I felt tired when I got back to the rubber dinghy and hauled myself aboard. I felt tired because fifteen minutes’ hard swimming in an oxygen outfit would make anybody tired: but I knew too weE that if I’d found what I’d been looking for tiredness would never have touched me. I’d banked heavily on finding what I’d been looking for in or under that ship. I felt let down.
I felt tired and low and dispirited and cold. I wished I could smoke. I thought of a crackling wood fire, of steaming coffee and & long long nightcap. I thought of Herman Jablonksy sleeping peacefully in his big mahogany bed back in the general’s house. I stripped off mask and cylinder, kicked the flippers off my feet, pulled on a pair of shoes with numbed and fumbling fingers, flung my pants, coat and hat up on the deck of the oiler and dragged myself up after them. Three minutes later, dressed in my outer clothes and dripping like a blanket that’s just been hauled from a wash-boiler, I was on my way up the enclosed gangway to the well-deck of the oil-rig a hundred feet above my head.
Drifting grey cloud had washed the last of the starlight out of the sky, but that didn’t help me any. I’d thought the overhead lamp illuminating the gangway had been weak, but it hadn’t, it had only been distant. By the time I was ten feet from the underside of the platform it was a searchlight. And if they kept a gangway watch? Did I tell them I was the Second Engineer from the oiler and was suffering from insomnia? Did I stand there and spin a plausible story while the moisture dripping down under my pants from the diving-suit formed a pool of water under my feet and my vis-a-vis examined with interest the scrunched high-necked glistening rubber where my collar and tie ought to have been? I had no gun, and I was prepared to believe that anyone in any way associated with General Ruthven and Vyland pulled on his shoulder holster before his socks when he got up in the morning: certainly everyone I’d met so far had been a walking armoury. And if a gun were pulled on me? Did I start running down a ‘hundred and thirty steps while someone picked me off at their leisure? Of course I didn’t have to run, the fire-escape gangway was only enclosed on three sides, but the fourth opened seawards and I wouldn’t bounce far off that maze of valves and pipes on the oiler below. I concluded that any half-way intelligent man would have gone straight back down.
I went right on up.
There was no one there. The gangway emerged in an alcove closed off on three sides — by the railed platform edge on one side, by high steel walls on the other two. The fourth side gave directly on to the well-deck where the crane was. What little I could see of this well was brightly illuminated and I could hear the clank of machinery and the voices of men not thirty feet away. It didn’t seem like a good idea to wander straight out into their midst so I looked for another way out. I found it at once, a set of steel rungs built into one of the twelve-foot high steel bulkheads by my side.
I went up those, flattening myself out as I went over the top, crawled a few yards then stood up behind the shelter of one of the huge pillars. I could see the whole panorama of the oil-rig now.
A hundred yards away, on the larger raised platform, to the north, was the derrick itself, looking more massive than ever, with control cabins at its base and men moving around: under the surface of that platform, I supposed, would be the power-generating machinery, the living accommodation. The smaller platform to the south, the one on which I stood, was almost completely bare with a semi-circular extension reaching out over the sea to the south. The purpose of this large cleared space baffled me for a moment and then something clicked in my memory: Mary Ruthven had said that the general normally commuted between oil-rig and shore in his helicopter. The helicopter would need a landing-ground. This was it.
On the well-deck between the two platforms, almost at my feet, men were moving large barrels with the aid of a tracked crane, trundling them into a brightly-lit opening half-way along the high bulkhead on the northern platform. Oil would be piped aboard, so those barrels could only be “Mud,” a chemical mixture of barites used for forcing down under pressure the cement that formed the outer casing of the drill hole. There was a whole series of those big storage sheds, most of them open, extending right across the width of the rig. There, if anywhere, would be what I was looking for.
I crossed to the far side of the south platform, found another set of rungs and dropped down to the well-deck. There was nothing to be gained by caution or stealth now; apart from the fact that they would only excite suspicion, the time factor was becoming all-important: with the weather steadily worsening — the wind now seemed twice as strong as it had been half an hour previously and it wasn’t just a factor of the height — Captain Zaimis would be climbing up the mast. Perhaps he might even be forced to take off without me. But there was no future in that ‘thought and certainly none for me. I put it out of my mind and crossed to the first of the storage bays.
The door was held on a heavy steel latch, unlocked. I opened the latch, pushed back the door and passed inside. It was pitch dark, but my torch found the light switch right away. I pressed it and looked around.
The bay was perhaps a hundred feet long. Stacked in nearly empty racks on both sides were three or four dozen screwed pipes almost as long as the bay itself. Round each pipe, near the end, were deep gouge marks as if some heavy metal claws had bitten into it. Sections of the drill pipe. And nothing else. I switched off the light, went out, pulled shut the door and felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Would you be looking for something, my friend?” It was a deep rough no-nonsense voice, as Irish as a sprig of shamrock.
I turned slowly, but not too slowly, pulling the lapels of my coat together with both hands as if to ward off the wind and the thin cold rain that was beginning to sift across the deck, glittering palely through the beams of the arc-lamps then vanishing into the darkness again. He was a short stocky man, middle-aged, with a battered face that could be kindly or truculent as the needs of the moment demanded. At that moment, the balance of expression was tipped on the side of truculence. But not much. I decided to risk it.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Far from trying to conceal my British accent, I exaggerated it. A marked high-class English accent in the States excites no suspicion other than the charitaible one that you may be slightly wrong in the head. “The field foreman told me to inquire for the — ah — roustabout foreman. Are you he?”
“Golly!” he said. I felt that it should have been “be-gorrah” but the grammatical masterpiece had floored him. You could see his mind clambering on to its feet again. “Mr. Jerrold sent you to look for me, eh?”
“Yes, indeed. Miserable night, isn’t it?” I pulled my hat-brim lower. “I certainly don’t envy you fellows——”
“If you was looking for me,” he interrupted, “why were you poking about in there?”
“Ah, yes. Well, I could see you were busy and as he thought he had lost it in there, I thought perhaps I——”
“Who had lost what where?” He breathed deeply, patience on a monument.
“The general. General Ruthven. His brief-case, with very important private papers — and very urgent. He’d been making a tour of inspection yesterday — let me see, now, it would have been early afternoon — when he received the dastardly news——”
“He what?”
“When he heard his daughter had been kidnapped. He went straight for his helicopter, forgetting all about the briefcase and——”
“I get you. Important, huh?”
“Very. General Ruthven says he’d put it down just inside some doorway. It’s big, morocco, marked C. C. F. in gold letters.”
“C.C.F.? I thought you said it was the general’s?”
“The general’s papers. He’d borrowed my case. I’m Farnborough, his private confidential secretary.” It was very long odds indeed against one of the scores of roustabout foremen employed by the general knowing the real name of his secretary, C. C. Farnborough.