hillsides and huge land crabs still scuttled over rocky peaks. More likely some remnants of the primitive past might remain on the outer islands, Moorea or Bora-Bora, or in the lonely Marquesas to the north. It was hard to believe these smiling, friendly people had once formed part of a warlike society that practised infanticide, ritual cannibalism and ceremonies of sex-magic. But that was a matter of public history—and there might be a private history as well. Keith remembered the Kanakas who mated with the fish-creatures in The Shadow over Innsmouth. Perhaps he should have also indicated that story to Abbott, but there was a limit to his trust. As it was, he had taken a calculated risk in showing him the other tale, and after dinner in the open-walled dining room he found himself waiting impatiently for a phonecall.
Instead, Abbott made a personal appearance. He arrived around nine, and Keith found himself confronting a changed man. Gone were the tweeds, the shirt, the old-school tie: Abbott was wearing colorful shorts and a tank-top. His bare limbs were bronzed and muscular, and the ruddy complexion seemed indicative of outdoor exposure rather than alcoholic indulgence.
But the greatest change was in his manner. Clutching the book firmly in his right hand, he led Keith out of the lobby and into the grounds beyond.
“Where’s your bungalow?” he murmured. “We’ve got to talk.”
Keith escorted him there and, once inside, offered him a drink.
“No time for that.” Abbott set the book down on the coffee table, then tapped the cover. “Good Lord, man—you’re really onto something here.”
“You mean you understand?”
“Perfectly. It’s not fiction, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. The thing speaks for itself.” Abbott flipped the book open, turning pages until he found the line he sought. “He even gives the exact location—Latitude S. 47° 9', Longtitude W. 126° 43'. And the date, way back in March of ’25. It all fits.”
“Fits with what?”
“I’ve done my share of nosing around these parts over the years. Picked up a bit of the lingo and made it a point to be friendly. Takita was a great help.”
“Takita?”
“My wife. No Church of England ceremony, but you might call her that. Poor old girl—she died last year.” For a moment Abbott fell silent, then continued. “Anyway, I got to know her people. Family still lives out in the Rapa Islands. Her grandfather—God knows how old he was, but he looked to be pushing ninety at the very least—had some very curious yarns to tell. Not just the usual native superstitions, but things he swore were true. That earthquake Lovecraft mentions; it really happened, you know. And there was a lot of talk about some sort of creature or creatures living at the bottom of the sea.”
“Could we visit him?”
“Hardly. He’s been dead for a donkey’s years.” Abbott set the book down. “No matter—after reading this I’ve a pretty good notion of what you’re after. You’d like to go out there and have a look around, right?”
Keith nodded. “That’s more or less what I had in mind. Do you think I could get cooperation from the local authorities?”
“Hardly. The territory’s outside French jurisdiction. And you know the bureaucratic breed. I take it that’s why you haven’t talked to your own chaps.”
“Exactly.” Keith frowned. “But something has to be done, and quickly, and I’ll need help.”
“Say the word.”
“I was thinking, if I could fly over the area—”
“Abbott shook his head. “There isn’t a charter plane on the island that could make the distance.”
“What about hiring a boat?”
“It would cost you a packet, what with crew and all.”
“That part’s no problem.”
“Getting clearance might be a bit sticky.” Abbott pursed his lips. “Best way to swing it would be to set Pitcairn as your port-of-call—tell the Frenchies you’re working up a book about the
Instead, Abbott made a personal appearance. He arrived around nine, and Keith found himself confronting a changed man. Gone were the tweeds, the shirt, the old-school tie: Abbott was wearing colorful shorts and a tank-top. His bare limbs were bronzed and muscular, and the ruddy complexion seemed indicative of outdoor exposure rather than alcoholic indulgence.
But the greatest change was in his manner. Clutching the book firmly in his right hand, he led Keith out of the lobby and into the grounds beyond.
“Where’s your bungalow?” he murmured. “We’ve got to talk.”
Keith escorted him there and, once inside, offered him a drink.
“No time for that.” Abbott set the book down on the coffee table, then tapped the cover. “Good Lord, man—you’re really onto something here.”
“You mean you understand?”
“Perfectly. It’s not fiction, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. The thing speaks for itself.” Abbott flipped the book open, turning pages until he found the line he sought. “He even gives the exact location—Latitude S. 47° 9', Longtitude W. 126° 43'. And the date, way back in March of ’25. It all fits.”
“Fits with what?”
“I’ve done my share of nosing around these parts over the years. Picked up a bit of the lingo and made it a point to be friendly. Takita was a great help.”
“Takita?”
“My wife. No Church of England ceremony, but you might call her that. Poor old girl—she died last year.” For a moment Abbott fell silent, then continued. “Anyway, I got to know her people. Family still lives out in the Rapa Islands. Her grandfather—God knows how old he was, but he looked to be pushing ninety at the very least—had some very curious yarns to tell. Not just the usual native superstitions, but things he swore were true. That earthquake Lovecraft mentions; it really happened, you know. And there was a lot of talk about some sort of creature or creatures living at the bottom of the sea.”
“Could we visit him?”
“Hardly. He’s been dead for a donkey’s years.” Abbott set the book down. “No matter—after reading this I’ve a pretty good notion of what you’re after. You’d like to go out there and have a look around, right?”
Keith nodded. “That’s more or less what I had in mind. Do you think I could get cooperation from the local authorities?”
“Hardly. The territory’s outside French jurisdiction. And you know the bureaucratic breed. I take it that’s why you haven’t talked to your own chaps.”
“Exactly.” Keith frowned. “But something has to be done, and quickly, and I’ll need help.”
“Say the word.”
“I was thinking, if I could fly over the area—”
“Abbott shook his head. “There isn’t a charter plane on the island that could make the distance.”
“What about hiring a boat?”
“It would cost you a packet, what with crew and all.”
“That part’s no problem.”
“Getting clearance might be a bit sticky.” Abbott pursed his lips. “Best way to swing it would be to set Pitcairn as your port-of-call—tell the Frenchies you’re working up a book about the
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