Quint said, “Anybody care to go swimming?”

“Let’s put the cage overboard,” said Hooper.

“You’re kidding,” said Brody.

“No, I’m not. It might bring him out.”

“With you in it?”

“Not at first. Let’s see what he does. What do you say, Quint?”

“Might as well,” said Quint. “Can’t hurt just to put it in the water, and you paid for it.” He put down the harpoon, and he and Hooper walked to the cage.

They tipped the cage onto its side, and Hooper opened the top hatch and crawled through it. He removed the scuba tank, regulator, face mask, and neoprene wet suit, and set them on the deck. They tipped the cage upright again and slid it across the deck to the starboard gunwale. “You got a couple of lines?” said Hooper. “I want to make it fast to the boat.” Quint went below and returned with two coils of rope. They tied one to an after cleat, one to a cleat amidships, then secured the ends to the bars on top of the cage. “Okay,” said Hooper. “Let’s put her over.” They lifted the cage, tipped it backward, and pushed it overboard. It sank until the ropes stopped it, a few feet beneath the surface. There it rested, rising and falling slowly in the swells. The three men stood at the gunwale, looking into the water.

“What makes you think this’ll bring him up?” said Brody.

“I didn’t say ‘up,’ ” said Hooper. “I said ‘out.’ I think he’ll come out and have a look at it, to see whether he wants to eat it.”

“That won’t do us any damn good,” said Quint. “I can’t stick him if he’s twelve feet under water.”

“Once he comes out,” said Hooper, “maybe he’ll come up. We’re not having any luck with anything else.”

But the fish did not come out. The cage lay quietly in the water, unmolested.

“There goes another squid,” said Quint, pointing forward. “He’s there, all right.” He leaned overboard and shouted, “God damn you, fish! Come out where I can have a shot at you.”

After fifteen minutes, Hooper said, “Oh well,” and went below. He reappeared moments later, carrying a movie camera in a waterproof housing, and what looked to Brody like a walking stick with a thong at one end.

“What are you doing?” Brody said.

“I’m going down there. Maybe that’ll bring him out.”

“You’re out of your goddam mind. What are you going to do if he does come out?”

“First, I’m going to take some pictures of him. Then I’m going to try to kill him.”

“With what, may I ask?”

“This.” Hooper held up the stick.

“Good thinking,” Quint said with a derisive cackle. “If that doesn’t work you can tickle him to death.”

“What is that?” said Brody.

“Some people call it a bang stick. Others call it a power head. Anyway, it’s basically an underwater gun.” He pulled both ends of the stick, and it came apart in two pieces. “In here,” he said, pointing to a chamber at the point where the stick had come apart, “you put a twelve-gauge shotgun shell.” He took a shotgun shell from his pocket and pushed it into the chamber, then rejoined the two ends of the stick. “Then, when you get close enough to the fish, you jab it at him and the shell goes off. If you hit him right—in the brain’s the only sure place—you kill him.”