The Vulcan Disaster

At the breakwater he stopped and helped us down to a low float where a flat boat was moored. “Tatiana’s home, and mine, cannot be reached by land,” he explained. He started the boat’s nearly silent electric motor and cast off. “When you begin to see the sort of hornet’s nest you have wandered into, Mr. Carter, the location will begin to make more and more sense. On the water nothing can be hurried — not easily, at any rate. No one can swoop down upon us in a fast car and gun us down. By the same token it is difficult to sneak up on a member of the boat community. If you have ever lived in a waterfront area you may know what I mean. The inhabitants grow unusually sensitive to the presence of outsiders in their midst.”

There were gentle sounds of Chinese music out on the water: soft pops and twangs from the bi wa and the moon lute, and somebody singing a song. The oars on a passing rowboat dipped, splashed; soft lights up ahead joined the round moon on the water.

The water community went on and on. The old man’s hand at the tiller threaded our way for us through a confusing, mazelike path I could not have duplicated afterward on a bet. “This is huge,” I said. “Are all these people refugees? From the mainland?”

“Heavens, no,” the old man said. “Almost none of them. As a matter of fact, Tatiana and myself are the only refugees we know in here.”

“Then what...”

Tatiana broke in just then. “Look, Mr. — Nick.” Her hand squeezed mine: electricity again. “As we pass, you’ll notice that a slip with sampans on it will have no junks. And vice versa. You will see in the daytime that the junk people — the Tanka — are even a different race than the Hoklo, who live on the sampans. You’ll have to come shopping with me tomorrow. The community has its own independently functioning economy. There are stores, gambling houses, barber shops, schools, even factories, all afloat. One shops for dinner sitting on one’s own deck. The grocers and butchers come parading past in their own boats. You...”

“All in good time, my dear,” the old man said. “Here we are.” He guided the little boat expertly to a float, tied up, and cut the motor. Beside the float a stately junk lay at anchor — as they’d said, apart from the dock. “Home,” he said, his smile visible in the dim light of the docks. “Here, my dear. Let me help you up. Or will you do the honors, Mr. Carter?”

The inside was a mixture of cultures. The table and the tatamis were Japanese, the decor Chinese. Tatiana, leaving her shoes on deck, padded in and busied herself with a big wok and a chopping board. The old man and I sat down crosslegged before the low table; he produced a stone bottle and tiny earthenware glasses. With Oriental solemnity he proceeded to pour libations for the two of us.

I lifted mine, paused. “Sake?” I said.

“Ng ka py,” he said. “Sip it with circumspection. Hold it in the mouth for a moment, savoring the taste on the back of the tongue. Ah, yes.” He followed some of his own advice, smiling. So did I. The drink brought a warm glow with it almost immediately.

He put his glass down gently, unhurriedly. Then he looked up. “Now,” he said, “I think we’re ready for all those questions you want to ask us, Mr. Carter.”

I bit my lip pensively. Then I said, “Okay. You know me. How? Who are you? The two of you?”

“In no particular order: when you presented your card, with Meyer’s picture, Tatiana called me. I recognized the name; just how will became evident. I asked her to test you, to see if you were the man you said you were. She did; you were.”

“That funny handshake? I don’t even remember where I picked it up.”

“You don’t? Let me refresh your memory. You did a certain chore for David Hawk, of AXE, in the spring of 1962, in Ceylon. The password was a certain sophomoric routine one of your confederates had learned in his youth, at a certain Northeastern university. There was a certain curious handshake—”

Hawk. AXE. I was on my guard instantly. But my mind was racing. Ceylon...

“Your contacts were a British gentleman long since dead, I’m afraid — a man named Wilkins — and myself.”

I dropped the stone cup; it shattered on the teak table. “You’re not—”

“Will Lockwood.”

“That was you?”

“The last job I did before, well...”

“But you’re dead. Years ago. I heard about it.”

“I could quote Mark Twain right now: the rumors concerning my demise...”

“But...”

“I was shot down over Chinese territory. My plane crashed; I was badly hurt. I fell into the hands of the People’s Republic, with some good results, some bad. The good results include the excellent doctoring to which they subjected me. I have, as you can see, a new face. I have grown used to it; it fits me now. I am no longer young; I was, to put it bluntly, over the hill when you saw me last.”

“The hell you were,” I said. “Tatiana — do you know what he was?”

“I know some things,” she said. “Tell me.”

“He was the best agent we ever had. The best. Hawk told me once that Will Lockwood was a man who could give him lessons.”