Riptide

by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

Genres: Thrillers; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Time Travel; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

IN 1695, a notorious English pirate buried his bounty in a maze of booby-trapped tunnels on an island off the coast of Maine. In three hundred years, no one has breached this cursed and rocky fortress. Now a treasure hunter and his high-tech, million-dollar recovery team embark on the perfect operation to unlock the labyrinth's mysteries. First the computers fail. The then crewmen begin to die. The island has guarded its secrets for centuries, and it isn't letting them go--without a fight.

Release date: July 1, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

Malin Hatch was bored with summer. He and Johnny had spent the early part of the morning throwing rocks at the hornet’s nest in the old well-house. That had been fun. But now there was nothing else to do. It was just past eleven, but he’d already eaten the two peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches his mother had made him for lunch. Now he sat crosslegged on the floating dock in front of their house, looking out to sea, hoping to spot a battleship steaming over the horizon. Even a big oil tanker would do. Maybe it would head for one of the outer islands, run aground, and blow up. Now that would be something.

His brother came out of the house and rattled down the wooden ramp leading to the dock. He was holding a piece of ice on his neck.

“Got you good,” Malin said, secretly satisfied that he had escaped stinging and that his older, supposedly wiser, brother had not.

“You just didn’t get close enough,” Johnny said through his last mouthful of sandwich. “Chicken.”

“I got as close as you.”

“Yeah, sure. All those bees could see was your skinny butt running away.” He snorted and winged the piece of ice into the water.

“No, sir. I was right there.”

Johnny plopped down beside him on the dock, dropping his satchel next to him. “We fixed those bees pretty good though, huh, Mal?” he said, testing the fiery patch on his neck with one forefinger.

“Sure did.”

They fell silent. Malin looked out across the little cove toward the islands in the bay: Hermit Island, Wreck Island, Old Hump, Killick Stone. And far beyond, the blue outline of Ragged Island, appearing and disappearing in the stubborn mist that refused to lift even on this beautiful midsummer day. Beyond the islands, the open ocean was, as his father often said, as calm as a millpond.

Languidly, he tossed a rock into the water and watched the spreading ripples without interest. He almost regretted not going into town with his parents. At least it would be something to do. He wished he could be anywhere else in the world—Boston, New York—anywhere but Maine.

“Ever been to New York, Johnny?” he asked.

Johnny nodded solemnly. “Once. Before you were born.”

What a lie, Malin thought. As if Johnny would remember anything that had happened when he was less than two years old. But saying so out loud would be to risk a swift punch in the arm.

Malin’s eye fell on the small outboard tied at the end of the dock. And he suddenly had an idea. A really good idea.

“Let’s take it out,” he said, lowering his voice and nodding at the skiff.

“You’re crazy,” Johnny said. “Dad would whip us good.”

“Come on,” Malin said. “They’re having lunch at the Hastings after they finish shopping. They won’t be back until three, maybe four. Who’s gonna know?”

“Just the whole town, that’s all, seeing us going out there.”

“Nobody’s gonna be watching,” said Malin. Then, recklessly, he added, “Who’s chicken now?”

But Johnny did not seem to notice this liberty. His eyes were on the boat. “So where do you want to go that’s so great, anyway?” he asked.

Despite their solitude, Malin lowered his voice further. “Ragged Island.”

Johnny turned toward him. “Dad’ll kill us,” he whispered.

“He won’t kill us if we find the treasure.”

“There’s no treasure,” Johnny said scornfully, but without much conviction. “Anyway, it’s dangerous out there, with all those pits.”

Malin knew enough about his brother to recognize the tone in his voice. Johnny was interested. Malin kept quiet, letting the monotonous morning solitude do his persuading for him.

Abruptly, Johnny stood up and strode to the end of the dock. Malin waited, an anticipatory thrill coursing through him. When his brother returned, he was holding a life preserver in each hand.

“When we land, we don’t go farther than the rocks along the shore.” Johnny’s voice was deliberately gruff, as if to remind Malin that simply having one good idea didn’t alter their balance of power. “Understand?”

Malin nodded, holding the gunwale while Johnny tossed in his satchel and the life preservers. He wondered why they hadn’t thought of doing this before. Neither boy had ever been to Ragged Island. Malin didn’t know any kids in the town of Stormhaven who ever had, either. It would make a great story to tell their friends.

“You sit in the bow,” Johnny said, “and I’ll drive.”

Malin watch Johnny fiddle with the shift lever, open the choke, pump the gas bulb, then yank the starter cord. The engine coughed, then fell silent. Johnny yanked again, then again. Ragged Island was six miles offshore, but Malin figured they could make it in a half hour on such a smooth sea. It was close to high tide, when the strong currents that swept the island dropped down to nothing before reversing.

Johnny rested, his face red, and then turned again for a heroic yank. The engine sputtered into life. “Cast off!” he shouted. As soon as the rope was uncleated, Johnny shoved the throttle all the way forward, and the tinny little eighteen-horsepower engine whined with exertion. The boat surged from the dock and headed out past Breed’s point into the bay, wind and spray stinging Malin’s face delightfully.

The boat sent back a creamy wake as it sliced through the ocean. There had been a massive storm the week before, but as usual it seemed to have settled the surface, and the water was glassy. Now Old Hump appeared to starboard, a low naked dome of granite, streaked with seagull lime and fringed with dark seaweed. As they buzzed through the channel, countless seagulls, drowsing one-legged on the rock, raised their heads and stared at the boat with bright yellow eyes. A single pair rose into the sky, then wheeled past, crying a lost cry.

“This was a great idea,” Malin said. “Wasn’t it, Johnny?”

“Maybe,” Johnny said. “But if we get caught, it was your idea.”

Even though their father owned Ragged Island, they had been forbidden to visit it for as long as he could remember. Their dad hated the place and never talked about it. School yard legend held that countless people had been killed there digging for treasure; that the place was cursed; that it harbored ghosts. There were so many pits and shafts dug over the years that the island’s innards were completely rotten, ready to swallow the unwary visitor. He’d even heard about the Curse Stone. It had been found in the Pit many years before, and now it was supposedly kept in a special room deep in the church basement, locked up tight because it was the work of the devil. Johnny once told him that when kids were really bad in Sunday School, they were shut up in the crypt with the Curse Stone. He felt another shiver of excitement.

The island lay dead ahead now, wreathed in clinging tatters of mist. In winter, or on rainy days, the mist turned to a suffocating, pea-soup fog. On this bright summer day, it was more like translucent cotton candy. Johnny had tried to explain the local rip currents that caused it, but Malin hadn’t understood and was pretty sure Johnny didn’t, either.

The mist approached the boat’s prow and suddenly they were in a strange twilit world, the motor muffled. Almost unconsciously, Johnny slowed down. Then they were through the thickest of it and ahead Malin could see the Ragged Island ledges, their cruel seaweed-covered flanks softened by the mist.

They brought the skiff through a low spot in the ledges. As the sea-level mist cleared, Malin could see the greenish tops of jagged underwater rocks, covered with waving seaweed; the kind of rocks so feared by lobstermen at low tide or in heavy fog. But now the tide was high, and the little motorboat slid past effortlessly. After an argument about who was to get his feet wet, they grounded on the cobbled shore. Malin jumped out with the painter and pulled the boat up, feeling the water squish in his sneakers.

Johnny stepped out onto dry land. “Pretty neat,” he said noncommittally, shouldering his satchel and looking inland.

Just up from the stony beach, the sawgrass and chokecherry bushes began. The scene was lit by an eerie silver light, filtered through the ceiling of mist that still hung above their heads. A huge iron boiler, at least ten feet high, rose above the nearby grass, covered with massive rivets and rusted a deep orange. There was a split down one side, ragged and petalled. Its upper half was cloaked by the lowlying mists.

“I bet that boiler blew up,” Johnny said.

“Bet it killed somebody,” Malin added with relish.

“Bet it killed two people.”

The cobbled beach ended at the seaward point of the island in ridges of wave-polished granite. Malin knew that fishermen passing through the Ragged Island Channel called these rocks the Whalebacks. He scrambled up the closest of the Whalebacks and stood high, trying to see over the bluffs into the island.

“Get down!” Johnny yelled. “Just what do you think you’re gonna see in all this mist? Idiot.”

“Takes one to know one—” Malin began, climbing down, and received a brotherly rap on the head for his troubles.

“Stay behind me,” Johnny said. “We’ll circle the shore, then head back.” He walked quickly along the bottom of the bluffs, his tanned legs chocolate brown in the dim light. Malin followed, feeling aggrieved. It was his idea to come out here, but Johnny always took over.

“Hey!” Johnny yelled. “Look!” He bent down, picking up something long and white. “It’s a bone.”

“No, it isn’t,” Malin replied, still feeling annoyed. Coming to the island was his idea. He should have been the one to find it.

“It is too. And I bet it’s from a man.” Johnny swung the thing back and forth like a baseball bat. “It’s the leg bone off somebody who got killed trying to get the treasure. Or a pirate, maybe. I’m gonna take it home and keep it under my bed.”

Curiosity overcame Malin’s annoyance. “Let me see,” he said.

Johnny handed him the bone. It felt surprisingly heavy and cold, and it smelled bad. “Yuck,” Malin said, hastily handing it back.

“Maybe the skull’s around here somewhere,” Johnny replied.

They poked among the rocks, finding nothing but a dead dogfish with goggle eyes. As they rounded the point, a wrecked barge came into view, left from some long-forgotten salvage operation. It was grounded at the high-tide mark, twisted and pounded onto the rocks, buffeted by decades of storms.

“Look at this,” said Johnny, interest rising in his voice. He scrambled out on the heaved, buckled deck. All around it lay rusted pieces of metal, pipes, busted gears, and nasty snarls of cable and wire. Malin began looking through the old junk, keeping an eye out for the gleam of a pirate doubloon. He figured that the pirate, Red Ned Ockham, was so rich he’d probably dropped a whole lot of doubloons around the island. Red Ned, who’d supposedly buried millions and millions in gold on the island, along with a jeweled weapon called St. Michael’s Sword, so powerful it could kill any man who even looked at it. They said Red Ned had once cut a man’s ears off and used them to make a bet in a dice game. A sixth-grade girl named Cindy told him it was really the man’s balls that Red Ned cut off, but Malin didn’t believe her. Another time Red Ned got drunk and cut a man open, then threw him overboard and towed him by his guts until the sharks ate him. The kids at school had a lot of stories about Red Ned.

Tiring of the barge, Johnny motioned for Malin to follow him along the rocks that lay scattered at the bottom of the bluffs on the windward side of the island. Above them, a high dirt embankment rose against the sky, roots of long-dead spruce trees poking horizontally from the soil like gnarled fingers. The top of the embankment was lost in the clinging mists. Some of the bluffs were caved in and collapsing, victims of the storms that slammed into the island every fall.

It was chilly in the shadow of the bluffs, and Malin hurried on. Johnny, excited now by his finds, was bounding ahead, heedless of his own warnings, whooping and waving the bone. Malin knew his mother would throw the old bone into the ocean as soon as she found it.

Johnny stopped briefly to poke among stuff that had washed up on shore: old lobster buoys, busted-up traps, pieces of weathered planking. Then he moved toward a fresh gash farther up the bluffs. A bank had recently caved in, spilling dirt and boulders across the rocky shore. He leaped easily over the boulders, then disappeared from view.

Malin moved more quickly now. He didn’t like having Johnny out of sight. There was a stirring in the air: it had been a sunny day before they disappeared into the Ragged Island mist, but anything could be happening out there now. The breeze felt cold, as if weather was coming on, and the sea was beginning to break hard over the Ragged Island ledges. The tide would be close to turning. Maybe they’d better start back.

There was a sudden, sharp cry, and for a terrible moment Malin feared Johnny had hurt himself on the slippery rocks. But then the cry came again—an urgent summons—and Malin scrambled forward, clambering over the fallen rocks and around a bend in the shoreline. Before him, a huge granite boulder lay at a crazy angle, freshly dislodged from the bank by a recent storm. On its far side stood Johnny, pointing, a look of wide-eyed wonderment on his face.

At first, Malin couldn’t say a word. The movement of the boulder had exposed the opening of a tunnel at the foot of the bank, with just enough room to squeeze behind. A clammy stream of stale air eddied from the tunnel mouth.

“Cripes,” he said, running up the slope toward the embankment.

“I found it!” Johnny cried, breathless with excitement. “I bet you anything the treasure’s in there. Take a look, Malin!”

Malin turned. “It was my idea.”

Johnny looked back with a smirk. “Maybe,” he said, un-shouldering his satchel. “But I found it. And I brought the matches.”

Malin leaned toward the tunnel mouth inquisitively. Deep down, he’d believed his father when he said there never was any treasure on Ragged Island. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Was it possible his dad could be wrong?

Then he leaned back quickly, nose wrinkling against the stale smell of the tunnel.

“What’s the matter?” Johnny asked. “Afraid?”

“No,” said Malin in a small voice. The mouth of the tunnel looked very dark.

“I’m going first,” Johnny said. “You follow me. And you’d better not get lost.” Tossing his prize bone away, he dropped to his knees and squirmed through the opening. Malin knelt also, then hesitated. The ground was hard and cold beneath him. But Johnny was already disappearing from sight, and Malin didn’t want to be left on the lonely, fogbound shore. He squirmed through the opening after his brother.

There was the snap of a match, and Malin sucked in his breath unconsciously as he rose to his feet. He was in a small antechamber, the roof and walls held up by ancient timbers. Ahead, a narrow tunnel led into blackness.

“We’ll split the treasure fifty-fifty.” Johnny was talking in a very serious voice, a voice Malin hadn’t heard before. Then he did something even more surprising: He turned and shook Malin’s hand with a childlike formality. “You and me, Mal, equal partners.”

Malin swallowed, feeling a little better.

The match died as they took another step forward. Johnny paused and Malin heard the scratch of another match, followed by a flare of feeble light. He could see his brother’s Red Sox cap haloed in the flickering flame. A sudden stream of dirt and pebbles rattled down through the timbers, bouncing across the stone floor.

“Don’t touch the walls,” Johnny whispered, “and don’t make any loud noise. You’ll cave the whole thing in.”

Malin said nothing, but unconsciously moved closer to his brother.

“Don’t follow so close!” Johnny hissed.

They went forward along a downward incline, then Johnny cried out and jerked his hand. The light went out, plunging them into darkness.

“Johnny?” Malin cried, feeling a surge of panic, reaching out to grasp his brother’s arm. “What about the curse?”

“Come on, there’s no curse,” whispered Johnny scornfully. There was another scratching sound and the match flared. “Don’t worry. I got at least forty matches in here. And look—” He dug into his pocket, then turned toward Malin, a big paper clip held between his fingers. He stuck the lit match into one end. “How about that? No more burned fingers.”

The tunnel took a gentle turn to the left, and Malin noticed that the reassuring crescent of light from the tunnel entrance was gone. “Maybe we should go back and get a flashlight,” he said.

Suddenly, he heard a hideous sound, a hollow groan that seemed to erupt from the heart of the island and fill the narrow chamber. “Johnny!” he cried, clutching his brother again. The sound sputtered away into a deep sigh as another trickle of dirt fell from the timbers overhead.

Johnny shrugged his arm away. “Jeez, Malin. It’s just the tide turning. It always makes that noise in the Water Pit. Keep your voice down, I said.”

“How do you know that?” Malin asked.

“Everybody knows that.”

There was another moan and a gurgle, followed by a loud creaking of timbers that slowly died away. Malin bit his lip to keep it from trembling.

A few matches later, the tunnel turned at a shallow angle and began sloping downward more steeply, its walls shorter and rougher.

Johnny held his match toward the passage. “This is it,” he said. “The treasure chamber would be at the bottom.”

“I don’t know,” Malin said. “Maybe we’d better go back and get Dad.”

“Are you kidding?” Johnny hissed. “Dad hates this place. We’ll tell Dad after we get the treasure.”

He lit another match, then ducked his head into the narrow tunnel. Malin could see that this passage wasn’t more than four feet high. Cracked boulders supported the wormy timbers of the roof. The smell of mold was even stronger here, mingled with seaweed and a hint of something worse.

“We’re gonna have to crawl,” Johnny muttered, his voice momentarily uncertain. He paused, and for a hopeful instant Malin thought they were turning back. Then Johnny straightened one end of the paperclip and stuck it between his teeth. The wavering shadows thrown by the match gave his face a ghoulish, hollow look.

That did it. “I’m not going any farther,” Malin announced.

“Good,” said Johnny. “You can stay here in the dark.”

“No!” Malin sobbed loudly. “Dad’s gonna kill us. Johnny, please…”

“When Dad finds out how rich we are, he’ll be too happy to be mad. He’ll save a whole two dollars a week on allowance.”

Malin sniffed a little and wiped his nose.

Johnny turned in the narrow space and placed a hand on Malin’s head. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice gentle. “If we chicken out now, we may never get a second chance. So be a pal, okay, Mal?” He ruffled Malin’s hair.

“Okay.” Malin sniffed.

He got onto his hands and knees and followed Johnny down the sloping tunnel. Pebbles and grit from the tunnel floor dug into the palms of his hands. Johnny seemed to be lighting a whole lot of matches, and Malin had almost screwed up the courage to ask how many were left, when his older brother halted abruptly.

“There’s something up ahead,” came the whispered voice.

Malin tried to see around his brother, but the tunnel was too narrow. “What is it?”

“It’s a door!” Johnny hissed suddenly. “I swear, it’s an old door!” The ceiling angled up to form a narrow vestibule ahead of him, and Malin craned desperately for a view. There it was: a row of thick planks, with two old metal hinges set into the frame of the tunnel. Large slabs of dressed stone formed the walls to either side. Damp and mold lay over everything. The edges of the door had been caulked with what looked like oakum.

“Look!” Johnny cried, pointing excitedly.

Lying across the front of the door was a fancy embossed seal made of wax and paper, stamped with a coat of arms. Even through the dust, Johnny could see that the seal was unbroken.

“A sealed door!” Johnny whispered, awestruck. “Just like in the books!”

Malin stared as if in a dream, a dream somehow wonderful and terrifying at the same time. They really had found the treasure. And it had been his idea.

Johnny grasped the ancient iron handle and gave an exploratory tug. There was a sharp creak of protesting hinges. “Hear that?” he panted. “It’s not locked. All we have to do is break this seal.” He turned and handed the matchbox to Malin, his eyes wide. “You light the matches while I pull it open. And move back a little, willya?”

Malin peered into the box. “There’s only five left!” he cried in dismay.

“Just shut up and do it. We can get out in the dark, I swear we can.”

Malin lit a match, but his hands shook and it flickered out. Only four more, he thought as Johnny muttered impatiently. The next match sprang to life and Johnny placed both hands on the iron handle. “Ready?” he hissed, bracing his feet against the earthen wall.

Malin opened his mouth to protest, but Johnny was already tugging at the door. The seal parted abruptly, and the door opened with a shriek that made Malin jump. A puff of foul air blew out the match. In the close darkness, Malin heard Johnny’s sharp intake of breath. Then Johnny screamed “Ouch!”, except the voice seemed so breathless, so very high, it almost didn’t sound like Johnny. Malin heard a thump, and the floor of the tunnel shivered violently. As dirt and sand rained down in the darkness, filling his eyes and nose, he thought he heard another sound: a strange, strangled sound, so brief that it might almost have been a cough. Then a wheezing, dripping noise like a wet sponge being squeezed.

“Johnny!” Malin cried, raising his hands to wipe the dust out of his face and dropping the matchbox in the process. It was so very dark, and things had gone wrong so suddenly, and panic began to overwhelm him. In the close, listening darkness came another noise, low and muffled. It took Malin a moment to realize what it was: a soft, continuous dragging…

Then the spell was broken and he was fumbling in the dark on his hands and knees, hands outstretched, searching for the matches, bawling his brother’s name. One hand touched something wet and he snatched it away just as the other hand closed on the matchbox. Rising to his knees, choking back sobs, he grabbed a match and scratched it frantically until it flared.

In the sudden light he looked around wildly. Johnny was gone. The door was open, the seal broken—but beyond lay nothing except a blank stone wall. Dust hung thickly in the air.

Then wetness touched his legs and he looked down. In the spot where Johnny had stood there was a large, black pool of water, crawling slowly around his knees. For a crazy moment, Malin thought maybe there was a breach in the tunnel somewhere and seawater was leaking in. Then he realized the pool was steaming slightly in the flicker of the match. Straining forward, he saw that it was not black but red: blood, more blood than he ever imagined a body could hold. Paralyzed, he watched as the glossy pool spread, running in tendrils across the hollows of the floor, draining into the cracks, creeping into his wet Keds, surrounding him like a crimson octopus, until the match dropped into it with a sharp hiss and darkness descended once again.



The small laboratory looked out from the Mount Auburn Hospital annex across the leafy tops of the maple trees to the slow, sullen waters of the Charles River. A rower in a needle-like shell was cutting through the dark water with powerful strokes, peeling back a glittering wake. Malin Hatch watched, momentarily entranced by the perfect synchronicity of body, boat, and water.

“Dr. Hatch?” came the voice of his lab assistant. “The colonies are ready.” He pointed toward a beeping incubator.

Hatch turned from the window, reverie broken, suppressing a surge of irritation at his well-meaning assistant. “Let’s take out the first tier and have a look at the little buggers,” he said.

In his usual nervous way, Bruce opened the incubator and removed a large tray of agar plates, bacterial colonies growing like glossy pennies in their centers. These were relatively harmless bacteria—they didn’t need special precautions beyond the usual sterile procedures—but Hatch watched with alarm as the assistant swung the rattling tray around, bumping it on the autoclave.

“Careful, there,” said Hatch. “Or there’ll be no joy in Whoville tonight.”

The assistant brought the tray to an uneasy rest on the glove box. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, standing back and wiping his hands on his lab coat.

Hatch gave the tray a practiced sweep with his eyes. Rows two and three showed good growth, rows one and four were variable, and row five was sterile. In an instant he realized the experiment would be a success. Everything was working out as hypothesized; in a month he’d have published another impressive paper in the New England Journal of Medicine, and everyone would be talking yet again about what a rising star he was in the department.

The prospect filled him with a huge feeling of emptiness.

Absently, he swiveled a magnifying lens over to make a gross examination of the colonies. He’d done this so often that he could identify the strains just by looking at them, by comparing their surface textures and growth patterns. After a few moments he turned toward his desk, pushed aside a computer keyboard, and began jotting notes into his lab notebook.

The intercom chimed.

“Bruce?” Hatch murmured as he scribbled.

Bruce jumped up, sending his notebook clattering to the floor. A minute later he returned. “Visitor,” he said simply.

Hatch straightened up his large frame. Visitors to the lab were rare. Like most doctors, he kept his lab location and telephone number under wraps to all but a select few.

“Would you mind seeing what he wants?” Hatch asked. “Unless it’s urgent, refer him to my office. Dr. Winslow’s on call today.”

Bruce went off again and the lab fell back into silence. Hatch’s gaze drifted once again toward the window. The afternoon light was streaming in, sending a shower of gold through the test tubes and lab apparatus. With an effort, he forced his concentration back to his notes.

“He’s not a patient,” Bruce said, bustling back into the lab. “Says you’ll want to see him.”

Hatch looked up. Probably a researcher from the hospital, he thought. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Show him in.”

A minute later, footsteps sounded in the outer lab. Malin looked up to see a spare figure gazing at him from the far side of the doorframe. The setting sun was striking the man full force, modeling the sunburnt skin drawn tight across a handsome face, refracting light deep within a pair of gray eyes.

“Gerard Neidelman,” the stranger said in a low, gravelly voice.

Couldn’t spend much time in a lab or the OR with a tan like that, Hatch thought to himself. Must be a specialist, getting in a lot of golf time. “Please come in, Dr. Neidelman,” he said.

“Captain,” the man replied. “Not Doctor.” He passed through the doorway and straightened up, and Hatch immediately knew it wasn’t just an honorary title. Simply by the way he stepped through the door, head bent, hand on the upper frame, it was clear the man had spent time at sea. Hatch guessed he was not old—perhaps forty-five—but he had the narrow eyes and roughened skin of a sailor. There was something different about him—something almost otherwordly, 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 Captai