The search for the missing dynamite had failed completely. Rick, Scotty, and the scientists were equally puzzled. Why steal dynamite? What was there to be gained?
At a conference early the following morning Hartson Brant voiced the question.
Julius Weiss was the first to respond, and his answer was another question. "What was to be gained by stealing the tracings and Jeff's sketch? Isn't the theft of the dynamite in the same category?"
"I suppose it is," Hartson Brant agreed. "I see no motive whatever for either theft. After all, it was simple enough to make additional tracings, and it will not be difficult to obtain more dynamite. So I go back to my original question. What is to be gained by the theft?"
"Dynamite has some value," Zircon boomed.
"To be sure. But the tracings had none, except to us."
Rick said what had been on his mind. "Both thefts resulted in only one thing . . . delay. The tracings put us a day behind, and the dynamite might delay us even longer. It depends on how fast we can get more."
"Maybe Rick has something there," David Riddle said. "But who gains from a delay in the project?"
"No one," Brad Connel said testily. "I think we're looking for a motive that doesn't exist. The tracings probably were stolen by someone on the hotel staff, because they looked important. Maybe the thief thought they could be sold. Certainly the dynamite can be sold. What motive do we need other than the usual profit a thief expects?"
"Perhaps none," Hartson Brant admitted. "The question is, what now? We can proceed no further without explosives."
"I will go to the governor and see if he can obtain more for us," Esteben Balgos announced. "If he has none here on San Luz, there are other islands close by. A few telephone calls will locate a supply."
"Fine. And while you're doing that, there is little the rest of us can do except relax. Will you let us know by telephone what the governor says?"
"Yes, at once. Any of you care to go with me?"
Williams and Riddle volunteered to go along. Weiss announced that he wanted to make some calculations and asked Hartson Brant and Zircon to help him.
Rick and Scotty, left on their own, considered the possibilities for amusement and found none except the ocean itself—which was plenty. They decided on a swim and hurried back to their room to put on trunks under their slacks. Zircon readily gave permission to use the jeep.
As they changed clothes, a jeep motor roared into life. Scotty walked to the window and opened the draperies. "Balgos and the others," he announced.
A few minutes later another jeep motor started up. Rick went to the window and was just in time to see Brad Connel start across the parking lot in his jeep. He was alone.
The boy turned away from the window, very thoughtful. "That was Connel. Wonder where he's going?"
"Maybe to Calor, for shopping or sightseeing," Scotty replied. "What's on your mind?"
"He worries me," Rick said bluntly. "I don't really know why. Only he's certainly determined to keep us away from his firing stations, isn't he?"
"Go on. Something's biting you, and I want to know what it is."
Rick stared at his dark-haired pal without really seeing him. He struggled to put into words the vague thoughts in the back of his mind.
"Well, he acted worried about Ruiz, but I don't really think he was. It was kind of overdone, you know? His face didn't match his words."
Scotty shook his head. "You're on thin ice, boy. People don't react to accidents in a standard way. It might have been overdone, but it might not, too. What else?"
"He didn't want us to go along as helpers after Ruiz was hurt. I know that doesn't mean much, and he said he was just afraid of another accident, but wouldn't you think he'd like some company? Besides, two accidents like that just don't happen. Then, when we suggested changing stations so he could have more time to work on other things, he yelled pretty fast."
"Because we don't know his terrain," Scotty pointed out. "At least that's what he said."
"Sure. But what's to know about the terrain? All we'd have to do would be to follow his jeep tracks, and shoot where the ground is already torn up from his earlier shots. If it's safe for him to carry caps and dynamite, it's safe for us."
Scotty scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I see what you mean. But the evidence isn't very conclusive, is it?"
"No," Rick admitted. "Only where's he going now? If he planned to go to town, he'd invite anyone who wanted to go, wouldn't he? That's what most people would do."
Scotty chuckled. "One thing I like about you. When you get a notion in that noggin, it doesn't come out easily. Next you'll be suggesting that he slugged Williams and stole the dynamite."
"He could have," Rick pointed out. "Apparently he was alone in his room both times. At least no one said he was with them."
Scotty held up his hands in surrender. "Okay. What do we do about it?"
"Let's see where he's going."
"I knew it," Scotty said resignedly. "Okay. But we'd better hurry."
There was a clear view from the front of the hotel down the slopes of the foothills to the town of Calor. The road wound around and occasionally vanished from sight in clumps of green growth, but the boys watched for several minutes and saw no sign of Connel. The jeep with Balgos and the others was rolling along in the distance, but it was still close enough to see three occupants.
"He didn't go to town," Rick said finally, "and there's only one other road out of here."
"To the shot stations," Scotty agreed. "Unless he cut off and headed for San Souci." That was a little fishing village on the west coast. Neither boy had been there, but they had used a flagpole on the tip of the cape near the town as a sighting marker.
"Let's go see," Rick suggested.
They hurried through the hotel to the parking lot and got into the jeep. Rick started the vehicle, crossed the fissure in the lot, and took the road west. According to the map, the road was paved as far as the pumice works. Beyond that it was graded dirt. If Connel had taken the dirt road, instead of the trail to the shot stations, they should see dust.
He kept the jeep rolling at good speed as far as the pumice-works shacks, then stopped to look for signs of a dust haze. There was none. At the end of the blacktop, he and Scotty got out and examined the road surface. There were signs of traffic, but none very recent so far as they could tell. Rick drove the jeep a few hundred yards along the road, then got out and looked again. The heavy treads of his vehicle were clearly visible in the dust. If Connel had gone this way, he would have left similar marks.
"He took the trail," Rick said.
Scotty nodded. "Looks like it. Do we follow?"
"We sure do. What reason would he have for going to the station without dynamite?"
"None that I know of. Let's go."
Rick turned the jeep into the trail and sped along it as fast as the ruts allowed. As they reached their third station with no sign of Connel, Scotty spoke suddenly. "Suppose we find him? How do we explain why we're following him?"
Rick considered. He rejected a casual trip as explanation. Connel wouldn't buy it.
"We can park the jeep in the jungle," he said finally. "It will be well hidden. Then we can go on foot. If we see him coming, we can take to the bush. We'll be invisible a few feet away."
The jeep was driven into the area where their shots had been set off. It was invisible from the trail. The boys left it and started hiking.
It was hard going. The heat and humidity were both high, and they were sweating before a quarter mile was covered. The film of perspiration seemed to attract insects, too, and before long the pests were driving them to distraction. Rick brushed futilely at the shining swarm of gnats around his head. "I'm not sure it's worth it," he said grimly.
"Neither am I," Scotty agreed. "But we've started. Let's keep plugging."
They reached the first of Connel's shot stations without a sign of the geologist. It was much like their own, a small clearing with the ground torn by the dynamite.
The second station, a mile farther on, was similar except that there were more trees and fewer scrub palms. Rick identified one giant tree as mahogany.
They strode up the trail, grimly determined to find the geologist. One more station remained ahead. Rick doubted that he had gone farther than that. He wiped his streaming face and squinted his eyes to protect them from the whining gnats. They swarmed around but didn't seem to sting or bite. He was grateful for that much.
Suddenly Scotty let out a warning gasp. The dark-haired boy threw himself sideways, on top of Rick, and the two of them crashed to the ground.
"Roll away," Scotty said urgently. "Back! Hurry!"
The ground opened up a few feet away. Rick felt a giant hand pick him up, shake him, then slam him into a palmetto. Bruised and dazed, he grabbed the palmetto for support and lacerated his hands on the rough covering. He slid to the ground, consciousness slipping from him.
For a moment Rick lay slumped at the base of the palmetto. He didn't lose consciousness completely, but he was stunned and unable to function either mentally or physically. He had neither sight or hearing for the first few seconds, then these faculties slowly returned. He became aware that he was looking down at a broad green leaf, and that the leaf was gradually turning crimson.
He watched, his vision clearing, and suddenly realized that the red pigment was dripping onto the leaf in a steady series of drops that was almost a stream. At almost the same instant he knew that the red was blood and that it was his. He shook his head to clear it, and the red spray flew from side to side. Through the periphery of vision he saw that it was coming from his nose.
Rick realized that he was on his hands and knees. He rose to a kneeling position and fished for his handkerchief. He put it to his nose and it came away stained red. He sighed with relief. Nosebleed. For a moment he had wondered. . . .
A few feet away Scotty was slowly stretching one limb after another, checking to be sure he was functioning. Satisfied, the ex-Marine sat up, with some effort. Rick saw that his nose was bleeding, too.
"You've got a nosebleed," Rick said faintly.
Scotty touched his nose with the back of his hand and examined the red trace. "Uhuh," he agreed.
"What happened?" Rick asked weakly. His voice sounded far away!
Scotty's answer was barely audible. "We found the missing dynamite. I saw a length of wire along the trail. Are you okay?"
"I think so." Rick got to his feet, feeling as though his body were in sections. "We must have been close when it went off."
The two held onto each other for mutual support while strength came back into them.
"We weren't too close," Scotty said finally. He gestured up the trail. Rick looked, and saw a gaping hole some distance away. Beyond it, coming toward them at as high a speed as the trail allowed, was Brad Connel in his jeep.
The geologist stopped as he reached the hole, then swung off the trail and plowed through some scrub and back onto it again. He drew up next to the boys.
"So it was you who stole the dynamite!" the geologist said grimly. "What happened? Did it explode while you were fooling around with it?"
The boys stared at him, dazed and openmouthed.
"You're crazy," Rick managed finally. "We didn't steal it, but we almost got blown up in it. If Scotty hadn't seen the wire, we both would have been blown to bits."
The geologist's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean to tell me someone tried to blow you up? That's nonsense!"
"That's what happened, nonsense or not," Rick said curtly.
Scotty added, "And what were you doing here?"
"Came to get my wallet," the geologist answered readily. "I missed it and figured I must have dropped it up here. It wasn't anywhere else I'd been. Better get in and let me take you back. If you were close enough to get nosebleeds you must be shaken up quite a bit."
"We're shaken," Rick agreed. "Our jeep is down at our shot station. We decided to leave it there and take a hike."
They climbed into the back of Connel's jeep. The nosebleeds had stopped now, but their faces were smeared with blood. Neither felt like talking, nor, apparently, did Connel. He stopped at their third station and asked, "Can you make it? Or do you want to ride back with me?"
"We can make it," Rick said. "Thanks for the lift."
"I'd better stay behind you to make sure," Connel stated.
The boys headed straight back to the hotel, Connel a hundred yards to their rear. In the parking lot they thanked him again for the lift, then hurried in to let warm water wash away the traces of their experience.
Later, stretched out on their beds, they talked it over.
"You saved our bacon," Rick stated. "But what really happened?"
"I'm not sure," Scotty replied. "There are two possibilities. One, we sprung a booby trap. I don't really credit that one much, because we were rolling away when the stuff let go. If we'd hit a trip wire or something similar, the dynamite would have gone off right then. So, second possibility, someone was waiting for us. We jumped back just as he pushed the plunger. Or, maybe he saw we had spotted the trap and tried to get us, anyway."
"Who's he?" Rick asked.
"Persons unknown," Scotty answered. "Or maybe one person not unknown."
"Meaning Connel? He could have done it. Suppose he set the trap, then took his jeep up the hill out of sight. Then he could have walked back, fired the shot, hurried back for his jeep, and driven down."
"Could be," Scotty agreed. "Only, did he know we were coming?"
Rick shrugged. "How can we know that? For all we know, from his third shot station he might be able to look right down on the trail. He sees us, hurries into position, fires the charge, and hurries back. We can't really tell until we get to that third station. Personally, I vote for Connel."
"Not proven," Scotty warned.
Rick knew it. "It may never be proven, on account of no witnesses. But suppose it was some unknown party? Why wouldn't that party try for Connel? Why wait until he's passed, and we're coming into position? Would an unknown thief be that interested in us?"
"Too many questions," Scotty objected. "I haven't any answers. But you make a good case for its being Connel. Also, did you notice how he jumped on us for stealing the dynamite? That probably would have been his story if we'd been killed. Now tell me what his motive is. Why should he try to delay the project?"
Rick had no answer to that. "Makes no sense," he agreed. "Unless there's something he doesn't want us to see. That dynamite sure discouraged our trip to his third station!"
The scientific party lost only one day because of the dynamite theft. Governor Montoya supplied more explosives and the firing schedule continued. Now, however, the dynamite was guarded by police supplied by His Excellency. Police also were in evidence around the Hot Springs Hotel. No more chances were being taken.
After three days, the scientists began to have a better idea of what was going on in the earth beneath them, but Rick and Scotty could make little sense of the mass of data. Even the picture being filled in by Dr. Williams was confusing. Now, two magma areas were showing where only one had shown before.
Esteben Balgos answered Rick's plea for an explanation. Over an excellent dinner of roast suckling pig and bananas steamed with lemon juice, the volcanologist took time to answer their questions.
"There is much we do not know about volcanoes," the Peruvian scientist began. "For example, we do not know exactly what causes magma to form. Magma is, in simplest terms, molten rock. Some event takes place far below, where the earth's crust ends and the mantle begins, and the rock melts."
"How far below?" Rick asked.
"The distance varies. Under the ocean trenches, for example, the mantle may begin only four miles down. Under some of the mountainous land masses it may be closer to forty miles."
Scotty whistled. "That's a whale of a distance. How can you tell how far down it is?"
"By the seismic traces from earthquakes, or from explosive shots like the ones we are shooting. When the shock waves have reached the zone between the earth's crust and the mantle, we see the results on our tracings."
"Is it really a sharp line?" Rick queried.
"Probably not. No one is sure yet. It may be a kind of transitional zone, from one kind of material to another, or it may be a distinct layer. We call it the Mohorovicic Discontinuity, after the Yugoslav scientist who discovered it by analysis of seismic tracings. At any rate, it is somewhat above this discontinuity that magma is formed. We don't know how."
"Then it rises?" Scotty asked.
"It forces its way up, by expansion. Sometimes the magma strikes water and there is an explosion—a steam explosion. But generally the magma rises through a fairly small channel. It forms a pool under the volcano. The pool is actually a reservoir of molten rock. Generally it is shaped like a lens. The magma gathers. Eventually it forces its way to the surface, again through channels."
"What kind of channels?" Rick asked.
"It depends on the kind of volcano. Sometimes the channels are weaknesses in the whole surrounding earth structure, and the magma flows through cracks and emerges as sheets of lava. Sometimes there is a central channel through which the magma can rise."
"Which do we have?" Scotty wanted to know.
"Probably neither or perhaps both. There was once a central channel in El Viejo. It is closed now, and we do not know if it is weaker than the rest of the mountain. There is a weak fissure under the hot springs. So, El Viejo can vent either way."
Rick shook his head. He had learned enough of natural forces to know there are often no definite answers to questions, but this was critical.
"So the volcano could blow off on top or side, and we can't guess which?"
"That is correct. However, explosive action in a volcano usually comes when the magma meets enough water to create steam. Now, our closest magma front is still far below the floor of the surrounding ocean. You follow me? Good. When the magma rises to the level of the ocean floor, what do you think will happen?"
Rick could see the picture in his mind. He said slowly, "It will probably meet water. Plenty of it, from seepage of the ocean downward through cracks in the ocean floor. Maybe there are cracks like the one in the parking lot, caused by earthquakes."
"Precisely. And when the magma meets the water, then what?"
"The water turns to steam instantly." Scotty answered grimly. "The steam expands instantly—and boom!"
"Boom," Balgos agreed solemnly. "But how big a boom we do not know. It may blow the top off El Viejo. It may blow a gap along one of the cracks. We don't know."
Rick digested this information in silence. The picture was certainly not a cheerful one. "How far down are the magma fronts?" he asked.
"As closely as we can tell, the bottom one is right above the discontinuity, which is about six miles below us at this point. The upper one is about a mile below the top of El Viejo. This puts it about a quarter of a mile below the floor of the ocean."
"Too close," Scotty muttered. "What now?"
"We keep shooting, to try and keep track of the upper front. Also, we will place instruments called tiltometers on the mountain slope. These are devices that really measure tilt. You see, if the lens of magma is increasing, El Viejo will swell up slightly. The tiltometers will show it, and we will then have further proof of what is coming."
"But what can we do about it?" Rick demanded.
Balgos shrugged. "Quién sabe?The Spanish phrase is a good one, because it does not only ask 'who knows,' it also carries the meaning of a kind of resignation. There does not seem to be anything we can do."
Rick stared across the dining room, eyes unseeing. It was hard to imagine that molten rock was gathering below them in sufficient quantity to make a mountain move; but once you succeeded in imagining it, the picture was terrifying.
Motion attracted his glance and his eyes focused in time to see Brad Connel rise from the table and excuse himself. He watched the geologist walk out of the room and turned to Scotty. His pal nodded. He had seen Connel leave, too.
Rick quickly counted noses. All others were present. Connel was the first to leave. He wondered where the geologist was going, and his eyes narrowed.
Connel had been very anxious about his and Scotty's condition, once the hotel was reached. Rick was sure his anxiety was strictly phony. Both boys had been stiff and sore, but a medical examination showed nothing seriously wrong, thanks to Scotty's fast action. Hartson Brant had been reluctant to accept Rick's opinion that Connel had stolen the dynamite and booby-trapped them. He pointed out that the geologist had no motive; he had never even been on San Luz before.
Rick had to agree. There was no apparent motive, but that didn't mean Connel was innocent. He might have a motive that no one suspected.
Scotty cocked an eyebrow at Rick and made a slight motion of his head toward the door where Connel had vanished. Rick got the signal. He nodded.
The boys thanked Dr. Balgos for his explanation, then excused themselves. They wandered casually from the dining room.
Once outside, Rick grinned at Scotty. "So you're wondering where Connel has gone?"
"Aren't you?"
"Sure. But why not ask the others what he said when he excused himself?"
Scotty shook his head. "They didn't think much of our theory about Connel causing our troubles, did they? If we asked, they'd think we were pushing the same point too hard."
Rick agreed. "Where did he go?"
"I don't know. But if he leaves the hotel, it will be by jeep. There's nothing within walking distance. If we get out back of the pump shed we'll see him if he comes out."
"Aye, aye. And if he jeeps out of here, we'll be on his tail. Roger?"
"You said a Brantish mouthful. Let's go."
A quick reconnaissance disclosed no sign of the geologist outside, and the boys hurried across the dark parking lot to the shadow of the pump shed. A police officer materialized from the darkness and greeted them courteously. "Good evening, señores.A sus órdenes."
By placing himself at their orders, the officer was politely asking their business, Rick knew. He replied, "We came out to see if anyone had made another try for the dynamite, SeñorTeniente." Calling the officer "lieutenant" was a form of flattery.
"Sargento, muchas gracias," the officer replied. White teeth flashed in a grin. "But who can tell the future? If I capture the thief, it may soon be lieutenant instead of sergeant."
"We hope so," Scotty said politely.
Rick noted that the three were hidden from the parking lot by the pump house. The position was satisfactory. If Connel was going to take a jeep, he probably would do so right away. Otherwise, why should he be the first to leave the dining room?
"Why would anyone steal dynamite?" Rick asked the police officer. He wanted only to keep a quiet conversation going behind the pump house.
The officer had theories. Perhaps revolutionaries had stolen it. Also, although it was against the law and brought severe punishment, fishermen were known to dynamite fish. This also was a possibility. But the explosion of the dynamite on the mountainside was certainly a puzzle.
Rick didn't think so, but he agreed politely. It was bewildering, he said. Why steal explosives and then use it on a harmless scientific group?
Perhaps fear of discovery caused the thief to set a trap, the officer guessed. He admitted it wasn't a good guess.
A jeep roared into life and the boys stiffened. The officer strolled out of the shadow for a look. "One of your associates is going for a ride," he said.
Rick waited until the jeep lights cut across the parking lot and moved down the western road, then he said, "It's a nice night for a ride, Scotty. What say we take a jeep and look over the country, too?"
"Good idea," Scotty agreed readily.
They bade the officer good night and started to where Zircon's jeep was parked. It was a temptation to hurry, but they suppressed it and sauntered to the jeep. Fortunately, no keys were needed. The jeep ignition was turned on by a simple switch. Rick got into the driver's seat and started up. He waited, the motor idling, until he was sure Connel was out of sight around the mountain, then he drove slowly across the parking lot and followed.
Fortunately, there was enough moonlight to see the road. Once out of sight of the hotel, Rick stopped and switched off the lights. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he started off again as fast as vision allowed.
Once he sighted Connel's lights. They were ahead and higher on the mountain. He lost sight of them again as foliage blocked the view. "Suppose he's heading for the shot station?" he asked.
Scotty shrugged. "We'll soon know."
They reached the pumice works without seeing the geologist's lights again, and Rick stopped at the turnoff. "Now what?" he asked. "Did he go up the trail or not?"
Scotty sniffed the air. "Smell anything?"
Rick breathed deeply. There was the odor of rank vegetation, and, very faintly, the odor of sulfur from the hot springs. But there was another smell, too. After a moment he identified it. "Dust!"
"Seems so," Scotty agreed. "Which means he didn't take the trail to the stations. No dust on those tracks. He must have taken the dirt road to San Souci."
"But why?" Rick was already moving ahead to where the pavement ended. "What's in San Souci?"
Scotty chuckled. "Ask Connel. Don't ask me."
"I thought Marines knew everything," Rick gibed.
"Almost everything," Scotty corrected.
The jeep moved onto the dirt road and in a moment their own cloud of dust obscured any slight haze that Connel's passing might have left. They were in strange territory now, and Rick slowed down somewhat. Connel had the advantage of lights. They wouldn't be able to gain on him.
"He can't get far," Scotty said reassuringly. "The road goes to San Souci and nowhere else. It can't be much of a town, so we'll find him."
Scotty was right. San Souci wasn't much of a town. There were a handful of fishermen's huts, a dock with a number of fishing boats, racks for drying fish, a single store, and nothing else. There was a paved road leading from the town to the main city of Calor, but Connel hadn't taken it. Nor was the jeep in San Souci.
Rick's halting Spanish was sufficient to communicate with a fisherman who spoke equally halting English. He had been taking the air all evening. No other vehicle had come to San Souci.
"Now what?" Rick asked helplessly.
"He went somewhere," Scotty responded. "And that somewhere has to be a turnoff between here and the pumice works. We must have missed it because we traveled without lights. Let's go back and look."
"I'm with you," Rick agreed. "But wherever he turned off must be a trail, because there are no side roads on the map." He swung the jeep around and started back. He had turned on the headlights as they approached the fishing village; he kept them on.
They found the turnoff about a mile from San Souci. The road widened slightly, and there was an opening in the foliage just wide enough for a car. Twin gateposts of concrete marked the passage. Rick turned the jeep, and the headlights picked out a name cut in the concrete pillars:Casa Guevara.
"Someone's house," Rick said. "Name of Guevara. We can't very well go rolling up a private driveway, can we?"
"Especially with that sign," Scotty added. He pointed to a wooden sign set slightly to one side of the private road just beyond the gate. It readNo Entrar. No Trespassing.
"Question," Rick said thoughtfully. "Did Connel go up this road or is there another one?"
"No evidence," Scotty replied.
Rick pointed to the gatepost. "Who do we know that's named Guevara?"
Scotty breathed, "Sure! The lieutenant governor!"
"And he took Connel to the hospital to see Ruiz," Rick reminded, "so they're acquainted."
He switched off the lights. "That's probably the answer. Connel was invited to pay a social call. Why not? This probably has nothing to do with the project at all."
Scotty sighed audibly. "The trouble with you is that you come up with sensible answers. We might as well go on back to the hotel."
"Might as well . . ." Rick began, then stopped as light appeared dimly through the foliage up the private driveway. They were headlights!
"We've got to get out of here," he said, and threw the jeep into gear. For a moment he hesitated. If he went up the dirt road to the hotel, Connel would surely see them. If Rick went back toward San Souci and the oncoming car was not Connel, but someone from Casa Guevara, the car might also turn toward San Souci, and the boys would be seen.
Rick thought quickly. About a hundred yards toward San Souci there was a break in the foliage that he had almost investigated until he saw that no tracks led into it. He quickly switched into four-wheel drive and swung the jeep in its own length. The lights were closer now. Rick accelerated and found the opening through the jungle scrub. The jeep bounced as he drove into it, then swung until they were behind a screen of palmetto. He killed the engine.
Scotty piled out, Rick close behind him. They hurried to the edge of the highway, careful to keep masked by the palmetto, and watched.
A jeep emerged from the driveway to Casa Guevara. In the back-scattered light from its headlights they saw that Connel was the driver. He was alone. They watched until his taillights flickered out beyond a bend in the road.
"Interesting," Rick said. "Does a social call last for less than a half hour? Answer: no, not in San Luz. There's Spanish-style hospitality here, and Connel would have been there for hours."
"He came on business," Scotty said slowly. "But what kind of business would he have with the lieutenant governor?"
"That," Rick said grimly, "is what we need to find out."
Far below the surface of San Luz, white-hot rock, flowing like incandescent molasses, forced its way upward under enormous pressure. Sometimes the magma remained quiet for hours, pulsing slightly like a living thing. Then it would melt its way through to a weakness in the earth's structure, creating a new channel for its upward flow.
In one new channel was basaltic rock with a higher moisture content than the magma had encountered before. As the moisture turned instantly to steam, it expanded with sudden violence, and the earth shook with the force of the explosion.
Far above the pocket, Rick Brant felt the earth tremble, and shook his head. The temblors were increasing in frequency, although none had been as violent as that first day's earthquake. The boy looked at Scotty. His pal's face was grim.
The scientists around the worktable had paused, too, as they felt the earth tremble.
Esteben Balgos said quietly, "El Viejo is getting ready. If we are going to act, it must be soon."
"Act?" Connel demanded. "How?"
Balgos shrugged. "That is what we are here to decide."
Rick watched the geologist's face. He was sure that Connel, for reasons unknown, was trying to slow down the project. He was satisfied that the man had stolen both the initial tracings and the dynamite. He also knew that Connel lied. On their return from trailing him to Casa Guevara, the boys had found Connel having a cup of coffee in the dining room and had asked casually where he had gone. He had muttered something about going into Calor for a supply of cigars.
Hartson Brant asked, "What do you make of this series of tracings? My own opinion is that we have found a structural weakness through which the magma will move. But the weakness does not extend far enough upward to give any idea of the channel the magma will take to the surface."
The scientist pointed to a series of blue lines as he spoke. Dr. Williams examined the lines, then took his pencil and began to sketch rapidly on his cross-section drawing of the volcano and the earth under it. Rick watched as the sketch took shape. From the upper lens-shaped magma front Williams was drawing a series of lines that changed direction, moving toward the western side of the island. Then, across the top of the upward-moving lines Williams drew a horizontal line.
"Those upward strokes are the fissures shown by the tracings," he said. "Notice that they stop at the horizontal line. My guess is that the horizontal line represents an unbroken stratum that will probably stop the magma temporarily. We may even have another one of those lens-shaped pools develop."
Big Hobart Zircon poked at the sketch with a huge finger. "Jeff, how far below the surface is this stratum?"
"Slightly over a quarter of a mile, I'd guess. It's hard to be accurate within a few feet. On that side of the mountain the ocean bottom is a few hundred feet below sea level, and I'd say the hard rock is probably a thousand feet below that."
Zircon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If we could somehow breach that hard rock and allow room for the magma to flow upward, what would happen?" he inquired.
Esteben Balgos exclaimed excitedly, "Once through the layer of hard rock, the magma would encounter plenty of surface water. Look at Jeff's sketch. Above the hard rock there are many fissures, which must have a high water content. If the magma reaches those, we will have violent eruption through the western side of the mountain, probably right about sea level."
Rick could see instantly what Balgos meant. "Dad, an eruption on the west side would be perfect! The mountain itself would protect Calor and the rest of the island!"
"That's true, Rick," Hartson Brant agreed. "The problem is, how can we possibly create a break in a layer of hard rock so far underground?"
David Riddle answered him. "There's one way. Drive a tunnel down through it."
All eyes looked at him.
"Can it be done?" Julius Weiss demanded.
"Yes. If there's enough time, enough machinery, and enough manpower. But look at the problem. Once the magma starts to move upward through those faults Jeff has drawn, it will move fast. The tunnel would have to be done before the magma started to move. Otherwise, the heat would be too great for men to work, and even if they could work they'd be drilling right into magma."
"This stuff is beyond me," Connel said. "Let me know what you decide, will you?" He turned and walked from the room.
Rick's eyes met Scotty's. The ex-Marine nodded, and in a moment quietly slipped out of the room.
Julius Weiss demanded, "Are you seriously proposing that we drive a tunnel for over a quarter mile, almost straight down, through solid rock?"
Riddle shrugged. "Do you know any other way of releasing the magma safely? I don't."
"Perhaps it could be done," Hartson Brant said thoughtfully. "But, as Dave says, we'd need time, machinery, and manpower. I'm sure we can get the machinery and the manpower from the governor. But do we have time?"
Balgos and Williams looked at each other. They were the experts. It was up to them to say.
"How long, Jeff?" Balgos asked.
"I don't know. If we assume the magma will continue rising at roughly the same rate we've measured during the past few days, I'd guess perhaps two or three weeks. On the other hand, the magma could find weaknesses we haven't detected. We may have only a few days."
"We'll have to try," Hartson Brant stated. "If the governor can give us the entire labor force of the island, and all available earth-moving machinery, we have a chance at least. If we do nothing, there's no chance at all. I think we should pay a visit to the governor right now."
Scotty came back into the room. "Connel's in his room," he reported. "I think he made a telephone call, but I can't be sure without checking with the switchboard. Shall I?"
"It doesn't matter," Rick told him. "We're on our way to see the governor. Connel can't stop things now."
The scientists were already moving through the door and to the jeeps. Within a few moments the small convoy was moving down the mountainside toward Calor and the executive offices.
Inside the cool, white stone building the group waited while Esteben Balgos went to see if the governor was available. He came out of the executive suite with a look of concern on his face.
"The governor is not in," he reported. "His secretary does not know where he is. The secretary's worried. Montoya didn't show up at all this morning and his residence says he left at the usual time. I think we'd better see the lieutenant governor."
Rick started to speak, but thought better of it. Connel had not come with them, and his visit to Guevara could mean nothing.
Jaime Guevara was a tall, thin man with a hawk face and a tiny goatee. Hartson Brant, as spokesman, got to the point right away. He described the reason for their coming, and their findings to date. He stressed the need for fast action. In the governor's absence, he stated, they would need the active support of Señor Guevara. If he would issue orders at once, the scientific group would be happy to organize and supervise the work.
Guevara listened until the scientists had finished, then he smiled. "A strange tale," he said. "It is difficult to believe El Viejo is getting ready to erupt. Surely your imaginations have run away with you."
"We do not depend on imagination," Balgos said curtly. "We depend on scientific investigation. The situation is precisely as Dr. Brant outlined it."
"No doubt," Guevara said soothingly. "But surely you realize I cannot disrupt the economy of the entire island simply to dig a hole. Why, the people would laugh their heads off. No, señores, I am helpless. You had better see the governor."
"The governor isn't here and there is no time to lose," Hartson Brant said flatly. "You must act immediately if the island is to be saved. The lives of your people are in your own hands."
"Perhaps the governor will return soon," Guevara said. "He will doubtless believe your story and take action. I regret that I cannot. And now, if you will excuse me?"
"Then you will not move even to save the island?"
"I do not believe the island is in danger, Dr. Brant," Guevara said coldly. "Convince the governor—if you can find him. Meanwhile, have the favor to cease bothering me with your silly tales!"
Governor Luis Montoya could not be located. Neither his family nor his staff knew his whereabouts. There was great alarm over his unexplained absence. The police were searching for the missing executive, but with no success.
Hartson Brant called a council of war and told the scientific group that his most recent phone call to Guevara had even resulted in a turndown when he asked for more dynamite. The lieutenant governor evidently was not content with refusing to help, he was going to obstruct.
"There is dynamite on Trinidad," Hartson Brant said. "Plenty of it. I made a phone call to a friend at the U. S. Air Base there, and he agreed to get it for us. Rick, you and Scotty fly over to Port of Spain right away. The information is written down here." He handed Rick a slip of paper.
"If you leave now, you can get there before dark, spend the night and come back in the morning. Bring all the dynamite you can carry, with caps and a few reels of primer cord. We'll need more wire, too. Get hopping, now."
"Yes, sir," Rick said. He and Scotty ran to their room for toothbrushes, stuffed their pockets with extra socks and underwear, and ran to the parking lot for the jeep.
The weather was fine and clear, and the flight uneventful. When they landed at the U. S. base they found that Hartson Brant's friend, Colonel Tom Markey, had arranged for a full load of dynamite, and full gas tanks for the plane. The boys spent the night at bachelor officers' quarters at the base and took off at dawn, the Sky Wagon sluggish from its load of dynamite cases.
Back at the Hot Springs Hotel, they unloaded the dynamite from the jeep and stored it under police protection in the pump house. Then they went to look for the scientists.
Hartson Brant, David Riddle, and Julius Weiss were in the conference room working over drawings. Rick saw that they were sketches of a tunnel.
The scientists welcomed them, and Rick asked, "Any progress, Dad?"
"No, Rick. The governor is still missing. We can't get help until he's found."
"Where are the others?" Scotty asked.
"Placing tiltometers on the mountain," his father told him. "The instruments were ordered by phone from Caracas right after you left and got in on the first morning plane."
Rick glanced at Scotty. He asked, "Exactly where are the others?"
"Balgos and Connel are at the north end of the mountain, above Redondo. Williams and Zircon are up above us somewhere. They started the climb behind the hot springs."
"I think we'll get a bite to eat," Rick said. "Unless you need us."
"No. There's nothing for you to do right at the moment, but Balgos wants you to take some photos from the air later this afternoon."
"Okay, Dad." Rick gestured, and Scotty followed him out.
"All's quiet," Rick told his pal. "And a quiet time is a good time to do a little investigating. Let's go to the kitchen, get a couple of sandwiches, and eat them on the way."
"To where?" Scotty asked. He grinned. "Don't tell me. To see what Connel is hiding over at his stations."
"On the button. Let's get going."
There was nothing whatever of interest at Connel's first two stations. The ground was torn up somewhat from the series of shots, but the boys could find no trace of anything unusual. They got back into the jeep, and Rick drove up the trail to the last station. He followed the path of broken vegetation Connel's jeep had made, noticing that the trail was dipping downward to a spot lower on the mountain than the other stations.
They reached a patch of crushed and yellowed growth where Connel obviously had parked his jeep. There were oil stains on some of the broken leaves.
Scotty pointed to a brown-paper cigarette stub. "Ever see Connel smoke one of those?"
Rick hadn't. "He smokes cigars. Where do you suppose that came from?"
Scotty got out of the jeep and bent over the butt. "The tip is still damp," he said. "Someone's been here very recently. We'd better keep an eye open."
Trampled vegetation showed them the path to the firing place. Moving cautiously, the boys walked down the path, eyes constantly searching for signs of movement in the heavy growth.
The clearing where Connel had placed his shots was only a short distance down the path. Rick examined it carefully, but it looked like all the others, except for one thing. The broken earth was yellow, and of a different texture than the deep jungle loam at the other stations.
Rick walked into the shattered area and picked up a piece of the yellow ground. It broke in his hands. "Funny-looking stuff," he said.
"Yes," Scotty agreed. "Take a look around while I keep a watch. I have a funny feeling we're not alone here."
There was a fairly deep crater in the middle of the area. Rick stepped into it and kicked yellow earth out of his way. He was puzzled. There was nothing visible in the area except the yellow ground, and there was nothing about that to give him a clue to Connel's determination to keep them away.
His foot dislodged a clump of earth. It rolled to the bottom of the shot crater, exposing two large crystals. Rick picked them up and rubbed the dirt off. They felt rather greasy. He didn't think they were quartz. His mind ranged over the possibilities. Probably datolite, he decided. The color was about right, and he knew datolite was found in igneous rocks of volcanic origin. He put the crystals in his pocket.
A trace of blue caught his eye and he knelt, digging with his hands. He uncovered a few more of the datolite crystals and put them in his pocket. They weren't particularly good specimens; he had some in his rock collection that were perfectly formed and clear, but at least they were something to take home.
Digging uncovered a layer of hard blue rock, heavily pockmarked and filled with the yellow ground. He saw one place where the blue actually blended in with yellow and decided that the blue and yellow were probably the same rock. The slaty blue simply turned to yellow when it was exposed to the air for a while.
There were loose pieces of blue, broken by the dynamite blasts. He picked up a couple of smaller pieces, then added a piece of yellow to his collection. He uncovered another crystal, too, a large one nearly the size of a golf ball and put that in his pocket.
Scotty was getting restless. "Let's get going," he said. "I don't like this."
Rick had seen enough, and it had told him nothing. He was just as puzzled over Connel's motive as ever. Obviously, the answer was not here—or, if it was, they couldn't see it.
"Okay," he said. "Move out."
Scotty led the way back to the jeep. Rick got into the driver's seat and started the motor. He backed and turned in the narrow space Connel's jeep had created, and finally got his wheels straight for the run back.
From somewhere behind them a voice called, "Parada!"
"Who's that yelling at us to stop?" Rick asked.
"I can't see anyone," Scotty replied. His eyes were scanning the jungle. "But I don't know anyone around here we want to talk to. I've got a hunch we should get going."
Rick felt the same. He released the clutch and the jeep moved ahead.
"Parada!" the voice yelled again, and on the echo came the clear crash of a rifleshot. A jagged star suddenly appeared on the windshield between them!
Rick reacted instinctively. He shoved the gas pedal to the floor and bent low, the skin of his back crawling with the expectation of a rifle bullet hitting it. The jeep leaped ahead and he steered as best he could. He shifted into second and the vehicle picked up speed. The rifle snapped again and he heard the sound of the slug hitting metal in the rear of the jeep. Then the trail turned and there was heavy jungle growth between them and the unseen sniper.
Not until they reached the second station, a mile away, did Rick slow down. He looked at Scotty, his face grim. "The place was guarded. What else can you make out of it?"
"Just that," Scotty agreed. "The guard must have been making a tour around the shot station. He got back just as we were taking off."
"Funny he didn't hear the jeep when we came," Rick said.
"Not very. Sound gets lost pretty fast in this heavy growth. You couldn't hear us a hundred yards away. Probably there's just the one guard, and he goes around the station in a big circle."
"I'll buy it," Rick agreed. "But why? Why guard a chunk of jungle with nothing in it but some torn up yellow ground?"
"When I find out," Scotty replied, "I'll let you know first thing."
Hartson Brant and Julius Weiss were still at work in the conference room when Rick and Scotty returned. David Riddle had gone, and the others had evidently not finished placing the tiltometers.
The two listened to Rick's story in silence, then Hartson Brant sighed. "I don't know how you do it, Rick. But if there's trouble around, you and Scotty will find it. Are you sure the rifleman shot at you?"
"We've got a bullet hole in the windshield and one just under the rear seat," Scotty said. "One might be an accident, but not two."
"I agree." Hartson Brant nodded. "Let's see the samples of earth you brought back, Rick."
He took both the yellow and blue pieces from his pocket and put them on the table. Hartson Brant and Weiss examined them with interest.
"Unusual," Weiss said. "I think you are right in assuming that the yellow is simply an oxidized form of the blue, Rick. But I can't tell you what the material is. I've never seen anything like it before."
"The grain is pretty fine," Hartson Brant added. "It could be igneous or sedimentary in origin. I'm not enough of a rock hound to know. David Riddle can tell us when he returns."
"Connel would know, too," Scotty reminded. "He's a geologist. Wouldn't you think he would have mentioned an unusual formation like this when he found it?"
"Perhaps it's not unusual to a geologist," Weiss pointed out.
"Where is Riddle?" Rick asked.
"He went to his room a few minutes ago. He should be back shortly. Rick, I think you'd better tell us the whole story. Why do you suspect Connel? Why was it important for you to look at his shot station?"
Rick started at the beginning. "It wasn't any one thing, it was a series of little offbeat things. We thought it was funny he didn't even want company after Ruiz was hurt. Then he reacted so violently when we proposed swapping stations. It just seemed odd. The theft of the tracings bothered us, too. No ordinary thief would steal papers and leave Dr. Williams' wallet in his pocket, or leave his pocket transistor radio and stuff like that."
"But you can't connect Connel with the theft of the papers," Weiss objected.
"No, sir, we can't. But we almost got caught in the stolen dynamite, and he could have set that off. It was while we were on the way to his third station."
Scotty added, "Today, when we got to the station, I took a look along the trail. There's only one bend in it. If he was keeping a watch at the bend, he could have seen us arrive at the second station, hurried down the trail, set off the charge, then returned through the jungle to get his jeep."
"But the fact that he could have, does not mean that he did," Hartson Brant stated.
"We can't prove it," Scotty agreed.
Rick continued. "Then we trailed him to Casa Guevara. He couldn't have been paying a social call, because he wasn't there long enough. And what business does he have with Guevara? I don't know, but I'll bet his business is the reason we can't get Guevara to move."
"Possibly," Hartson Brant agreed. "I can see the reason for your suspicions, but you lack proof of anything, Rick. What motive could Connel have?"
"We hoped to find out at the shot station," Rick replied. "But we drew a blank."
Dr. David Riddle came into the room and joined them. Before anyone could speak, the geologist spotted the samples on the table and sucked in his breath sharply.
"Where did these come from?" he demanded.
"Connel's third shot station," Rick replied. "Do you know what the stuff is?"
Riddle sank into a chair and picked up one of the samples, testing it between his fingers. "Yes," he said, "I do. I've seen it only once before, in Africa. It occurs in what is known as a volcanic pipe, actually an ancient channel that gets filled with the stuff for reasons we do not know."
"A volcanic pipe," Hartson Brant said softly. "I'm beginning to see."
Rick wasn't. "But what is it?" he asked.
"The most valuable kind of ground in the world," Riddle said. "So far as anyone knew up to now, such pipes have occurred only in Africa. The one I saw was at Kimberley. The name came from there. This is kimberlite."