"Good shootin', Annie Oakley," Paul said.

"Good spottin', Dead-Eye Dick. That should keep them busy for a while."

The gunfire wasn't loud by itself, but in the stillness of the night it must have sounded like cannon barrages, because Dr. Throck- morton and some of the crew came on deck.

"Oh, hullo," he said, when he saw the Trouts. "We heard a noise. My goodness-" he said, spying the pistol in Camay's hand.

"Just thought I'd do some target practice."

They could hear voices out on the water. One of the crew went to the ship's rail and cocked his ear. "Sounds as if someone needs help. We'd better get a boat over the side."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Paul said, in his usual soft- spoken manner but with an unmistakable steeliness in his voice. "The folks out there are doing fine on their own."

Throckmorton hesitated, then said to the crewman: "It's all right. I want to talk to the Trouts for a moment."

After the others had shuffled back to their cabins, Throckmorton said, "Now if you wouldn't mind telling me, my friends, exactly what is going on?"

Gamay said to her husband, "I'll go get some coffee. It could be a long night." Minutes later, she returned with three steaming mugs. "I found a bottle of whiskey and poured in a few shots," she said. "I thought we might need it."

Taking turns, they laid out their suspicions of the Oceanus plot, backing them up with evidence gleaned from several sources.

"These are grave charges," Throckmorton said. "Do you have solid proof of this outrageous plan?"

"I'd say the proof is that thing in your lab cooler," Gamay said. "Do you have any more questions?"

"Yes," Throckmorton said after a moment. "Do you have any more whiskey?"

Gamay had thoughtfully stuck the pint in her pocket. After they refreshed his coffee and he had taken a sip, Throckmorton said, "Frederick's affiliations have always bothered me, but I had assumed, optimistically I suppose, that scientific reason would overrule his commercial interests in time."

"Let me ask you a question about the premise we're operating under," Gamay said. "Would it be possible to destroy the native fish populations and substitute these Frankenfish?"

"Entirely possible, and if anyone could do it, it would be Dr. Barker. This explains so much. It's still hard to believe Dr. Barker is with this bunch. But he has acted strangely." He blinked like some- one coming out of a dream. "Those gunshots I heard. Someone tried to board our ship!"

"It would seem so," Gamay said.

"Perhaps it would be better if we moved on and informed the au- thorities!"

"We don't know where that shore facility fits into the picture," Gamay said, with a combination of feminine firmness and reassur- ance. "Kurt thinks it may be important and wants us to keep an eye on it until his mission is completed."

"Isn't that dangerous to the people on board this ship?"

"Not necessarily," Paul said. "Just as long as we keep watch. I'd suggest that you have the captain get the ship ready for a quick de- parture. But I doubt our friends will come back, now that we've spoiled the element of surprise."

"All right," Throckmorton said. He set his jaw in determination. "But is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes," Paul said. He took the whiskey from Gamay and poured Throckmorton another shot to calm the professor's nerves. "You can wait."

THE SOS CREW stumbled blindly through deep woods, with the guards showing no mercy. Therri tried to get a better look at their tormentors, but a guard jammed a gun into her back with such force that it broke the skin. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks. She bit her lip, stifling the urge to cry out.

The forest was dark, except for lights glowing here and there through the trees. Then the trees thinned, and they were standing in front of a building whose large door was illuminated by an outside floodlight. They were shoved inside the building, the guards cut the wire binding their wrists, and the sliding door was slammed shut and locked behind them.

The air inside smelled of gasoline and there were oil stains on the floor, evidence that the structure had been built as an oversized garage. No vehicles were parked inside, but the garage was far from empty. More than three dozen people-men, women and a few chil- dren-huddled like frightened puppies against the far wall. Their misery was etched into their tired faces, and there was no mistaking the terror in their eyes at the sudden appearance of strangers.

The two groups stared warily at each other. After a moment, a man who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor got to his feet and came over. His face was as wrinkled as old leather and his long gray hair was tied in a ponytail. He had dark circles under his eyes and his clothes were filthy, yet he projected an aura of unmistakable dignity. When he spoke, Therri realized why the man looked so familiar.

"I'm Jesse Nighthawk," he said, extending his hand in greeting.

"NighthawJ" she said. "You must be Ben's father."

His mouth dropped open. "You know my son?"

"Yes, I work with him in the SOS office in Washington."

The old man glanced past Them's shoulder as if he were looking for someone. "Ben was here. I saw him run out of the woods. He was with another man, who was killed."

"Yes, I know. Ben is fine. I just saw him in Washington. He told us that you and the villagers were in trouble."

Ryan stepped forward and said, "We came to get you and the oth- ers out."

Jesse Nighthawk gazed at Ryan as if he were Dudley Do-Right, the cartoon Mountie who always arrived to save the day. Shaking his head, he said, "You seem to mean well, but I'm sorry you came. You have put yourself in great danger by coming here."

"We were captured as soon as we landed," Therri said. "It was as if they knew we were coming."

"They have watchers everywhere," Nighthawk said. "The evil one told me this."

"The 'evil one'?"

"You'll meet him, I'm afraid. He's like a monster in a heat dream. He killed Ben's cousin with a spear." Jesse's eyes grew moist at the recollection. "We've been working day and night clearing the forest. Even the women and children…" His voice trailed off in weariness. "Who are these people?" Ryan said.

"They call themselves Kiolya. I think they're Eskimos. I don't know for sure. They started building in the woods across the lake from our village. We didn't much like it, but we're squatters on the land, so we don't have any say in things. Then one day they came across the lake with guns and brought us here. We've been cutting trees and dragging them off ever since. You have any idea what this is all about?"

Before Ryan could answer, there was the sound of the door being unlatched. Six men came into the garage, machine rifles draped in the crooks of their arms. Their dark faces were alike, wide with high cheekbones, and hard, almond-shaped eyes. The cruelty sculpted into their impassive expressions paled next to that of the seventh man to enter. He was built like a bull, with a short thick neck, his head sitting almost directly on powerful shoulders. His yellowish-red skin was pockmarked and his mouth was set in a leer. Vertical tattoo marks flanked his nose, which was bruised and misshapen. He was unarmed, except for the knife hanging in a scabbard at his belt.