Undersea Quest

13 The Hermit of Kelly’s Kingdom

“Thanks,” I said, for saving my life, for risking his own—if he had slipped into that raging water, we both would have died—all I could say was “thanks.”

“Sure,” my rescuer said off-handedly. He studied me while I caught my breath, and I returned the compliment. He was a tall, husky Negro, dark as any Gullah, with a clear, friendly eye. He shook his head as he saw the ropes on me. “Um,” he said. “Maybe you weren’t swimming for fun after all.” He thrust a hand far down into a trouser pocket, and drew out a clasp knife.

The pain in my fingers and toes as he cut the ropes and the blood surged back was worse than anything that had gone before. I never thought I would welcome pain! But at last I began to believe in my luck—I was alive!

“Thanks,” I said inadequately again. “You saved my life; I hope I can pay back the favor.”

He chuckled. “Why, I certainly hope you can’t, friend,” he said. “I don’t exactly want to need that kind of favor. Come on, let me give you a hand.” Leaning on him, I limped a few yards along the ledge to where the Troyon light lay. It was a small tube, flickering and feeble as though its luminous gas were nearly exhausted. But it was welcome light to me. By it I looked around.

There was a niche in the ledge. In the niche, barely head high and wide enough for a man to lie down, were a few tattered blankets, a rough platform of boards that appeared to serve as a bed, a few packing crates. “Welcome to my home,” said the man. “My name’s Park, Gideon Park. It isn’t a very fancy establishment, but you’re welcome to make use of it.”

I said earnestly, “Mr. Park, I never saw a place I liked better.”

He grinned. “I imagine so,” he said. “Call me Gideon, if you don’t mind; it’s a name I’m partial to. That’s why I made it up. My folks christened me Walter, but I guess they kind of ran out of good names after eleven of us… Unless you’d like to forget the whole thing, you might satisfy an old man’s curiosity. Who put the ropes on you?”

I shook my head. “I wish I knew, Mr.—Gideon, I mean. Somebody named Kelly and somebody else he called Jack. That’s all I know about them. They took everything out of my pockets, so I guess that’s all they wanted. Why they picked me, though—I’ll never know, I guess.”

Gideon frowned. “Lots of Kellys around,” he said somberly. “This one wouldn’t be a tall, skinny fellow with a nasty disposition, would he?”

“He certainly would. Do you know him?”

Gideon nodded. “Sorry to say I do. That’s a long story, though; but you can consider yourself a lucky man. You’re still alive.”

I absorbed that thoughtfully. My fingers and toes were beginning to feel as though they might some day be of use to me again. I tried standing up; I was wobbly as a jellyfish in a riptide, but I made it. I flexed my leg muscles and my fingers. I would ache for quite a while, I knew, but nothing appeared to be broken.

I was, of course, sopping wet. Gideon and I realized it at the same moment. He said, “Slip out of those things, friend, and I’ll make a little fire. As long as you aren’t going to drown for a while yet, we might as well keep you from getting pneumonia.” He broke a few loose boards over his knee, teepeed them over an ancient, crumpled newssheet and lit the structure. It burned smokily in the damp air; but in a moment the fire itself drove the dampness out of its fuel and the flames shot high. Gideon hung my clothes near the fire, and I moved close to its warmth. He began rattling odds and ends of gear. “Long as I’ve got a fire, we might as well have a cup of tea. It’ll do us both good.” He put water on to boil and sat back on his haunches comfortably enough. He must have noticed the curiosity in my eyes, because he chuckled.

“Wondering what you’ve got yourself into, aren’t you?” he asked. “I suppose the old homestead looks pretty peculiar to someone like you.”

I said, “Well, I admit I was a little curious.”

Gideon nodded. “It’s a living,” he said easily. “All manner of things come down the drains. Thetis is pretty far underwater, you know. The pressure is a mite terrific; water seeps in through the rock itself. So they have to keep pumping; and as long as they’re pumping the water out anyhow, they use the drains for disposing of all sorts of objects. Some are pretty worthless. Others are just curiosities—like, for instance, yourself.” He grinned at me. “But every once in a while something comes by that I can sell. So I fish it out and lay it aside, and when I’ve got enough to make the trip worth while I head on up to the living levels, and try my hand at peddling. I usually get enough to stock in food and tea and such other necessities… And then I come back home to Kelly’s Kingdom.”

“Kelly’s Kingdom?” I repeated. “Any relation to the Kelly we were talking about?”

Gideon shrugged. “They called the sub-levels Kelly’s Kingdom thirty years ago,” he said. “The Kelly you’re acquainted with probably wasn’t born then. I have an idea he named himself after the place instead of vice-versa.” He looked at me pointedly. “Names, after all, are a person’s own business. For instance, I picked my own. And, again, you no doubt have a name, but since you don’t choose to mention it, no gentlemen would seek to embarrass you by—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Gideon,” I interrupted apologetically. “James Eden is my name.”

The grin was gone from his face as though it had never been.

“What?” he demanded.

I blinked at him. “James Eden,” I repeated. “I—I’m Stewart Eden’s nephew…perhaps you know of him.”

He stood up and stared down at me, his face a mask. “James Eden,” he said, and that was all he said for a long moment.

He reached down with a long arm, grasped my hand, yanked me to my feet. I came up almost belligerently, almost expecting a fight; his expression was unreadable.

But his handclasp on mine was powerful and warm. “Jim,” he said, “I worked for Stewart for nine years. I’d be working for him now if he were alive—and if he’d have me. Your uncle Stewart saved my life twice, so I reckon you’re even with me for this last one, and I owe you one to boot…”

They were the first friendly words I had heard spoken since I left Bob Eskow in New York, so long before. I almost disgraced myself, the Academy that had cast me out, my Uncle Stewart and the whole sub-sea life. I almost blubbered.

But then the water was boiling and Gideon made us tea. While we were sipping the first steam-hot gulps he told me what he could about my uncle Stewart. Gideon himself had been a bottom-walker—one of those rugged individualists who puts on deep-sea armor and wades through the sludge and ooze under steep miles of pressure. He’d mined for Uncle Stewart in the Mountains of Darkness, drilled test borings for him in the oil prospects, searched side by side with him for pearl shell and precious pearls themselves in the Kadang beds. When Uncle Stewart sold out his other holdings to concentrate on Marine Mines Ltd., Gideon had refused other jobs; he’d come down to Kelly’s Kingdom, to swamp the sewers, to be ready to go back to Uncle Stewart the minute Stewart needed him.

But Gideon knew little of Marine Mines; I asked him eagerly, but he told me no more than Hallam Sperry already had said.

Since Uncle Stewart’s death, Gideon had been trying to make plans—and failing; everything he wanted to do was founded on going back to work for my uncle. On the spot I offered him a job—duties unspecified, salary whatever he thought I should pay him, as long as my money held out. On the spot, he took it—and laughed at the idea of being paid a salary. “You’re talking just like your uncle,” he grumbled. “Offered to work for him for nothing; he wouldn’t let me. You keep us both eating and out of trouble with the law for vagrancy, and that’s all the salary I want till we get things straightened out.”

I was exhausted; and I could no longer stay awake. Gideon threw blankets together on the platform for me, and I fell asleep.

But when I slept, it was in the full knowledge that at last I had met a friend and comrade. Almost I blessed Kelly for tossing me in the drain!

When we woke, Gideon made us more tea and rustled up food. My clothes were dry but far from neat; Kelly’s comrades had looted my pockets, but missed the currency in the compartment behind my Academy belt-buckle. So Gideon and I went shopping.

By the time we were dressed fit for travel, it was night again. The Troyon lights of the sub-sea cities mark neither day nor night; but human beings need sleep, and so the cities keep to the time zones of the world above. On the off chance that I might catch Faulkner in, I called the lawyer’s office; but there was no answer. Gideon and I spent the evening seeing the sights of Thetis. A pleasurable, relaxing experience it was. I felt at peace with the world when finally we turned in—not in Gideon’s submarine cave of the drain-pipes, but in a modest, clean, comfortable lodging house he recommended.

It was the last time I felt at peace with the world for some time…

The next morning I went direct to Faulkner’s office.

I took the inevitable elevator to Level Nine. Once more I climbed the long, dark stair; once more I entered the room.

The plug-ugly behind the desk was awake this time; he sat reading a newssheet, his feet as before plumped on the desk.

When he saw me his eyes widened incredulously and his jaw dropped. He peered silently at me, unbelievingly; then he recovered himself. “You,” he grumbled. But his expression was as strained as that of a man who has seen a ghost.

“Yes, me,” I said. “Is Mr. Faulkner in now?”

He glowered at me. His Neanderthal brain was obviously trying to reach a difficult decision. He grunted, and said: “I’ll go see.”

He lifted his gross body with astonishing vigor, rolled across the room and vanished through a door with Faulkner’s name on it. I stood waiting for long minutes; then he came back and snarled, “Go on in.”

The room I entered was a little larger than the Neanderthal’s, but dark and low-ceilinged. The walls were lined with rows of ancient books, the leather of their bindings cracking and peeling; the air was musty, dusty, redolent of dry rot.

Beneath the one dim Troyon tube, Faulkner sat staring coldly at me. He was a nondescript human—medium tall, medium thin, medium sallow and wrinkled, medium elderly. His black suit was rather worn for a successful attorney’s; it was also not very clean. His eyes were hard behind thick-lensed eyeglasses.

I said, “Mr. Faulkner?”

He sat very erect, palms pressed against his desk. “I am,” he said crisply. “And you claim to be James Eden.”

I looked at him curiously. “I am James Eden,” I corrected. “You radioed me several times about my uncle’s estate, Mr. Faulkner. I told you I was coming here to claim it. Did you get my radio?”

His stare remained cold. “Hum,” he said. And then, obliquely, “Why didn’t you keep your appointment yesterday?”

I said, with some irritation, “Because I was mugged and robbed, Mr. Faulkner. I’m sorry if it inconvenienced you.”

“Hum,” he said. His hawklike face expressed neither surprise nor sympathy. “What do you want?”

“Why—well, as I wrote you, I want to take possession of my uncle’s estate.”

He said disagreeably, “Do you indeed! And just who might your uncle be?”

I stared at him, hardly believing I was hearing right. “My uncle Stewart Eden,” I said in some confusion. “You know him, Mr. Faulkner!”

“I knew him. Stewart Eden is dead, young man.” I started to say something, but he clipped on, one hand raised to restrain me: “Furthermore, I should like to see some identification from you.”

I said hotly: “I told you, Mr. Faulkner—I was robbed! All my identification is gone.”

He looked skeptical. He said: “Hum!”

“But that’s what really happened,” I insisted. “I—”

The hand was raised again. “Enough, young man!” he said sharply. “There is no point in continuing with this. As an attorney, permit me to acquaint you with the law. Imposture for the purpose of criminal gain—posing as the heir to an estate, for instance—is a serious offense. My advice to you is to give it up.”

I was stunned. “What?” I demanded.

“You understood me, I believe. You are not James Eden. I do not know who you are, but it is certain that him you are not.”

I cried, “Listen, Mr. Faulkner, you’re making a mistake! I am James Eden.”

He shouted, “And I say you are not! I have met James Eden—right here, in this office! You look no more like him than you do like me!”

I gaped at him. “Wh-what?”

“Impostor!” he raged. “Get out of my office! Now—and get down on your knees and thank me for not turning you over to the police!”

I burst out, “See here, Mr. Faulkner, this is ridiculous. Of course I’m James Eden—I can prove it!”

He said explosively, “Do so!”

I hesitated. “Well,” I admitted, “it will take a little time. I’ll have to send back to the States for my papers.

“Liar!” he cried. “You dare say that, when I have in my desk here the identification book of the real James Eden, with his picture, fingerprints and all the rest!”

I gaped. “You—you what?” I asked feebly.

He thrust a hand into a drawer. “See for yourself,” he said harshly, tossing a familiar little red book before me. I picked it up apprehensively…

Familiar?

I had carried it for many years. It was not an imitation of my book—it was my book, to the last crease and ink spot and blurred line.

But the picture in it was not of me. The man was a total stranger; the description fit him, not me; the signature was not my own.

Faulkner snatched the book away from me. “Bishop!” he called.

The Neanderthaler rolled in from the other room, and stood regarding me eagerly. To me, Faulkner said coldly: “Get out!”

What else could I do?

Gideon explained it—perhaps. “Your friend Mr. Faulkner must have had you mugged,” he speculated. “I would imagine, Jim, that he wants you out of the way pretty badly, to go as far as murder.”

“But the identification book, Gideon!” I said.

He shook his head. “Jim,” he said patiently, “there are men in Thetis who could forge any document the world has ever seen. It isn’t hard for someone who knows how. The question isn’t ‘how’; the question is ‘why.’ I don’t like to leap at conclusions, but the one that suggests itself most quickly is: Marine Mines Limited are worth more than they seem to be.”

I shook my head bewilderedly. “But they can’t be,” I said. “It’s all below the depth limit, the whole prospect—even if Uncle Stewart had found something there, there’s no way of getting it out.”

Gideon shrugged. “Have you a better idea?”

I had to confess I didn’t. We sat wordless for a moment. Then I said: “Well, what shall I do? Go back and get thrown out of Faulkner’s office again?”

Gideon shook his head, and a gleam of anticipation came into his eye. “Not this time, Jim. First you establish your identity—go to the consul here in Thetis, get a duplicate of your papers. Then we go back to see Faulkner. You and me both. And I would like to see us get thrown out; it would be quite a spectacle, Jim.”

I did as Gideon suggested.

The office of the immigration inspector was up with the other government buildings, on Level Twenty-one.

I stated my case to an assistant at the passport window. He nodded non-committally, excused himself, then returned to take me to the office of the Inspector himself.

He was a plump, bald, brisk-mannered little man named Chapman. He shook my hand pleasantly, listened to my story and nodded understandingly.

“That sort of thing happens,” he said. “Pity, but it does. We can help you, young man.” He rang a bell; his secretary showed me the way to the laboratory.

I was stripped, measured, weighed, fingerprinted, retina-printed, photographed with natural light, fluorescence and X-rays.

I was examined, poked and probed; my teeth were counted and charted; the pores on the soles of my feet were located and graphed. The process took well over an hour.

When it was finished, a white-smocked lab attendant brought me back to the Inspector.

Inspector Chapman handed me a passport, which bore in scarlet letters the legend TEMPORARY. “Carry this for the next two weeks,” he instructed. “By then we will have word from the United States; if your statistics match the information our laboratory sends them, we’ll issue you a new permanent passport. This one, I’m sorry to say, will not do you much good except to permit you to travel about Thetis. You can’t leave without a permanent passport.”

“And you’ll have that in two weeks?” I asked. “Thank you very much, sir.”

He escorted me to the door. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s part of our job to help out when someone loses an important document.” He looked at me levelly. “Always assuming,” he added, “that the document is really theirs to begin with.”

The door closed on his last words.