“Naw,” Neal said. He stopped and said: “Elephant gun, maybe?” He roared with laughter at the Trouts' puzzled expressions. They could still hear him laughing after he passed through the door.

NUMA 4 - White Death

12

WITH HIS LONG-STEMMED pipe, teeth like a broken picket fence and storm-beaten face. Old Eric looked like a grizzled character out of Captains Courageous. Pia said that the retired fisherman spoke English and knew the local waters better than the fish. Now too old to go fishing, he did odd jobs around the pier. De- spite his fierce expression, he was more than obliging when Austin mentioned Pia's name.

Austin had arrived at the fish pier early, looking for advice about local weather and sea conditions. A purple-blue pall from the throaty exhausts of the Skaalshavn fishing fleet hung in the damp air. Fish- ermen decked out in foul-weather gear and boots slogged through the drizzle as they loaded bait buckets and tubs of coiled trawl line on their boats in preparation for a day at sea. He told the old salt he was taking Professor Jorgensen's boat out to go fishing.

Old Eric squinted at the scudding gray clouds and pursed his lips in thought. “Rain should stop, and the fog will burn off soon.” He pointed to a tall pillar of rock guarding the harbor entrance. “Go to the starboard of that sea stack. You'll find good fishing after a mile. Wind comes up around midday, but the professor's boat is weatherly. I should know,” he said with a gap-toothed grin. “I built her. She'll get you home in one piece.”

“How's the fishing the other way along the coast?” The old fisherman wrinkled his nose. “Stinks around the fish farm. A wet ride, too, coming back with a following sea.”

Austin thanked Eric for his advice, stowed his day pack and fish- ing gear in the boat, checked the fuel level and ventilated the bilge. The inboard engine started right away and soon settled down to a smooth rumble. Austin cast off the lines, pushed away from the dock and pointed the bow toward the two-hundred-foot-high chimney- shaped rock formation that stood like a stone waterspout at the har- bor entrance. He went to the left rather than to the right of the lofty column, hoping Old Eric wouldn't see him.

Soon, the boat was cruising past towering cliffs where thousands of nesting seabirds soared like wind-blown confetti. The motor purred like a milk-fed kitten. There was a slight chop to the water, but the double-ender sliced rather than slapped its way through the waves. Spray occasionally splashed over the bow. Austin stayed warm and dry in the yellow foul-weather gear and boots he'd found in the boat's storage compartment.