Fletcher grunted. "It seems to me there's something wrong with your theory. What about this wiggly one?"
"Ione? I was talking about her only yesterday. It's true she wriggled like a snake, but if you smooth her course you'll see that she fits the theoretical pattern. But we still don't know exactly what makes a hurricane change course sharply like that. I have an theory that it might be because it's influenced in some way by a high-altitude jet stream, but that's hard to tie in because a hurricane is very shallow---it doesn't extend more than 1000 feet up. That's why contact with land destroys it---it will batter itself to death against a ridge, but it does a lot of damage in the process."
Davon looked at the lines across the chart. "They're like big animals, aren't they? You'd swear that Ione wanted to destroy Cape Hatteras, then turned away because she didn't like the land."
"I wish they were intelligent," said Riley. "Then we might have a bit of luck in predicting what they're going to do next."
Fletcher had his notebook out. "Next thing---what causes hurricanes?"
Riley leaned back in his chair. "You need a warm sea and still air, and you will find those conditions in the doldrums in the late summertime. The warm air rises, heavy and humid, full of water vapor. Its place is taken by air rushing in from the sides, and, due to the Earth's rotation, this moving air is given a twist so that the whole system begins to revolve."
He sketched it on a scrap pad. "The warm air that is rising meets cooler air and releases its water vapor in the form of rain. Now, it has taken a lot of energy for the air to have lifted that water vapor to start with, and this energy is now released as heat. This increases the rate of ascent of the air---the whole thing becomes a kind of vicious circle. More water is released and thus more heat, and the whole thing goes faster and faster and becomes much bitter. As much as 1 million tons of air might be rising each second!"
He drew arrows on the scrap pad, spiraling inwards. Because the wind system is revolving, centrifugal force tends to throw the air outwards, and so the pressure in the middle becomes very low, thus forming the eye of the hurricane. But the pressure on the outside is very high and something's got to give somewhere. So the wind moves faster and faster in an attempt to fill that low pressure area, but the faster it moves the more the centrifugal force throws it outwards. And so we have these very fast circular winds and a full-fledged hurricane is 'born.'"
He drew another arrow, this one moving in a straight line. "Once established, the hurricane begins to move forward, like a spinning top that moves along the ground. This brings it in contact with more warm air and sea and the process becomes self-sustaining. A hurricane is a vast heat engine, the biggest and most powerful dynamic system on earth." He nodded to the chart on the wall. "Magda, there, has more power in her than a thousand hydrogen bombs."
"You sound as if you've fallen in love with hurricanes," said Davon softly.
"Bullshit!" Riley said sharply. "I hate them. All West Indians hate them!"
"Have you had a hurricane here---in Esperance?" asked Fletcher.
"Not in my lifetime," said Riley. "The last one to hit Esperance was in 1911. It flattened Trois Fourches and killed 7,000 people."
"One hurricane in nearly 61 years," mused Fletcher. "Tell me---I ask out of personal interest---what is the likelihood of your friend Magda coming his way."
Riley smiled. "It could happen, but it's highly unlikely."
"Um," said Fletcher. He looked at the wall chart. "Still, I'd say that Martinet is a much more destructive force than any of your bloody hurricanes. At the last count he's caused the death of more than 20,000 people on this island. A hurricane might be pleasanter if it could get rid of him."
"Possibly," said Riley. "But that's out of my element. I'm strictly non-political." He started to talk again about his work until he saw their interest was fading and they were becoming bored with his technicalities, and then he suggested they adjourn for lunch.
They lunched in the Officer's Mess, where Rogers, who was to join them, was late and apologetic. "Sorry folks, but I've been busy." He sat down and said to Riley, "Someone's got a case of the jitters---all unserviceable aircraft to be made ready for flight on the double. They fixed up my Connie pretty damn quick; I did the ground tests this morning and I'll be taking her up this afternoon to test that new engine." He groaned in false pain. "And I was looking forward to a week's rest."
Fletcher was interested. "Is it anything serious?"
Rogers shrugged. "No, I don't think so---Roddy's not the nervous type."
"Roddy?"
"Commodore Rodriguez, the Base Commander."
Riley turned to Davon and said in a low voice, "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"
"Nothing much---why?"
"I'm tired of office work," he said. "How about us going over to St. Simon? You used to like that little beach we found, and it's a good day for swimming."
"That sounds like a good idea," she agreed. "I'd like that."
"We'll leave after lunch."
"How's Magda?" asked Rogers across the table.
"Nothing to report," said Riley. "She's behaving herself. She just missed Grenada as predicted. She's speeded up a bit, though; Turner wasn't too happy about that."
"Not with the prediction he made," Rogers nodded. "Still, he'll have covered himself---you can always count on him to do that."
Fletcher dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "Changing the subject---have any of you ever heard of a man called Sorel?"
"Laron Sorel?" said Rogers blankly. "Sure---he's dead."
"Is he now?"
"Martinet's men caught up with him in the hills last year. There was a running battle---Sorel wasn't going to be taken alive---and he was killed. It was in the local papers at the time." He quirked an eyebrow at Fletcher. "What's your interest?"
"The rumor is going about that Sorel is still alive," said Fletcher. "I heard it this morning."
Rogers looked at Riley, and Riley said, "That explains Martinet's nightmare last night." Fletcher lifted his eyebrows, and Riley said, "There was a lot of troop movement in town last night."
"So I saw," said Fletcher. "Who was Sorel?"
"Come off it," said Riley. "You're a newspaperman---you know as well as I do!"
Fletcher grinned. "I like to get other people's views," he said without one trace of apology. "The objective view, you know; as a scientist you should appreciate that."
Davon said in bewilderment, "Who was this Sorel?"
Fletcher said, "A thorn in the side of Martinet. Martinet, being the head of government, calls him a bandit; Sorel preferred to call himself a patriot. I think the balance is probably on Sorel's side. He was hiding in the hills doing quite a bit of damage to Martinet before he was reported killed. Since then there has been nothing---until now."
"I don't believe he's alive," said Rogers. "We'd have heard about it before now."
"He might have been smart enough to capitalize on the report of his death---to lie low and accumulate strength unworried by Martinet."
"Or he might have been ill," said Riley.
"True," said Fletcher. "That might be it." He turned to Rogers. "What do you think?"
"All I know is what I read in the newspapers," said Rogers. "And my French isn't too good---not the kind of French these folks write." He leaned forward. "Look, Mr. Fletcher; we're under military discipline here at Rivière de la Paix, and the orders are not to interfere in local affairs---not even to appear interested. If we don't keep our noses clean we're in trouble. If we survive Martinet's strong-arm boys, then Commodore Rodriguez takes our hides off. There have been a few cases, you know, mostly among the enlisted men, and they've got shipped back to the States with a big black demerit to spend a year, maybe more, in the stockade. I was going to tell you this last night when that guy Bowman busted in."
"I'm sorry," Fletcher said. "I apologize. I didn't realize the difficulties you people must have here."
"That's all right," said Rogers. "You weren't to know. But I might as well tell you that one thing that is specifically discouraged is talking too freely to visiting newsmen."
"Nobody likes us," said Fletcher plaintively.
"Sure," said Rogers. "Everybody's got something to hide---but our reasons are different. We're trying to avoid stirring up any trouble. You know as well as I do---where you find a newsman you find trouble."
"I rather think it's the other way around," said Fletcher gently---"Where you find trouble you find a newsman---the trouble, that comes first." He changed the subject abruptly. "Speaking of Bowman, I find that he's been staying at the Nationale. When Miss Ellison and I left this morning he was nursing a hangover and breakfasting lightly off one raw egg and the juice of a whisky bottle."
Riley said, "You're not really on holiday, are you, Fletcher."
Fletcher sighed. "My boss thinks I am. Coming here was a bit of private enterprise on my part. I heard rumors and rumors of rumors. For instance, arms traffic to this part of the world has been running high lately. The stuff hasn't been going to Cuba or South America as far as I can find out, but it's being absorbed somewhere. I put it to my boss, but he didn't agree with my reasoning, or, as he put it, my non-reasoning. However, I have great faith in myself so I took a busman's holiday and here I am."
"Have you find what you're looking for?"
"You know, I really fear that I have."
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