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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。
A dense mass of silvery small fry showed up ahead； suspended in midstream as if they had been bottled in aspic。 When the two parallel bodies approached； the mass divided sharply； leaving wide channels for the two enemies； and then closing behind them into the phalanx they adopted for an illusory protection。 Through the cloud of fish Bond watched the barracuda。 It moved majestically on； ignoring the food around it as a fox creeping up on the chicken run will ignore the rabbits in the warren。 Bond sealed himself in the armor of his rhythm； transmitting to the barracuda that he was a bigger； a more dangerous fish； that the barracuda must not be misled by the whiteness of the flesh。
Amongst the waving grass； the black barb of the anchor looked like another enemy。 The trailing chain rose from the bottom and disappeared into the upper mists。 Bond followed it up； forgetting the barracuda in his relief at hitting the target and in the excitement of what he might find。
Now he swam very slowly； watching the white explosion of the moon on the surface contract and define itself。 Once he looked down。 There was no sign of the barracuda。 Perhaps the anchor and chain had seemed inimical。 The long hull of the ship grew out of the upper mists and took shape； a great Zeppelin in the water。 The folded mechanism of the hydrofoil looked ungainly； as if it did not belong。 Bond clung for a moment to its starboard flange to get his bearings。 Far down to his left； the big twin screws； bright in the moonlight； hung suspended； motionless but somehow charged with thrashing speed。 Bond moved slowly along the hull toward them； staring upward for what he sought。 He drew in his breath。 Yes； it was there； the ridge of a wide hatch below the water line。 Bond groped over it； measuring。 About twelve feet square； divided down the center。 Bond paused for a moment； wondering what was inside the closed doors。 He pressed the switch of the Geiger counter and held the machine against the steel plates。 He watched the dial of the meter on his left