The Sirens of Jim Rose

Thinking back, I believe its those crazy expressions of Jim Rose that I recall the most clearly. Peering over someone's shoulder, a mop handle in his right hand, his chin jutted forward like a windbreak; his eyes used to light up with cock-eyed glee each time he listened in on some ridiculous story about fist fights on Barbados, or a typhoon in the south Atlantic.

Jim Rose possessed this uncanny ability to blend in with the surroundings --sailors on the foredeck swabbing say, or a paint detail scaling a port-rigging -- until the merest hint of a tall tale swirled around the ship like a whiff of salt air. Then, as if by the sheer force of his curiosity he could materialize his bony frame through sheet steel, he would appear, fixing a burnt-out connection perhaps, or sanding a doorway, grinning mysteriously, ears focused in on every utterance from the teller's lips. Of course, it could simply have been that wherever Jim Rose happened to be, people just got to telling fabulous stories, something in his nature. The first possibility is more fascinating, however, so we'll stick with that. Often, when some overly zealous seaman had made a shaky point, or pulled out a description so outlandish even the author seemed caught for words, someone would turn to Jim Rose for support and Jim Rose would nod his head with one of those flitting expressions, backing him up all the way: "God's truth!", he'd say, raising a hand, or: "The way it was, men." Usually a word from Jim Rose was all it took. You'd think he'd say more, since fully half the adventures, it seemed, he’d witnessed first hand, but it was rare that he did, comfortable in his role as patron, always busy with some pressing project.

There was a night, though, that I remember, when it was going on midnight and our old freighter was pushing towards San Francisco with a full moon for a beacon off the stern bow. There had gathered on the front deck what seemed at least five dozen dreamy-eyed sailors, all filled with a natural longing, not only for land and city lights, and U.S. soil, but a deep-welling desire for their individual notions of home. As we looked out across the water, each man running through his own sleepy thoughts, a school of purpoises escorted us effortlessly in the phosphorescent waves. There appeared from somewhere three bottles of Spanish wine and it passed quietly through the calloused hands. When the bottle came his way, Jim Rose took a swig, passed the bottle on and looked back at our shadowy figures, moonlight pulling out each chiseled face, then he put a hand on the rail and one in his pocket.

"Contrary to popular beliefs," he began, looking far out, his voice weathered and quiet, "history goes pretty much in a straight line. Not that it doesn't have a circle in it there and again, strange boats drawn toward strange ports, armies of men raised to war (despite their insistence on more formal causes) by the cries of a lovely girl." On all sides the sailors slowly turned his way, attracted as much by the sheer novelty of Jim Rose holding forth as from the topic of his soliloquy. Jim Rose pulled a piece of cork from his pocket and flipped it into the breeze.

"I think what throws us off beam," -- he looked down, eyes squinted -- "is our belief in the supernatural. Now I know that sounds convuluted (just the opposite ought to be true) but give me a listen." As he spoke another voice was heard, from somewhere unseen: "He's lost his wits, thinks himself a philosopher." Then another spoke, old Pepper Martin. "The bottle, Jim." Jim Rose took it from him, nodded at Pepper Martin with a smile that only the two men understood, then he put the wine to his lips and drank. "Monde de Caralt," he said and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now, where was I? Oh yes.." By now nearly every sailor on deck had gravitated his way, forming an arc at the bow. "The supernatural,” he continued. “Well, whatever order there is to the universe -- and there's not as much as you might suspect -- it leads us to believe there must be a god or two keeping things on the right path. We trust in the stars, even go so far as to depend on them for directions. Now there's faith if I ever saw it!  All this, despite the fact astronomers Ill tell you most of those specks of light been burnt out for a million years. I know, I've discussed it on more than one ship deep in the night, far out to sea, following a course set on ghost-stars.

"The philosopher's argument, and sometimes it can be awfully persuasive, is that the essential forces of the universe -- gravity, sunlight, love -- all remain constant, have always existed and always will. The more complicated formations these forces bring about are, therefore, all cousins, mirror images, transmuted only by chance. I've always believed a man's time was better spent learning the art of plumbing than studying philosophy. Why, I'd even recommend mathematics first." Jim Rose picked a chip of paint from the rail, struck, it seemed, by some disturbing thought. "Let me point up one thing. Both philosophers and physicists draw models of the same elementary particles; only they approach the subject from opposite directions. When they finally meet it is only to give the same absolute assessment: nothing is absolute. They throw up their arms and start over. Of course this is not to say there is no answer, or that the proper thing for a man caught in a tiring dilemma is to resign to the will of the gods, formed, one guesses, of the same petty atoms. I know at this point many of you are thinking, minds only half on my dialogue, half on old lovers hazily remembered, 'Well, its truth he speaks of, and beauty!,' to which I might reply, cunningly, 'Well put sailor,' but more on that later -- let's move on. "What has all this existentialism to do with history? Alot, me thinks, but let each man judge, for I do have a tale."

Just at the edge of the horizon dim lights had come into view, the lights of San Francisco and the California coast still hours away. The men took note and shuffled more restlessly, uneasy with Jim Rose's ethereal descriptions, anxious to finally hear the story they knew he'd been holding back.

"Occasionally we run across things impossible to forget. Faces jump back into our mind at unsuspected moments, scenes will reappear with haunting detail, provoked usually by a similar occurence, or the utterance of a particular phrase. So our emotions tend to make historians of us all: I had been working for one of the big oil companies -- perhaps the biggest one -- in any case a large enough corporation that bureaucracy had infiltrated its every pore. It was a merchant ship called tagged with the moniker: Starcruiser. It was an ironic title, I realize, in light of my preface, but there’s no reason to alter the truth just to make it swallow easier. It was geological expedetionary ship, one that takes samples and gathers data in an attempt to locate oil. We were just north of Madagascar, off the eastern coast of Tanzania, a little ways south of Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam; and, comically, Mafia Island. It's a quiet stretch of sea lanes carrying mostly freighters loaded up with rice and coffee or an occasional Russian sub. I know some of you have been on such ships. Polo, if he's here (undoubtedly tilled.under by the wine) and Simpson. Also Billy Sikes, on the Starcruiser some years later if my memories serve me. Billy?" Billy smiled and nodded. He'd heard portions of this tale and he was watching Jim Rose from atop a crate of pineapples, sitting far too close to the edge, a sudden bolt of interest running up his spine.

"Well, there's all sorts of wierd equipment on those things. You know they can use sonar echoes, run 'em through a fancy adding machine and make a pretty good guess as to whether or not there's oil down there. An engineer explained it all to me one day, but I've long forgotten the little I understood. As for me, my job was to provide logistical support for the geological sample teams. The teams were outfitted to collect all sorts of samples and echo-location readings all along the shoreline and the first few meters of fauna.

I was to get them there, keep track of the provisions, and get them back to the ship. Easy enough job, I thought at the time. Aye, if only the future did repeat the past! We'd all be rich, eh? No matter. We ferried from the ship on a fourteen foot pontoon carrying around thirty-five horses, plenty enough, in spite of our load, to get us to shore in minutes. We pulled up and unloaded on a grainy, brown beach. Believe me, men: it looked like we were the first people to set foot there. There wasn't the slightest hint of progress in any direction you looked. I stood for a few moments, taking it all in, overwhelmed by the virginal nature of the area, until my geologists threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't help them remove the rest of the gear. Most of the goods, like I said, were odd instruments beyond my reckoning, but I did distinguish a very powerful ship-to-shore radio and some rather tasty-looking C-rations. Apparently the oil companies at least eat better than the navy. I made quick work of a rather comfortable shelter, then aided the college boys as they made vulgar jokes, collected wierd shells and pebbles and in general dug up the beach. Since there wasn't much else to do on that first day there, I started a fire on our front porch, stretched out to enjoy the African breeze, and set out to empty a bottle of English gin.

“We had dinner as the sun set into the trees behind us and the moon, with Venus and Mars to either side, rose out of the Indian Ocean. The geologists had not impressed me as being particularly likeable chaps through the earlier part of the day. They were constantly talking in technical jargon, an effort, it seemed to me at the time, to convince me of their natural superiority. As the evening drew on, however, and the gin lubricated our thoughts, they turned out to be not so bad of chaps. One fellow was from Ohio. Had actually taken a history class from an uncle of mine at the state college there. Small world, he said. That it is, I said, and poured him a drink. Well, as you might imagine, with three white boys camping out along the shores of Africa, before long our conversations turned toward the mysterious. I obliged them with a few well-intentioned accounts that probably kept them up most of the night. We all have our mean streaks. I slept quite well, thank you. In the morning…..Wait! A shooting star!" Sure enough, off the port bow, we turned to see the tail end of a fiery meteorite, falling towards California. "And another! Wow! Two at once," Jim Rose exclaimed. "This means I'll fall in love tonight." I spoke up here, playing the clown, by habit, "Let's hope you wait till we dock." The sailors laughed and Jim Rose smiled and winked my way. Suddenly, the voice of the captain was heard, from the-second deck. "Good evening gentlemen," his voice rang out,

"What's the fascination with the foredeck tonight?" The men looked up, impatient. Then someone yelled back: "It's Jim Rose sir, telling us of Tanzania." The captain watched over us for a moment, taking in the breeze, then he gave a nod of his head and a salute and retreated from view. Pepper Martin said, "It's past the captain's bed time, Jim, go on."

Jim Rose waited till the deck had quieted. "Given pause once more by the mystical powers," he began again, "firelight and sea-captains. I was about to tell of our second day there. The geologists had several tasks to complete, none of which, it occured to me, should require a degree in science, but they did finish the work in quick order, leaving us the large part of the day for amusement. I didn't tell them about the second bottle I'd brought along (whisky, I believe it was) and so they came up with this strange notion to explore further inland, up a creekbed we had come upon earlier. They had seen some unusual formations, pre-cambrian strata -- if that means anything to you (all Greek to me) -- and their curiousity had them hot to explore. Perhaps at this point I should have produced the whiskey. I didn't. I gave in to their pleading, helpless kids, and sharpened my machete. As we prepared for the excursion they prodded me for more stories, but I had none, or none worth telling at the time. Perhaps another mistake. Such is the philosopher's dilemma, the notion of unbound chance. The air was humid and plenty warm that day, making our movement, as we left the breezes of the beach, a tiring process. By the time we had traveled a half mile we were, the three of us, soaked to the bone in sweat. We gulped at our canteens and felt our way on. The geologists, muttering more doubletalk, monitored the mud along the creek, expecting, I guessed, to pull up a million dollar bone at the next turn, perhaps find the fossilized skull of the missing link, or perhaps the buried treasure of some ship wrecked pirate. They made their technical assessments when no bones were produced, then anxiously pushed me further upstream. At one point, just as one chap was sorting through micah waist-deep in the clear water, I seriously considered describing to him the friendly habits of the African anaconda or the black mamba. I kept silent, one eye on the trees above us, one on the forest floor. After some ways the creek turned southwest and you could just make out a mountain range in the far distance, some hills out before it. It was shortly after the creek changed direction that we ran up on the skulls. It didn't require much geological expertise to unearth them. They lay piled up like goose-eggs at the bottom of a deep, clear pool, a small waterfall splashing above them. Minnows swam in schools through the eye sockets, shinning when the rays of sunlight shot through the trees. Peaceful in a way, yet horrifying. We looked down on the pool, like looking into our own futures, speaking only hollow curses under our breaths. I turned. There was something in the air, the smell of smoke, an odor in my nostrils that I know I’ll never forget. I got their attention: 'Let's go,' I said, 'it's late. Save the discoveries for later.', an appeal to whatever reason was left in their heads. They didn't smell the smoke.

“What can I say. It was already too late. A spear whistled from across the bank and pierced the man just to my right. He screamed and fell. The other geologist took off down the path we'd taken coming up. I stepped behind the biggest tree I could find and, for some reason, perhaps lack of good schooling, began thinking. Footsteps could be heard on all sides. The geologist would not make it far, I knew. And then, with the horrid smells pouring into my brain, their native death-grunts closing in from all sides, I came to a conclusion and holstered my machete. I could see their dark, muscular frames coming through the foliage as I dove headlong into the creek. It was a sizeable drop and the momentum from my fall carried me scrambling into the skulls. Temporarily, I lost my bearings, then I felt my way to the current and swam downstream with all the strength left in me."

Jim Rose took a deep breath. "By the way, where's the wine?" "Long gone," someone said. Jim Rose turned to Kenny McCollough, easily the shortest man on the ship, and whispered in his ear. Kenny disappeared. Jim Rose looked out towards our destination, running his hands through his hair, rubbing his scratchy face. "I see the lights of an old friend calling, my friends. Shan’t be long now. Hope they've been properly warned." We looked out, the lights of the bay coming out distinct and colorful, reflecting across the ocean in long, watery lines.

"You in love yet?", Billy Sikes yelled down.

"Aye," Jim Rose came back, "with the universe my friends. And with the premonitions of shooting stars."

He turned as if to look each man square in the eye, then he held his long, slender finger up before him, as if to gauge the mood of the breeze. The crowd slowly quieted. "Fellows,” he resumed,  “the creek was not a deep one, probably about three feet or so, in the deep spots, and that made swimming an awkward prospect. I had faith, however, if I could make it the first fifty meters or so I stood a chance of outlasting them. On foot I knew I'd be no match. The manner in which the natives were moving through the jungle convinced me I'd have been murdered in moments. So I found myself flailing for my life in a cool, Tanzanian creek. I shortened my stroke, caught air on every third reach and tried to stay to the middle of the stream. With all the rush of the water I could still hear screams and grunts, but it was hard to make out if they were behind me or closer in, waiting for a clear shot to spear me like a dry salmon. I came to the turn in the creek and I hit a sand bar. As I scrambled over the soft sand I took a quick look up. The native's spear was cocked behind his head, and drawing back. By reflex I rolled towards him and saw the javelin stick right beside me in the wet sand. He hollered just as I found the stream again and splashed on. The gin I'd consumed on the night previous was now burning in my gut and my lungs were on fire. It was obvious my body was not prepared for this type of exercise. I tried not to think about it. I remembered the time I fought through a rip-tide off New Zealand, a half-mile out to sea, struggling through ten-foot waves (a storm was moving in) seemingly getting nowhere, measuring out my strokes, avoiding the panic-response which so often ends in exhaustion and submission to the will of the gods: specific gravity, you know, versus the bouyancy of momentum, atoms pushed apart by an extra electron, muscle fibers drawn tight by the absence of glycogen. That struggle reappeared in my mind, as did the race across the San Meso Bay, from the El Paso to the Durham, a couple of AAV's. If you check the record men, you'll find my name, Second Petty Officer Rose, at the top of those finishing. A small boast, granted, but mine, nonetheless. Well, I felt for the deeper currents and kept swimming, knowing well enough that my pursuers would track me patiently, like lions, or – perhaps more appropriately – like panthers; knowing that there was still a chance I could lose them; knowing that it might be, indeed, I had gained the advantage (the rabbit running for his life, the fox for dinner) knowing that even as my arms and legs began to cramp up and each breath became shorter and shorter I could fight though the wall of pain and push my strokes even faster, leave my pursuers farther and farther behind. Eventually the sounds of the natives lessened and I saw the clearing of the beach ahead of me. As the stream shallowed-up I pulled myself out, stumbling, and threw my legs over the sand toward the boat.

“The beach looked as quiet as our first night. It was getting towards dusk, the shadows of the trees leaning out across the dark sand. It was not until I had closed in on the pontoon that the swiftest of the tribe came flying at me from out of the forest. He was practically naked, with long, spongy hair and he held in his hand a knife of some sort. He must've realized where I was heading for he cut off my path and began stalking me. I eyed him like I would eye an alley-dog growling to intimidate me, masking my fear, then, slowly, too tired to continue the posturing, I pulled out my machete with the full intent of striking him dead. He stepped back, gesturing with the knife, grunting. He might as well have whistled Dixie; I was gonna get to the boat. Give him credit, though, he played his bluff to the nearest step. When my machete was angled for a last, fatal blow, he high-tailed it for reinforcements. The Envinrude was spinning as soon as I hit the surf, and a good thing, for moments later the rest of the tribe came screaming onto the beach. The feel of water rushing under my feet never felt so comforting. I relaxed and sped out a mile or so, then turned north and followed the coast for several miles more. Night had begun to fall, even under the circumstances a beautiful sky above me, and I turned back inland and pulled up to rest. I laid down under some trees, covered myself in the boat and passed out.

"The next morning we had been scheduled to rendezvous with the ship, so just before daybreak I shoved off and made my way back. I can tell you that there was a considerable commotion upon my return. Within minutes the captain had me whisked away to my cabin, where I was fed and given some time to rest up. Later that day I was roused from my sleep for a little meeting with the Captain, the First Mate, and a  couple guys who sat in without introductions. I’d never spoken directly with the Captain, and only briefly with the first Mate, but it didn’t take long to size them up. They were a nasty strain, bitter and mean as sharks.  I'd rather trust my luck against a gang of naval officers, such was their general disposition. They de-briefed me quickly, with no wasted language, making note of the details of my story without the slightest drawing back at the terrifying descriptions, as detached as men watching radar screens, and this: not one of them smoked, or even drank coffee. When it was over they thanked me, made sure I understood the sensitive nature of the event and invited me to dinner. Feigning fatigue, I declined and made for my cabin, at once disturbed and relieved. It would all come clear later, an obvious connection, the gravitational pull of interstellar satellites, the momentum of blind force. Oh well. Mr. McCollough!", Jim Rose called out.

"Aye sir," Kenny McCollough snapped back, from just behind me. He pulled a bottle of champagne from a mop-bucket full of ice and stepped forward. Our faces lit up at the sight. Kenny popped the cork and poured Jim Rose a glass. "One for yourself, McCollough," Jim Rose said. Producing a second glass from, it seemed, thin air, McCollough poured one for himself and handed the bottle on. "A toast," Jim Rose said, "to Orion." An afterthought. I looked down. There were more bottles on ice. It was good champagne. Jim Rose went on: "Like I said, the icy world of private enterprise had left these fellows with a much colder frame of reference than I'd anticipated. We talked again; it would be impossible to go back for the geologists now, they said. We would take port at Majunga, in Madagascar, and return three weeks hence. ‘Shouldn't we notify the State Department, the government of Tanzania, the U.S. Navy, perhaps even the home office’,  I asked. They looked at me like I was a lunatic. In time, they said. Procedures. Policies. I was talking about two unsuspecting young men murdered with spears. They were talking about operating procedures. So it was.

"We headed south, sailing through Ampajony's Pass, a narrow stretch between the Euryalus and Mariners Bank's, then made our way into the Bay of Bombetoka. Majunga, as you might not know off hand, is – or was – a small city squatting cautiously at the northwest corner of Madagascar.  Merchants knew it only for its provident harbor, where you could find sugar and coffee (a despicable combination) or perhaps cloves and bananas, a combination I can’t speak to, and a few African peanuts.  It was a city where the cops were on the take, the taxis needed repairs and if you wanted some good whiskey it helped to know someone. Close to the harbor were a few taverns and one decent French restaurant.

"They put us up at a small hotel near the docks, the Pianza-Eleatro, and arranged a very nice room for me overlooking the street from the fourth floor. I found African beer and a bottle of English gin in the frig. Someone was looking out for me, but why complain. I'd worked hard. I caught a quick meal at the hotel then pulled a chair to the balcony and sat back to relax amongst the chaos of civilization. As I sipped on my martini I sorted through the events which had just transpired and ruminated over what was yet to come. Ruminate, that means to think hard on something, a word I picked up from the captain of a British trawler. He used another word too much as well: eschew. Do I digress? Blame a vineyard near the Cote de Rhone, if you like. Hell, blame the Greeks! Now, where was I? Oh yes, ruminating.  A painful activity, but important to the tale. You see, there many things which didn't fit in like they should've. freighter. I did my best with the jigsaw, then took a nice long nap, developed a few schemes, the roars and whispers of Majunga echoing softly through my windows. I found time over the next few weeks to take care of some personal business. I mailed some cables that had been long delayed, did some shopping for a few insignificant trinkets and picked up a few items of greater importance as well. During the later hours I took careful note of the bars and eaterys my fellow shipmates frequented, introduced myself to a few chaps who would be helpful to me later and had an occasional nip myself.

"When I felt the climate was right, whispers from Apollo's messengers, I made my move. It was Friday night, the air balmy and full of seagulls. I found a table near the front of the Kiljono Restaurant and Lounge and began a plate of spaghetti. Around ten-thirty my mark came strolling in, ship's communications officer Elroy DeSera. He spied me immediately -- he'd have had trouble missing me, decked out in solid white, with a blue scarf -- and he came my way. "Mr. Rose," he said. I stood, shook his hand. He introduced himself. I pretended to mishear him, acting nervous. Though I'd been finished eating for sometime, I'd kept the plate in front of me, playing with a few noodles. When DeSera offered to buy me a drink, I pushed the plate aside and looked for the waiter. You see how easily I tricked him -- one too many spy novel, I guess. He insisted I join him for a drink. ‘Well, maybe just one’, I said, hesitant, mildly irritated. He pulled the waiter aside and paid for my meal, then ushered me to a back booth.

            "I've long known that communication's officers have unusual visions of the world, a logical development of character, you would figure, given the function they perform. Information to them is like a precious metal, waiting to be panned and peddled. Whether my impressions were indeed accurate, DeSera did nothing but confirm my prejeudices. I held my adventure out in front of him like a boiled shrimp, nudging him for details on the true nature of our expedition, watching him tank up on scotch. He was sly.

He looked at me innocently, palms upturned, insisting there was nothing to tell. In return I gave him bits and pieces of my own story, stretching the truth, timid, more curious about his news. I asked him why we didn't get the government involved. I told him another lie: that I'd heard things like this had happen before, reckless casualties from gross mismanagement. He laughed. It was much larger. Think in terms of politics, he confessed. I looked away, slurred my speech. 'You mean the U.S. government?' 'Ever hear of territorial waters?', he asked, 'exploratory rights?'  I looked confused, ordered another drink, the scenario coming into focus. Why, we had been in Tanzania's coastal waters without permission, in violation of international law. It was the type of crime which could result in imprisonment under the U.S. legal system and who knows what if expedited to Tanzania. DeSera sucked his teeth, smiling mischievously, a weasel in the catbird's seat. I shook my head as if the whole matter was infinitely complex and asked for the check. Of course he would have none of it. Hard to figure sometimes, the way people like to run their mouths. Best I can tell, though, its a universal phenomenon; 'cept for me that is. Oh well. No matter. Give me a drink lad." Jim Rose took the bottle of champagne, had a swig.

"Thank you sir,” Jim Rose nodded, lips and eyes drawn narrow, as if deep in mystery. He went on: “Well, let's see. The whole affair by now was getting pretty hot, rumors flying, the crew at times hitting me up for information, at times avoiding me altogether. What could I do? I laid low and enjoyed the leave. By the second week in June it was clear that the Starcruiser’s future had been mapped out. The word was that we were headed home, back to America, back to the sweet, cricket-filled back yards of our memories. But there were detours on our route. We were loaded up for a trip back home via the lost and deadly coastlines of Tanzania. Everyone was suspicious. Mutinty was in the air. I was full of whirlwinds and uneasy. On our way back out, coming up just southwest of the Comoros chain, a pleasant wind blowing from the southeast, I was rudely awakened from a nap by one of the security officers. He was there to escort me to the bridge. Even the Navy was not so abrupt. Well. . .call them even. In any case, when I entered the conference room I saw operation's manager Roscoe Smith seated at one end of the table, with two gentlemen I had never seen before, seated to his right. Smith smiled, shook my hand and introduced me to the two mysterious fellows. One was a very large man, balding, with red hair and a red face. His nose was large, bulbous, and red as though he come be some relative of WC. Fields, his nephew, say. His name was Zeti. The other fellow they introduced as Mikail. He was slighter of build with dark curly hair. Did they have last names? I never found out. I shook their hands and introduced myself, suspecting that even their first names could be fictitious, but I didn't press them on it. Smith wasted time getting to the point, as was his habit. Zeti and Mikail were specialists in this type of work. They’d provide me with protection as I guided them back to the place where the geologists met their ill-fortune. We were to find out whatever we could concerning their whereabouts and their captors and, if possible, bring them or their remains back to the ship. When Roscoe was through, I looked across the table, scanning the expression on everyone's faces (they were thinking -- about what, I didn't know). Then I laughed. 'You must be kidding?' I said. 'What could possibly make you think I'd go back there?' Smith had come prepared. 'They'll be a handsome bonus in it for you, Rose,' he said. I objected, carrying on the acute level of danger and my weak stomach. no. We were to find on about He offered a considerable incentive, tried to bluff me. 'We can go without you,' he said. I knew better. There were easily ten small streams along that coast. They might search for a month. 'Then go!', I said, again acting nervous, gun shy. Smith came back, 'Remember, you're an employee of this company.' A threat of termination. Here he had gone too far. I added another ten grand to my proposal just for spite. He'd have to give me the cash now, that night, and upon completion of the mission I'd return half of it; insurance if you will. I won't tell you the numbers, men, but suffice it to say you could buy yourself a nice German car and have cash left over for a week in Marakesh. Smith was a businessman, caught up in a return on investment mentality, using statistics as a shelter from Pluto's wrath, plus: I think in an obscure way he had taken a liking to me. You figure it. I was in it for the money, and the tale. So it goes.

"We were to leave the next day. That night I saw my bonus was distributed to men I could trust (not all hairy creatures are weasels -- important to note) then packed my wares and said my Hail Mary's before bed. Shortly after sunrise, all sorts of doubts running through the back of my mind, I tossed my provisions (along with my fate) into the dingy with the two mercenaries. They were suspicious of me --  >I could tell -- so to ease their worries I pretended to lose my bearings half-way in, shaking my compass and cursing. They looked around, nothing but blue sky and seawater, and grimaced. In time we came ashore just south of the creek. Zeti and Mikail pulled the boat into the bush and cleverly camouflaged it. I must admit, whatever my feelings about them personally, they knew what they were doing. In minutes the boat was completely hidden from view. They surveyed the beach, cocked their rifles and waited to follow my lead. I took note of their weapons. Zeti had a huge rifle with a powerful sight. Mikail carried what appeared to be an M-16, some sort of automatic weapon. In addition, they had a good deal of other paraphanalia attached about their persons. Each of us had been issued a pair of fancy binoculars from the company and I carried mine around my neck, a luger at my side and my machete sharp enough to shave a mule's behind. I hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"As we made our way up the tree-line north toward the fateful stream I scanned up ahead of us through my lenses. From my vantage point the whole area looked deserted. Nevertheless, we moved cautiously, watching for any movements. We reached the stream, then felt our way into the forest, keeping a distance from the creek but a marker on its location. As you might have suspected, my companions were not big conversationalists. From time to time I made an attempt to engage their faculties in philosophic contemplation. Mikail, the Russian-looking chap (turns out he was Russian, from Moscow as a matter of fact) had certain unusual perspectives. He had been in the Russian army, a counter-insurgency agent, but at some point in his military career he had allowed practical considerations to overrule. He had a wife and four children and apparently there's alot of money floating around for this type of work. I gathered he had established a reputation of sorts. Zeti wouldn't comment on the subject. His credentials, though, must have been pretty hefty, particularly in light of the resources behind this assignment. He wasn't saying though. Probably just as well. The small talk had made us careless. As we were coming through a clearing our progress was halted when a wierd-looking snake fell off a limb and landed at our feet. It flicked its tongue, smelling us, noting our body temperature, then inflated its neck to enhance its menacing appearance. I stepped back, hesistant, partly from fear, partly because I was curious to see the reactions of my comrades. Mikail called out its name, as if the creature might answer. 'Boomslang,' he spoke. Zeti had pulled a forty-five and had it pointed at the snake's head. I looked at him in disbelief. 'Hold on!', I cautioned him. 'You can hear that thing for miles.' A clumsy mistake. I'd have to keep an eye on that one. Before they made any more blunders I moved my left hand slowly off to the side, getting from the snake the hissing reaction I wanted, then I pulled my machete through from the right, neatly removing its head. The body coiled over itself grotesquely as the blood drained onto the damp floor. I stepped over it and kept going, hoping it was not an omen, a nervous eye on the trees above us.

"Before long we came to the turn in the creek's course. I informed them we would soon reach the area. of our previous attack and I suggested we should swing wide to avoid it. They stopped, the same thoughtful faces I'd seen earlier on the ship, unwilling to take the advice of a mere sailor. Instead, Mikail found a tree with a few sturdy limbs and rather quickly made his way to the top. He surveyed the area, climbed back down and gave us the news. It turned out the village was directly west. We'd have to ford the stream to reach it. He was convinced the area by the waterfall was open, not a native in sight. Somehow I got the feeling here that Roscoe Smith was involved in some of their deliberation, for they were adamant about returning to the site of our prior calamity. Irritated, I followed Mikail's lead as he crouched through the bush, stopping every few meters to check the perimeter. To be honest, this revisiting gave me a bad feeling in my bones, not only because it was a logistical mistake, but because of the spooky memories I had of the place. I'm sure you can imagine. When we finally reached it Zeti and Mikail stepped up to the bank's edge and shook their heads, swallowing hard, visibly shocked. Drawn by the strange forces of alien curiousity and against my better sense I stepped up from behind them and looked on. The sight made me turn away, vomit rising in my throat. Gentlemen, all life is mere illusion, the interpretations of smoke rings. The heads of the two geologists looked up at us with,wide open stares, small fish nibbling on their gray, decayed flesh." Jim Rose looked down, over the front of the boat, running his palm back and forth on the railing. "You can see," he said, "why this tale is not easily forgotten. What's that I smell?" Just behind us Chef Foteola had set out some smoked herring. He carried a plate to Jim Rose, slapping away a sailor's hand "Va Napoli to gazzi," he snarled.

"Compliments of the captain," the chef said. Jim Rose pulled a fish from the plate and dropped it in his mouth. "Delicious," he said, "Tell the captain he's a man of rare intuition and his timing is impeccable."

"I will Mr. Rose and good luck to you." Jim Rose nodded and smiled at the chef -- they were old friends -- then sucked down another herring. Their smoky richness awoke those of us who had begun to edge toward drowsiness and we scrambled to get our share. The chef had a knack for getting the herrings just right, with a touch of garlic. I must echo Jim Roses's sentiments on that eve because they were delicious. It took but leafy vines and thorn-bushes, and we chose it as our base for reconnaissance. It was on our way up the ridge, the sun now setting like a balloon far across the African savannah, that I heard the music. At first I heard the sound in short bursts, a couple of notes at a time, leaving me unsure as to whether it was some native instrument or the call of birds, or that perhaps I was losing what little sense I had left. I cleaned my ears and continued climbing, the sound coming clearer and clearer. As we moved closer to the top of the ridge it began slowly to even out, the feel of violins, a timpani, the sounds of deep drums. I took a long drink of water, washed my face, looking above me and seeing all kinds of shapes in the pink clouds, feeling the wind run off my shoulders like a cold hand. Lifting my ears I felt sure it was something classical, incredible as it seems, a soaring music, echoing lightly through the valley, odd rhythms pacing the melody. I crawled frantically over the vines toward the top of the ridge, the mercenaries whispering at me, thinking I'd gone mad, but the sound continued to entrance me. When I reached the peak I adjusted my lenses and peered over the hilltop, still a good ways from the village.

"Let me describe the scene for you. The village dwellings, huts made from vines and leaves and straw, sat at various points around the perimeter of a central clearing, a courtyard of sorts. There were torches lit around the edges of the clearing, billowing up black smoke which collected in a cloud overhead and drifted into the darkening sky. Natives sat nobly beneath the torches, beating out rhythms on all kinds of logs and primitive stretch-skin drums. Several people blew on pipes and flutes all of them trying to match tone and measure with the music playing over the radio we'd left behind three weeks ago. It sat rigidly atop a pile of stones in the center of the village. The song was Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, another memory I won't soon forget. As I watched on in disbelief Zeti and Mikail pulled their way up to the hilltop and joined me in the vigil. We saw several of the natives dressed in elaborate headresses and masks. They appeared to be witchdoctors or chieftains or whatever one calls those types. They were carrying poles with unusual attachments and they danced about the yard, again trying to match tempo with the music. Just as the sun disappeared from view several of the witch doctors disappeared into one of the dwellings. When they reappeared they were carrying a prostrate figure on some sort of stretcher. They transported the figure to the middle of the yard and laid the body down on some stones. From our vantage point it appeared the body was lifeless, an older person, judging by the bright white color of the hair. After placing the body down the witch-doctors began dancing and hopping around it, howling strange native phrases. There was a pile of long, yellow leaves stacked nearby and they began placing these over the laid out body, deliberate in their attempt to match the rise and fall of Beethoven's theme. The combination of the flickering yellow lights, the strange outfits of the natives and the roaring music left us looking on speechlessly, like people subdued by potions, watching a dream . . . a surreal dream.

"The dance of the natives continued for sometime, until they had completely covered the figure in leaves and howled a few more well-chosen epithets to the heavens. Then sud denly the music stopped. We listened with interest as a French-speaking voice came on the radio. The witch doctors drew back and knelt as if in royal humility, or prayer. I could just make out a few words the man spoke. He was talking about the piece they had just played, the villagers giving him their utmost attention. When he stopped a comercial came on. It was a jingle I'd heard before. I searched my memory; then it struck me, just as I heard the product name: Coca-Cola (even in French it rang a bell). The jingle concluded and the natives shifted around nervously. The narrator came back on again, briefly, wishing everyone a goodnight and signing off. I turned to Mikail and shook my head. He looked down without expression. Soon the drums started up once more, unaccompanied now by Beethoven (a much rougher sound, yet more complex) and more dancing and howling ensued. It was something to see, I tell ya. None of us could believe the whole thing. After they continued with the festivities a little while longer, the drums gradually quieted down and the natives began to peel away to their individual huts. We looked at each other, caught between total bafflement and laughter, and shrugged our shoulders. We drew lots for guard duty and two at a time rolled over on the vine-covered hillside and caught some winks. So far so good I thought at the time and I'm sure many of you tonight are thinking the same thing. It's the corruption of youth by the tree of knowledge, you say. Technology tainting our innocence. Not exactly, but the point is only half made, let's trek on, looking clumsily for stardust.

"I awoke the next morning to a brilliant sunrise and the sounds of the jungle rhythms, reverberating, it seemed, with more excitement. I joined Zeti and Mikail who were already at the top of the ridge looking down on the village. There was plenty of activity, including more dancing by the costumed characters, expanding their chants and leading tribal hymns. After this went on for a while two of the fellows carried out a large log to the center of the courtyard and placed it under the body. Another fellow, by far the largest one in the group, not only in height, but in girth as well, carried out a large woven basket. The scene began to have an uneasy feel to it. The drums picked up in intensity, booming clearly through the valley, drum rolls piling in on each other, until just at the apex of the sound the chieftains brought a stone down on the victim's neck and the head dropped into the basket. It was not a pretty sight, but I took some solace in the fact that the poor soul was probably feeling no pain. My companions looked puzzled, unsure what to make of it. I told them my guess: that it must be a funeral rite. It hardly satisfied them. Moments later the basket was covered and carried away by the same giant chieftain. Another of the natives poured a pail of syrupy liquid on the remains of the deceased, then a torch was set to the leaves. The whole thing blazed with thick black smoke, surging into the African breeze.

As it drifted our way I recognized the scent. I trembled. In time the body burnt up, inanimate now, and we watched it all, each of us beyond the point of philosophic reflection. When the cremation was complete the chieftains rounded up the men and led them toward a path which we presumed ended at the waterfall.

"Well, as far as I was concerned, we had seen enough. Their pool of skulls was nothing but a crypt, serving for the natives some important mystical or religious purpose--- a gesture to the god of rain, or fertility. Who knows? Only this: Me and the geologists had stumbled on their gravesite uninvited, perhaps endangering the well-being of their ancestors (or so they surely believed) and though one might objectively dissaprove of their stern reactions, they no doubt abided by the only rules they knew: impassionate guidelines which we, stupidly, violated. It is unfortunate. I suppose all ships, in time, given the current odds, will sink.

"Well, the mercenaries insisted we follow them whereever they were headed. I disagreed, but being neither a revolutionary, nor anxious to find my way back unaided, trailed with them, deep in the forest and in my own thoughts. We found a small rising some distance from the pool, just to the south side of the stream, and Zeti and Mikail climbed onto a tree limb and looked on vulgarly. I could imagine well enough what was happening; the same thing that had been going on there for decades, maybe centuries. Let them be, I would have cautioned, having more grit, but I turned away with my binoculars and watched a hawk float lazily overhead. THEN: like a thunderbolt, I heard the report of Zeti's rifle. I was stunned. I turned to him, fearful, suddenly, of the whole forest. I was incapable then, as I am now, of finding words to describe my anger . . . . my hate. I reached for his arm, as if by my own brute force I could stop the charge of any wild beast. He threw me off like a kid, then fired again. I cursed him, using a phrase which I knew would get his attention, a ploy to gain time, not for me, but for the natives, undoubtedly flying about wildly now, their entire universe violently turned upside down. Zeti dropped from the tree and Mikail dropped down between us, holding back Zeti's charge, counseling us both. Somehow he cut through the fury and the three of us fled for the boat. There would be no one chasing us. Our war was over. Pitifully, we pushed off and I guided us across the ocean toward the Starcruiser.

"A light rain followed us out, stinging our faces, an appropriate climate, I suppose, given our surrender to the baser elements and Neptune's prevailing mood. The ship buoyed ahead of us, as gray and cynical as my faith in the future at that hour, but the cynicism would pass. We returned in tact -- in large measure -- and so ends my tale, not with a bang or a whimper. Well, a couple more items, perhaps. As we boarded the ship Zeti followed me up the ladder, threatening me again with retaliation, throwing another rock into the formula. I turned at the top of the rail, wondering who had tied this knot, using a double half-hitch, then I caught Zeti square in the nose with the heel of my boot. He fell like a bag of peat. He'd live, and I was sure the boss would see my side. No matter. I knew his secrets."

Jim Rose looked back, as if taking in the bridge and the ship for a nostalgic souvenir, and we waited, our ship now gliding past Alcatraz, well into the bay, the city lights sparkling in the foggy air -- waiting as well. We watched the tugboat come patiently up beside us, heard the rumbling of the heavy engine, a sign that we had returned safely once more, that the shore was indeed upon us. We left Jim Rose to his ruminations, shaking his hand -- some of us -- nodding a polite word or two, inviting him for a drink. He smiled, his mind far away.

We secured the freighter and gathered our gear, then pushed down the gangway, heading haphazardly toward the first bar we could find. As we shuffled our way off the docks, the smells and sounds of the city streets striking us anew, a rumor came to my ears: Jim Rose was to get married tommorrow. Impossible! "To a dancer!", someone said. But not one of the strippers. No, it was a real dancer, a dancer from the San Francisco Ballet. Hah! Who could believe such a thing? We laughed, lit cigars, and ordered another round.