I reached the Port before lunch and dropped the packet off with the receptionist at Eudora Grain, then swung around to the main entrance, where Grafalk and Bledsoe had their offices. The guard at the gate gave me some static about going in without a pass but I finally convinced him I needed to talk to someone at Pole Star and he let me have a two-hour permit.

The Pole Star Line occupied only two rooms in one of the large sand-colored buildings at the far end of the pier. Although much smaller than Grafalk’s operation, their offices included the same organized chaos of computers, charts, and telephones. All were manipulated in an electronic symphony by one harassed but friendly young woman. She unplugged herself from the phone long enough to tell me that Bledsoe was at Elevator 9 with the Lucella. She sketched rough directions for me—it was back along the Calumet River several miles—and returned to a madly ringing phone.

Phillips came out of the Grafalk building as I passed it on the way to my car. He wasn’t sure whether to recognize me or not, so I solved the problem by saying hello to him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Signing up for a water ballet class. How about you?”

He turned red again. “I assume you’re still asking questions about your cousin. More Hydra heads?”

I was surprised to find he could be whimsical. “I just want to clear all the bases—I still have to talk to the crew on the Lucella before she sails.”

“Well, I think you’ll find you’ve put a lot of energy into something not worth the effort. It’s to be hoped you find that out soon.”

“I’m moving as fast as I can. I figure water ballet can only help.” He snorted and strode over to the green Alfa. As I was climbing into the Lynx I heard him roar past, spitting a little gravel.

Elevator 9 was not one of Eudora Grain’s but belonged to the Tri-State Grain Co-op. A chain fence separated the elevator yard from the road. Train tracks ran through a gap in it and a small guardhouse with a heavy, red-faced man reading the Sun-Times stood at the entrance. The Lynx bounced along the ruts to the guardhouse, where Redface reluctantly put down his paper and asked me what I wanted.

“I need to talk to Martin Bledsoe or John Bemis.”

He waved me in. It didn’t seem like much of a security system to me. I drove on around the potholes and pulled up into a gravel yard. A couple of boxcars were slowly moving along the rail siding and I stood for a minute to watch the hoist carry them up inside the elevator and dump their loads. Amazing process, really. I could understand why my cousin had gotten so intrigued by it.