zed. Smoke was now pouring from her curious high twin stacks. Diesels thumped heavily. A group of men were gathered round the heavy hose which led, pulsing and shaking, from the gantry into the sea. Where it entered the 'hopper bin' high up, another group was busy. Water cascaded everywhere.
Sheriff said, 'Your untimely arrival has held up the proceedings.'
'You mean…?'
'First diamond run, old boy. Carats in the morning, carats in the evening, carats at supper-time; I hope-so, anyway.'
We swung on to the steel deck. The air of tension was obvious. There were no gunnels and the deck was barely a foot or two above the water. Where the rough coat of red lead had been chipped, the steel had rusted from the corrosive sea fogs. We picked our way though a confusion of metal platforms, derricks, pumps, hoses, pipes and men into a dank corridor which smelt like the deep ocean and was as wet as a submarine. Condensation showed in the light of a weak bulb set into a steel beam, where red-leaded rivets nestled in rows like frogs' eggs. I pulled open a watertight door. The strip lighting was bright after the corridor. About half a dozen men in white overalls stood round a dull steel table like an operating theatre. Rhennin was in faded khaki overalls and a red sweater.
Mary spun the circular hand sieve and, with a peculiar deft movement, upturned it and emptied its gravelly contents on the table.
In the centre lay a handful of diamonds.
I didn't hear the hubbub of congratulations as the men leaned forward, peering eagerly at the first stones ever won from the sea in all man's long quest for riches.