Her eyes were looking up at his, round and serious. He tweaked her nose.

  “I’ve been thinking about you on that island, myself,” he admitted. “A girl like you—an old recluse—it seems such a waste. But then, .some things aren’t as important to some girls as they are to others. I just wonder if you’ve given enough thought to the personal problem involved.”

  “I’d given it a lot of thought and I was sure I could do it,” she said, opening the door to the room. “But now, with you, I’m not at all sure. Maybe if I knew I could see you again—in a few months or so—”

  “Why not?” Nick answered. He’d enjoy seeing this direct, frank girl again. If he were successful he could work it out, he was sure. If he failed, it wouldn’t make much difference. Suddenly he felt her arms slide up around his neck.

  “Help me, Ted,” she murmured. “Give me something to last me.”

  He pressed his lips onto hers and found her mouth open willingly, eagerly. She closed the door and spun out of reach, tossing the orange jacket on a chair. In moments she had slipped out of blouse and shirt, then brassiere. There was nothing wanton about her actions, nothing neurotic, nothing obsessed, but a wholesome delight, a pure frankness that was both exciting and terribly appealing. Nick went to her and the sight of his bronzed, muscular body was not lost on Betty Lou Rawlings. She clasped herself to him with a strength he had expected from those sturdy legs. Her skin was milk-white and smooth, and she ran her hand up and down his chest as he kissed her.

  “I didn’t expect to be here tonight,” Nick murmured to her eager lips. She wasn’t the kind of girl one hopped into bed with, and he wanted her to know he realized that. She deserved more than one-night stands, this honest little creature.

  “I didn’t, either, Ted,” she whispered. “But I’m glad. I’m not ashamed to say so, either. I don’t go for all that pretense most girls come up with, only doing it because they were swept off their feet or they just couldn’t help themselves. Maybe living on a farm you take a more normal, natural approach to it. I want to, and I’m happy I want to.”

  “Then shut up and use your lips for something else,” Nick grinned at her. He didn’t give her time to answer as he pulled her close, letting his thumb gently caress her small, pink nipples, feeling them rise at his touch. Her breasts were firmly soft—full peaks of pleasure—their tips the small, partially recessed tips of a young girl, sweetly vernal. But what she lacked in experience she made up for by the naturalness of her lovemaking—as open, as direct and uninhibited as she was. Betty Lou’s arms around him were strong—her hands as they moved down his body were hot, eager, messengers of the desire that was within her. Her body was quivering, writhing, her hips moving in undulating motions before he really began to caress her. When he did, she sighed and a husky, gentle purr of contentment escaped her.

  “Don’t stop,” she murmured. “Don’t ever stop.” He felt her hands on his shoulders begin to tighten and the purr of contentment change to a sob of desire as he welded himself tightly to her. Suddenly, she cried out during the ecstasy of release. When she lay back beside him, her breath returning to its normal rate, she put one leg over his and pressed herself close against his body, as a vine tries to wrap itself around a tree trunk.

  “Think that will last you?” Nick asked, blandly.

  “It’ll last,” she murmured. “Will it ever!” She raised her head and looked at him with those open, wide eyes.

  “I want to write to you, Ted,” she said. “I can’t give you an address yet because I don’t know it. But if you give me yours I’ll send it to you.”

  Nick smiled down at her and gave her his New York apartment address, care of a friend by the name of Carter. She detached herself for a moment to inscribe it in a little address book and then snuggled down beside him again. Finally, when she was sleeping peacefully as a baby, he slipped out and went to his room. He wanted to check his gear once again and be ready for an early start. He knew that the interlude with Betty Lou would be paid for in blood and sweat. He didn’t have twelve hours to toss away. Neither did 100 men imprisoned someplace. Neither did the world. But the fog continued to roll past his window as he closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER III

  Nick woke to a hot, bright sun, feeling like a racer who’s heard the starting gun. He shaved and dressed quickly, bounding up the stairs to Betty Loo’s room. There was just time for a brief goodbye and good luck to the girl. Expecting to find her still asleep, he halted in surprise at seeing the door of the room ajar. He pushed it open as he called her name. Instead of Betty Lou, a huge, hulking figure turned to stare at him with small, black eyes set in a massive head, unmistakably that of a Mongol. God, he’s a big one, Nick thought to himself, taking in the spread of the man’s shoulders and the long arms. The big man held a note in his hand, the envelope on the floor at his feet. Nick saw the name written on it—Ted Malone. The hulk was reading a note addressed to him.

  “What gives, buster?” Nick growled. “That note is for me. Where’s Betty Lou?”

  “Girl gone,” the behemoth said, his voice a low, gutteral rasp. “You know girl?”

  “Met her on the plane yesterday, not that it’s any of your damn business.”

  “You forget girl,” the big Mongol said. It was a command more than a warning. Nick felt his own anger rising.

  “Just give me my mail,” he said. “Or there’s going to be an awful crash.”

  “What crash?” the giant looked blank.

  “When you hit the floor,” Nick said, deciding to snatch the note from those hammerlike hands. He read it quickly.

  “Dear Ted,

  My contact is here already. I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll never forget last night and I’ll write at the address you gave me. Expect to hear from me. Love, and thanks again for everything. Betty Lou.”

  Nick’s attention was on the note. He never saw the blow as it came. All he felt was the sudden explosion— as though all his breath was being forced up into his head. The blow, a karate chop, had struck him alongside the neck, knocking him sideways and forward. He felt his eyes bulging, felt himself crashing into a small table, toppling over with it. He desperately fought off the waves of blackness, dimly aware that he was on the floor and then, for a long moment, the blackness closed in on him. In reflex action conditioned by years of training, he kept shaking his head and in seconds managed to clear his vision enough to focus his eyes. There was a weight on his back and he reached behind him to push the little table off. He regained his feet, still swaying, and saw that he was alone in the room, the door swinging freely. That monster had hit him a blow that would have killed many men and put most out of commission for an hour— or a day. To try and follow after the giant was a lost cause, Nick knew. He was still very unsteady and his head felt split in two—the blood pounding in his temples, his neck already swelling from the blow. He dragged himself to the window and looked down at the street below. He caught Betty Lou’s orange jacket as she got into a cab with a leather-jacketed man and the monstrous Mongolian who was carrying her suitcases.

  He went into the bathroom and put cold compresses against his neck, feeling the comforting relief against throbbing veins. This whole thing had a very funny flavor to it and he had a distinctly uneasy feeling for little Betty Lou. The old recluse was plainly very insistent on maintaining an absolute hermitage, and yet Nick had a strange feeling there was more to it. If he had time he’d look into it. But hell, time was the one thing he didn’t have. He hadn’t enough time for his own mission. He went to his room, got his things and took a cab to the little seaplane base at the western end of Isla Grande airport. He spotted the Aero Commander instantly, bright yellow with red trim and on the sides OCEANOGRAPHIC EXPEDITION in large, black lettering. As Nick walked out onto the ramp a tall blond boy emerged from the plane, wearing only tan khaki trousers.

  “Commander Carter?” he sang out, cheerily. “I’m Bill Headwin. Welcome to the team, though I know you’re only joining us temporarily.”

  “Hello, Bill,” Nick answered. The young man had a nice body, suntanned—a swimmer’s body—and a likeable, quick-to-smile face. “You can look at me as a sort of short-time roomer. I’ll try to stay out of everybody’s hair.”

  “Golly, Commander,” Bill Headwin said as they climbed into the Aero Commander. “We’re glad to have you with us. We heard you were a really great underwater specialist, an expert on underwater currents. That’s something Dr. Fraser is especially interested in, too.”

  “How nice,” Nick said. He hoped Hawk hadn’t put it on too thick. He’d apparently built him up well enough. Too much could be his undoing. Bill put the plane into a slow climb and circled out across the Caribbean.

  “How many on the team?” Nick asked, trying not to wince as he used the term. It was obvious they were a light little group.

  “Well, there’s Cynthia and me,” the young man said. “Cynthia’s my wife. We got married only last month, but we’ve worked with Dr. Fraser for over a year. Then there’s Ray Anders, our lab technician, Howie Thompson, our mechanic, and Consuela, our cook. She’s from the islands—Barbados, I think. And Dr. Fraser, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nick said, his eyes scanning the rich blue of the Caribbean as they flew low. When the plane began to nose down Nick saw the ship grow larger as they neared it. The side of the vessel’s hull carried the same identifying lettering as did the plane. Now he could see the name of the ship on the bow, Triton. She was white-hulled, solid and broad beamed. As the plane’s pontoons touched the surface of the water, Nick saw the small figure in the neat, pink bathing suit waving at them. She was standing at the stem, a line in one hand. The sight of the girl brought Betty Lou Rawlings flashing through his mind. He had purposely kept his thoughts away from her. That whole business still disturbed him and he felt frustrated at not being able to investigate if further. Bill Headwin cut the plane’s engines and taxied up to the stem of the Triton.

  “That’s Cynthia,” he said as the girl clambered out over the stem rail of the ship.

  “I guessed it,” Nick said, drily, still thinking about Betty Lou. He felt himself itching to get into his gear, take over the plane and start searching on his own. Action was always a good antidote for frustration. When Bill shut off the engine entirely, Cynthia leaned down and secured the line to a special cleat on the underside of the plane’s nose. In moments Nick was aboard the floating laboratory vessel, getting a brief introduction to the rest of the crew. Consuela turned out to be young, full-figured, wearing a bright, bare-midriffed dress which accentuated her shoulder-length black hair and her light-coffee skin. Nick wagered that the lab technician and the mechanic were very happy to have Consuela aboard.

  “Dr. Fraser is busy but will be up later,” Cynthia said. “We’re to show you to your quarters, Commander.”

  Nick followed Cynthia’s trim little figure to a small room. His eyes quickly noted the high-frequency transmitter set up in it, obviously at Hawk’s orders. He wondered if he would send the one message Hawk waited to hear. Cynthia left and he quickly stowed away his gear, changed into bathing trunks and went up on deck. He put his skindiving suit and equipment aboard the plane, ready for instant use. Howie, the ship’s mechanic and general handyman, was just finishing refueling the plane from what was obviously a large floating gas tank alongside the vessel.

  Nick had decided to keep Hugo, his pencil-thin stiletto, in its waterproof sheath, strapped onto his arm. Special Effects had told him the skindiving suit had a zippered flap through which he could reach Hugo if he had to, plus an inner waterproof pocket for Wilhelmina, his Luger. He passed Consuela on the deck as she lay atop a hatchway, sunning herself. She got up on one elbow to watch this Greek god come to life as he strode to and from the plane, carrying his equipment on board. Her glance, Nick noted wryly, was one of frank approval and undisguised attraction.

  He had just secured the airtanks inside the cabin and was standing at the door of the plane, resting one foot on a pontoon, the other against the door sill, when he saw the girl walking toward the stem of the Triton. She was tall, very blond, with her hair pulled up and back rather severely. Her shorts revealed long, gorgeous legs, beautifully shaped. Bill hadn’t mentioned this member of the “team” and Nick quickly wondered why. She was not one to be overlooked. He watched her approach and pulled himself up onto the stem of the Triton. Her nose was straight and short, her lips fine, delicately carved. But it was her eyes which held him—eyes an electric blue that fairly crackled.

  “How do you do,” she said, flashing a very cool, mechanical smile as she stopped before him. “I’m Dr. Fraser.” Nick blinked. The old sonofagun, he swore to himself. Hawk had never hinted that Dr. Fraser was a woman. Maybe the Chief didn’t know it, either. Nick smiled inwardly, warming to the thought. It would serve him right. He’d be mad as a hornet when he found out. Not that the old man had anything against females. He just would be bothered at having tossed something as luscious as this at Nick. Dr. Fraser was talking again, her tone cool and reserved. The loose overblouse she wore concealed more than it revealed and Nick found himself wondering about that.

  “I hope you found everything satisfactory, Commander,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, very satisfactory,” Nick answered, watching her breasts move inside the overblouse.

  “I was informed when receiving the grant that you would require extensive use of the airplane, perhaps the vessel itself, for a period of time. I was told to extend every cooperation to you and you would inform me of your needs. In fact, I got the feeling that we were all to be at your disposal at any time.”

  “And this annoys you?” Nick asked, mildly. It was plain that she was more than a little annoyed, but he wanted to have her admit it.

  “I suppose it shouldn’t,” she said. “In your eyes I’m being ungrateful, I take it, Commander.”

  “You said it, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, I said it and I don’t mean to be ungrateful. The grant was a godsend and entirely unexpected. We only had a dim hope it might be approved. But we wanted the grant to pursue our work and prove our theories. If we can’t do our work because of a parade of special guests such as yourself, then all this is not really accomplishing very much.”

  She was as biting as she was beautiful, Nick realized. She looked through him with those electric blue eyes, disdainful and superior. The good doctor was a gorgeous ice-cube—smug, self-satisfied and probably a rank feminist. But despite her determined severity she was gorgeous—gorgeous enough to take down. In fact, he mused, she no doubt needed to be knocked off her arrogant, self-erected pedestal.

  “I won’t be around long,” he smiled at her. “When I’m gone, you’ll have the whole ocean to yourself, honey.”

  “Honey?” She bit out the word as her eyes flashed. “I am not accustomed to being addressed as honey, Commander Carter.”

  “It saves a lot of wear and tear on the memory,” Nick grinned. “But if you insist I’ll make an exception in your case. What’s your name? I’ll try and remember it.”

  He saw her swallow and bring her anger under control.

  “Everyone else calls me Dr. Fraser. I do have a doctorate in marine biology.”

  “Good for you, but I’m not everyone else.”

  She gave him a long, even look and he saw her eyes flick over his torso, travel fleetingly up and down his oak-like legs.

  “No, I don’t imagine you are everyone else, to use your phrase,” she said. “You’re probably very good at your job, very efficient, very ruthless, and very big with the girls.”

  “I don’t have time for girls,” he said sharply, and watched Dr. Fraser’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

  “No girls?” she said.

  “Nope,” he grinned. “Just women, honey.”

  “I’ll be in my cabin if you need me, Commander,” she bit out through tightened lips, turning to stride off down the deck, faint spots of color appearing on her smooth cheekbones.

  Nick swung down onto the plane, cast off the line and sent the Aero Commander scooting backwards away from the ship. He gunned the engine, took off smoothly, giving himself the pleasure of executing a perfect bank, tight and smooth, sensing the admiration from Bill Headwin and the others below. Nick set the Commander out over the first leg of a triangular course with the far point at Aves de Sotavente, the other two legs over the deep water of the Los Roques Trench. He flew over islands, charted and uncharted, buzzing each of them from high and from treetop-skimming level, circling each and passing in straight-line flight, giving the water every chance to reflect shapes and formations. He kept at it unceasingly until he returned to the Triton to refuel. Consuela brought him a sandwich and lingered to talk a while. She had a full figure, sensuous, with a typical islander’s rear, high and plump. He was still munching the sandwich when he took off again. This time he drew another triangle, partially overlapping the first. That way he would take no chances on missing any section. Too much depended on it. All the islands he buzzed were either uninhabited or holding only a few, lone lean-tos—nothing that would support the kind of operation he sought.

  He kept it up until dark began to fall, making two more trips; when he returned to the Triton as the stars emerged over the deep blue of the water, he was tired and edgy. He had found nothing, but he was satisfied about one thing, at least. There was nothing in the areas he had crossed, recrossed and crossed again. Three times, forms and shadows beneath the water’s surface had caused him to land the little plane, don his diving equipment and go over the side. And three times, the forms turned out to be coral reefs or giant, floating beds of kelp. Back aboard the Triton, after something to eat and drink, he felt better. He wished he could stop the subconscious ticking of the clock inside his head, a constant reminder that time was getting shorter with every passing second. The night air was hot and the breeze that blew was a hot wind. He decided not to change and, still in bathing trunks, he knocked at the closed door of the cabin with the name, Dr. Fraser, on it.