The Digging Leviathan (18 page)

“He promised to take him to the center of the Earth, apparently,” said Edward, nodding at Jim, who told the story of the overheard conversation.

“Take
him to the center of the Earth!” shouted Latzarel. “Giles Peach needs Pinion like he needs a third foot. It sounds to me as if he could ride there on a shoebox.”

“Giles, if I’m not mistaken, believes in his own inventions,” said Edward, lighting his pipe. “He understands that Pinion has the resources to finance an elaborate machine. He has faith in the substance of the machine, in his understanding of science. If he knew he was making it all up, there’s no telling what he would do.”

Latzarel blinked in surprise. “How much of it do you suppose he
is
making up?”

Edward shrugged.

“How do you know he’s making up any of it?” asked Jim.

Edward shrugged again. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t understand the first thing about it. But I still say that William is in as much trouble as he always insisted he was in. And I agree about getting Giles back. We’ve got to do it for the sake of the boy. Pinion and Frosticos are as crooked as corkscrews, and they’ve lured him away from his poor mother. We owe Giles a debt and we owe William another.”

“And Squires is two days away,” said Jim practically, thinking of the debt he owed his father.

In the end there was nothing to do but wait. Hiking the length of the island to radio Squires wouldn’t hasten his arrival by enough to make it worth the effort. So they spent the next day waiting for the time to pass, pretending to search for mermen, while understanding that a raftload of mermen would
be insufficient to propel them a quarter mile closer to the center of the Earth. Nor would a grant from the museum or from the oceanographic institute. They could go nowhere in their diving bell. Certain knowledge of the existence of the interior world wasn’t worth a fig. The future lay in Giles Peach. Ashbless had known as much.

A week later a letter arrived from William, who had been hard at work on scientific pursuits. Accompanying several pages of ornate, theoretical discussion that Edward could make little sense of were a dozen line drawings of mechanical apparatus, all of which had something to do with gravity; which, William insisted, was “all wrong.” How gravity could be all wrong Edward couldn’t fathom, but there was some indication that William’s concern was with gravity at the Earth’s hollow core. Gravity, insisted William, was a matter of waves, spiral waves that closely resembled the whorl of seeds in a sunflower. They had an eddying effect on a body, a whirlpool attraction not unlike the little twister that sucks water down a drain.

Maintaining his faith in the sensibilities of “animalia,” as he put it, he had run up drawings for the construction of a device he referred to as a “squid sensor,” involving the construction of aluminum cylinders for the purpose of maintaining sea beasts—squids and octopods in general—at temperatures low enough to diminish their sensitivity to physical stimuli—including, William insisted, gravity. Edward could make nothing of it. It was unclear in the end whether the squids were the sensing mechanism or whether they themselves were the objects of the sensing. And what was Edward to do with it? Build such a device? The plans were monumental. Great technical skill would be required. And smack in the center of a complex of ovals and rectangles and wavy lines—meant, apparently, either as wires or as gravity waves or, it was just barely conceivable, as both—were printed in mirror writing the words:

“Find the Sewer Dwellers of Los Angeles—Captain H. Frank Pince Nez.” There was no further discussion of it.

Edward was puzzled. Final instructions suggested that, in a pinch, Edward must send the plans on to Cal Tech, to a certain Professor Fairfax whose knowledge of the magic of gravity was unsurpassed, and who would have access, through his association with the oceanarium, to the ungodly number of squid it would take to develop the apparatus.

Edward made a photocopy and mailed the packet that same afternoon. Then he summoned Professor Latzarel, who had no knowledge whatsoever of sewer dwellers. “Do you suppose,” asked Latzarel, “that he’s making a reference to those stupendous crocodiles and blind pigs that supposedly inhabit the sewers?”

“I guess it’s possible,” said Edward doubtfully. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Perhaps he’s convinced that they have something to do with his device. His squid sensor. They might, you know. His instructions don’t absolutely exclude them.”

“No,” said Edward, “but they don’t include them either. The one’s not the same as the other. And why, if he meant blind pigs, wouldn’t he refer to them absolutely? No, I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Perhaps this Fairfax would know. We could call him. William seems to have great faith in him.”

“I called him straightaway, actually. He’s out of town. In Berlin at a conference on gravity. He’s apparently the authority William claims he is.”

“Out of town,” mused Latzarel. “Just as well, I suppose. The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to believe that we’re looking at this thing all wrong. Listen to this. What if the squid sensing device were just flummery—a complete phony, or something William mugged up out of a scientific journal. Maybe he referred to your man Fairfax to lend it an air of authenticity, to satisfy whoever it is who steams open this week’s mail. Hold the thing up to the mirror, and what do you have? Ten pages of nonsense and one line of sense. I think William has teen cagey here—has lost the message among pages of drivel, knowing you well enough to assume you’d wade through and find it.”

Edward sat lost in thought. Latzarel’s theory made vast sense—twenty times as much sense as did all the squid
business. “Sewer dwellers,” he said, puffing at his pipe. “Are there any?’

“Sounds vaguely Indian,” Latzarel said, lost in his own thoughts.

“Indian?”

“This fellow Pince Nez. From the Owen’s Valley I take it.”

“You’re thinking of the Nez Perce,” said Edward. “Different crowd entirely.”

Latzarel nodded. Then he squinted and jumped to his feet. “ It’s a book! This Pince Nez is an author. Must be a pen name. That’s got to be it. William wants us to find a book. Call the library! Talk to Robb at the reference desk. The man’s an oracle. Brilliant. There’s not a question he can’t answer. He’ll have heard of it.” Latzarel sprang for the telephone himself and dialed away in a state. The book, whatever in the world it was about, must be monumental. It had taken William ten pages of squid sensing to disguise it.

Edward watched anxiously as Latzarel questioned Mr. Robb, the reference librarian, nodding and uttering exclamatory monosyllables. It was indeed a book, written by a sea captain from Boston who claimed to have frequented the sewers beneath Los Angeles and had been the first to navigate and chart what he referred to as the subterranean seas. Like Wilhelm Reich and the orgone box, Pince Nez had been hushed up. They were intent on keeping certain secrets, said Robb.

“Who was?” asked Latzarel, widening his eyes at Edward and shaking his head slowly.

The phone abruptly went dead. Latzarel tapped the button and got a dial tone. “We were cut off. Ominous. Very ominous.” He told Edward of their conversation.

“When was this book published?” asked Edward.

“A small private printing in 1947, according to Robb. What do you suppose happened to him?”

“Pince Nez? I don’t know. …”

“Robb, I mean. You don’t suppose …”

Edward looked grim. He shrugged. “1947, you say? Why don’t we have a look at a telephone directory?” He went into the kitchen and hauled one out, flipping it open to the P’s. “Here it is. By golly! H. F. Pince Nez in Long Beach. 815 Fourth Street. That’s Forth and Ximeno,” said Edward. “Right near Egg Heaven. Let’s go.”

But even before he said it, Latzarel was pulling on his coat. The two piled into the Hudson and roared off toward the Santa Ana Freeway, happy to be “chasing down a lead,” as Edward put it, both of them having accepted the notion that William, somehow, had become their general, and that he was directing operations from the confines of the hospital.

Captain H. Frank Pince Nez, it turned out, was “ninety and two year old,” as he put it a half hour later over a glass of whisky in a cramped apartment that was a wonderland of nautical apparatus. “I’m
stone
deaf,” said Pince Nez, with a peculiar emphasis on the word “stone.” He held a monumental but utterly worthless speaking trumpet to his ear. He was tall and gaunt, barely stooped with age, and was wrinkled like an apple-faced doll. His white hair was closely cropped, giving him a no-nonsense air—the air of a man used to giving commands and seeing them carried out.

“Captain Pince Nez … “ began Latzarel, who intended to broach the subject of sewer travel straightaway.

“What?” shouted the Captain.

“I say, Captain Pince Nez!” cried Latzarel.

“That’s right,” said Pince Nez, eyeing Latzarel strangely. He rose, left the room, and came back in hauling an ancient electric fan on wheels. “Can you fix it?” he shouted.

Latzarel was taken aback. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked in a normal voice. He might as well have remained silent.

“What … is … wrong … with … the … fen!” hollered Edward, pausing between each word and mouthing the syllables widely, hoping facial contortions would aid communication.

“Sings,” said Pince Nez instantly.

Edward looked at Latzarel. “Sings?”

“Sings
! Damn … it!” cried Pince Nez. “All … all … bloody hell! When is it?’

“He can’t think of the word,” whispered Latzarel to Edward. “He’s lost some of his nouns. When do you suppose it sings?”

“At night!” Edward shouted.

Pince Nez lit up. He poured Edward an impossible tumbler of whisky. “Sings all the damn night! They do it to me,” he said. “Always have. Rays is what it is, out of the back of it.”

“Throw it out!” shouted Latzarel unsuccessfully.

“Spout?” asked Pince Nez, half convinced that Latzarel was an idiot. He turned to Edward. “Can you fix it?”

“I believe so,” said Edward, hustling out the door and downstairs to the car. He returned in a moment with a screwdriver and a little chromium-plated pachenko ball with Chinese ideographs on it that he kept in his pocket for good luck. He pulled the back off the fan, rummaged around inside for a moment, and pretended to find the pachenko ball. He held it up in front of Captain Pince Nez, who fell back in horror, clapping his hands over his ears. Edward pulled out his handkerchief and rolled the ball up in it, knotting the end, then shoved it into his pocket. He screwed the back of the fan on and dusted his hands.

It was then that he noticed Latzarel twisting up his face at him from the corner of the room. On a little table beneath a litter of pipes and ashes and spent matches was a battered, dark blue volume. The words on the cloth cover had been worn so dim that from where Edward stood it seemed to be blank. He knew from Latzarel’s expression, however, which book it was. Pince Nez plugged the fan in and cocked an ear toward it. He seemed satisfied. He looked up suddenly at Latzarel, startled by the look on his face.

Latzarel grinned. “May I?” he shouted, waving at the table.

Pince Nez assumed that he was motioning at the pipes. His look suggested that he had doubts about the desire to smoke another man’s pipe.

Latzarel couldn’t help himself. He brushed the debris off and plucked up the book, nodding and smiling at the captain. He whistled. “We’ve got to have this,” he murmured.

Edward couldn’t make it out. “Speak up,” he said, “the old man’s deaf as a post.”

“What!” cried Pince Nez, spinning around. “Coast to coast! I can’t swear to it, but damn near!”

“Of course,” said Edward, grinning and nodding.

Latzarel staggered over and collapsed into a chair. “Offer him money,” he said to Edward. “As much as he wants.”

Edward was unconvinced, but he pulled his wallet out anyway. He extracted a twenty and waved it at Pince Nez. The old man shook his head and warded Edward off with the palm of his hand. Then he plucked the bill from between Edward’s fingers and shoved it into his pocket with a dissatisfied look, a look which implied that Edward’s twenty was nothing.

“I can’t have you here hounding me!” he shouted, picking up his ear trumpet.

“Certainly!” cried Latzarel, standing up.

Captain Pince Nez menaced him with the trumpet, giving him a sidewise look.

“Another twenty!” Latzarel hissed, sitting back down. “This is no time to be thrifty.”

Edward waved a second twenty. Pince Nez, momentarily placated, snatched it out of his hand. The telephone rang. The captain ignored it until Edward, unable to stand its ringing, pointed at and raised his eyebrows.

‘It’ll cost you another twenty,” said Pince Nez.

“Give it to him,” said Latzarel, not looking up from his book.

Edward handed over another twenty, his last. The phone abruptly stopped ringing. Captain Pince Nez reached into his pocket and came up with the other two bills. Hugely surprised, he chewed the corner of one as if checking to see if it was authentic. “Damnation,” he said, impressed. “Who are you boys with?”

“With?” asked Edward weakly.

“Are you for him of against him?” Pince Nez looked up sharply.

“Against him,” shouted Edward, wisely assuming that after ninety-two years Captain Pince Nez must be against almost everyone.

“The bastard,” said the captain, shaking his head tiredly. “But I’ve got this money.” He waved the three twenties. “Payola. He’s afraid of me. I know too much.” He grinned slyly, then looked across at Latzarel, who was turning the pages of his book, profound amazement crossing his brow in waves.

“Who is he?” shouted Edward, as casually and nonchalantly as the circumstances would allow.

“What do you know about him?” Pince Nez shouted back, squinting hard at Edward and draining his tumbler. He pinged his finger against a brass cylinder that sat in the corner of the room, an unidentifiable maritime remnant.

Edward shook his head darkly, trying to phrase a question with which to respond to the captain’s question. He couldn’t think of one, so he said, “Who?” hoping it wouldn’t sound suspicious to the old man.