if.thunderball-第34部分
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ut I adored him。 I still do。 Girls always love crooks； particularly if they're their brother。 He did so well that he might have done something for me。 But he never did。 He said that life was every man for himself。 He said that his grandfather had been so famous as a poacher and a smuggler in the Dolomites that his was the finest tombstone among all the Petacchi graves in the graveyard at Bolzano。 My brother said he was going to have a finer one still； and by making money the same way。〃 Bond held his cigarette steady。 He took a long draw at it and let the smoke out with a quiet hiss。 〃Is your family name Petacchi； then？〃
〃Oh； yes。 Vitali is only a stage name。 It sounded better so I changed it。 Nobody knows the other。 I've almost forgotten it myself。 I've called myself Vitali since I came back to Italy。 I wanted to change everything。〃
〃What happened to your brother？ What was his first name？〃 〃Giuseppe。 He went wrong in various ways。 But he was a wonderful flyer。 Last time I heard of him he'd been given some high…up job in Paris。 Perhaps that'll make him settle down。 I pray every night that it will。 He's all I've got。 I love him in spite of everything。 You understand that？〃
Bond stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray。 He called for the bill。 He said； 〃Yes； I understand that。〃
16。 Swimming the Gantlet
The dark water below the police wharf sucked and kissed at the rusty iron stanchions。 In the latticed shadows cast through the ironwork by the three…quarter moon； Constable Santos heaved the single aqualung cylinder up onto Bond's back and Bond secured the webbing at his waist so that it would not snarl the strap of Leiter's second Geiger counter； the underwater model。 He fitted the rubber mouthpiece between his teeth and adjusted the valve release until the air supply was just right。 He turned off the supply and took out the mouthpiece。 The music of the steel band in the Junkanoo night club tripped gaily out over the water。 It sounded like a giant spider dancing on a tenor xylophone。
Santos was a huge colored man； naked except for his swimming trunks； with pectoral muscles the size of dinner plates。 Bond said； 〃What should I expect to see at this time of night？ Any big fish about？〃
Santos grinned。 〃Usual harbor stuff； sah。 Some barracuda perhaps。 Mebbe a shark。 But they's lazy an' overfed with the refuse an muck from de drains。 Dey won't trouble you…less you bleedin' that is。 They'll be night…crawlin' things on the bottom…lobster； crab； mebbe a small pus…feller or two。 The bottom's mostly seagrass on bits o' iron from wrecks an plenty of bottle and suchlike。 Mucky； if you get me； sah。 But the water's clear and you'll be hokay with this moon and the lights from the Disco to guide you。 Tek you bout twelve； fifteen minute； I'da say。 Funny ting。 I been lookin' for an hour and dere's no watchman on deck an no one in the wheelhouse。 An the bit o' breeze should hide you bubbles。 Coulda give you an oxygen rebreather； but ah doan like dem tings。 Them dangerous。〃
〃All right； let's go then。 See you in about half an hour。〃 Bond felt for the knife at his waist； shifted the webbing； and put the mouthpiece between his teeth。 He turned on the air and； his fins slapping on the muddy sand； walked down and into the water。 There he bent down； spat into his mask to prevent it steaming up； washed it out； and adjusted it。 Then he walked slowly on； getting used to the breathing。 By the end of the wharf he was up to his ears。 He quietly submerged and launched himself forward into an easy leg crawl； his hands along his flanks。
The mud shelved steeply and Bond kept on going down； until； at about forty feet； he was only a few inches above the bottom。 He glanced at the big luminous figures on the dial of his watch…12：10。 He untensed himself and put his legs into an easy； relaxed rhythm。
Through the roof of small waves the pale moonlight flickered on the gray bottom； and the refuse…motor tires； cans； bottles…cast black shadows。 A small octopus； feeling his shock wave； turned from dark brown to pale gray and squeezed itself softly back into the mouth of the oil…drum that was its home。 Sea flowers； the gelatinous polyps that grow out of the sand at night； whisked down their holes as Bond's black shadow touched them。 Other tiny night things puffed thin jets of silt out of their small volcanoes in the mud as they felt the tremor of Bond's passage； and an occasional hermit crab snapped itself back into its borrowed shell。 It was like traveling across a moon landscape； on and under which many mysterious creatures lived minute lives。 Bond watched it all； carefully； as if he had been an underwater naturalist。 He knew that was the way to keep nerves steady under the sea…to focus the whole attention on the people who lived there and not try to probe the sinister gray walls of mist for imaginary monsters。
The rhythm of his steady progress soon became automatic； and while Bond； keeping the moon at his right shoulder； held to his course； his mind reached back to Domino。 So she was the sister of the man who probably highjacked the plane！ Probably even Largo； if Largo was in fact involved in the plot； didn't know this。 So what did the relationship amount to？ Coincidence。 It could he nothing else。 Her whole manner was so entirely innocent。 And yet it was one more thin straw to add to the meager pile that seemed in some indeterminate way to be adding up to Largo's involvement。 And Largo's reaction at the word 〃spectre。〃 That could he put down to Italian superstition…or it could not。 Bond had a deadly feeling that all these tiny scraps amounted to the tip of an iceberg…a few feet of ice pinnacle； with； below； a thousand tons of the stuff。 Should he report？ Or shouldn't he？ Bond's mind boiled with indecision。 How to put it？ How to grade the intelligence so that it would reflect his doubts？ How much to say and how much to leave out？
The extrasensory antennae of the human body； the senses left over from the jungle life of millions of years ago； sharpen unconsciously when man knows that he is on the edge of danger。 Bond's mind was concentrating on something far away from his present risks； but beneath his conscious thoughts his senses were questing for enemies。 Now suddenly the alarm was sounded by a hidden nerve…Danger！ Danger！ Danger！
Bond's body tensed。 His hand went to his knife and his head swiveled sharply to the right…not to the left or behind him。 His senses told him to look to the right。
A big barracuda； if it is twenty pounds or over； is the most fearsome fish in the sea。 Clean and straight and malevolent； it is all hostile weapon； from the long snarling mouth in the cruel jaw that can open like a rattlesnake's to an angle of ninety degrees； along the blue and silver steel of the body to the lazy power of the tail fin that helps to make this fish one of the five fastest sprinters in the sea。 This one； moving parallel with Bond； ten yards away just inside the wall of gray mist that was the edge of visibility； was showing its danger signals。 The broad lateral stripes showed vividly…the angry hunting sign…the gold and black tiger's eye was on him； watchful； incurious； and the long mouth was open half an inch so that the moonlight glittered on the sharpest row of teeth in the ocean…teeth that don't bite at the flesh； teeth that tear out a chunk and swallow and then hit and scythe again。
Bond's stomach crawled with the ants of fear and his skin tightened at his groin。 Cautiously he glanced at his watch。 About three more minutes to go before he was due to e up with the Disco 。
He made a sudden turn and attacked fast toward the great fish； flashing his knife in fast offensive lunges。 The giant barracuda gave a couple of lazy wags of its tail and when Bond turned back on his course it also turned and resumed its indolent； sneering cruise； weighing him up； choosing which bit…the shoulder； the buttock； the foot…to take first。
Bond tried to recall what he knew about big predator fish； what he had experienced with them before。 The first rule was not to panic； to be unafraid。 Fear municates itself to fish as it does to dogs and horses。 Establish a quiet pattern of behavior and stick to it。 Don't show confusion or act chaotically。 In the sea； untidiness； ragged behavior； mean that the possible victim is out of control； vulnerable。 So keep to a rhythm。 A thrashing fish is everyone's prey。 A crab or a shell thrown upside down by a wave is offering its underside to a hundred enemies。 A fish on its side is a dead fish。 Bond trudged rhythmically on； exuding immunity。
Now the pale moonscape changed。 A meadow of soft seagrass showed up ahead。 In the deep； slow currents it waved languidly； like deep fur。 The hypnotic motion made Bond feel slightly seasick。 Dotted sparsely in the grass were the big black footballs of dead sponges growing out of the sand like giant puffballs…Nassau's only export until a fungus had got at them and had killed the sponge crop as surely as myxomatosis has killed rabbits。 Bond's black shadow flickered across the breathering lawn like a clumsy bat。 To the right of his shadow； the thin black lance cast by the barracuda moved with quiet precision。
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