Perhaps I should explain that there seemed to be six or more bedrooms upstairs, but that downstairs, apart from the kitchen and the bathroom I had used in the morning, there was just one single very large room.
I made my way to the latter room, and was very surprised to find six people there. There was the American of the morning; two girls and a man of curiously mixed coloring, dark skin, light hair; a third girl, a good-looking, genuine blonde; and a third man, apparently of about thirty.
There were no introductions. The third man said, “So this is your fellow from the sea, eh, Homer?” Then he turned to me with tones of command. “You may go into the kitchen and cook whatever you fancy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I left for the kitchen feeling well pleased in spite of this abrupt and contemptuous dismissal. The genuine blonde followed me.
“I’d better show you where the things are to be found,” she said.
It was a little embarrassing to display a hearty appetite when my companions were supposed to be entombed in a watery grave. Worse, the blonde began to ask questions about how I came to separate from the two of them and about the final landing on the island. I took the line of answering in monosyllables and blew my nose vigorously. Eventually the girl left, so that at last I was able to settle down to a really good meal.
There were indications that the storm was blowing itself out, which was all to the good. Mike and Slugeamus would surely be away toward home, even if they had been obliged to stand to during the day. I washed up the dishes in good heart, for I had received a slice of the most tremendous good fortune. Even by the light of early morning the American had looked familiar. He was of course Homer Hertzbrun, the Nobel Prize-winning nuclear physicist. More important still, the third man, the man who had ordered me peremptorily to the kitchen, was none other than Arthur Mitchell F.R.S., the chemist from Cambridge. This was the man that I had been told to watch for particularly, one of the very first scientists to join I.C.E. and a possible key to the whole business.
This being the case, I had no intention of remaining immersed in the domestic quarters. Whatever it might require in the way of cheek or brass, I was determined to get back there into the lounge. Turf burns quickly and is soon used up, especially on a stormy night. A new load is always welcome to any company. So I looked around until I found the supply dump and a large basket. Then with a full load of the stuff I opened the lounge door and walked in with the best confidence I could muster.
Two other men had evidently joined the gang. Probably they had been outside, walking the island, when I had first appeared. I closed the door quietly on the inside and began unloading the turf. Soon I was quite forgotten, however, for a tremendous argument seemed to be going on. I sat unmoving by the side of the fire, listening.
At first I could make out little of what was going on. The argument was clearly very one-sided, however. There seemed to be five against one, with two sitting out. The genuine blonde and one of the new men were the sitters-out. The solitary fighter was one of the half-blonde girls.
The five were very sure of themselves. The solitary girl was equally sure. Whatever abstruse physical (or mathematical?) question was under discussion, she gave all the indications of knowing exactly what she was talking about. She had an odd appearance; a jolly-looking face, but a face that decidedly wasn’t jolly. This jolly-girl-that-wasn’t began to get very exasperated, as one might do in talking to a crowd of exceedingly dull, obstinate people. The five, with the confidence of the majority, kept firing all manner of objections at her.
The scene was fast becoming very acrimonious when the mental fog in which I had been immersed suddenly cleared away. I saw where the trouble lay. Perhaps I had better explain.
In two dimensions a circle divides the plane into two parts, the “inside” of the circle and the “outside,” both parts being simply connected. All this is obvious enough. The same result is true for any closed curve in two dimensions that can be put into a continuous one-to-one correspondence with a circle. So far so good.
Now the majority of five were generalizing this theorem to higher dimensions in the course of their argument, and I knew this to be already wrong in three dimensions. Without pausing to heed the consequences, in the bright clarity of the moment, I said so.
The half-blonde girl nodded a curt approval. “It’s nice to find somebody with a little elementary common sense,” said she.
“What do you know about it?” snapped Mitchell.
“In science and mathematics it doesn’t matter who speaks, only what is said,” I answered.
“I did not expect a fisherman as an ally,” said the girl.
Then I saw the enormity of what I had done. But I was a mathematician first and an agent a long way second, and this I had no wish to alter.
Even as they moved to attack, I saw that my one hope of deception lay in keeping within a hair’s breadth of the truth.
“Let’s get this right. You did say you were a fisherman, didn’t you?” asked Hertzbrun.
“Of course I did.”
“And is it common these days for young fishermen to be well informed on the finer points of topology?”
“Look here, sir, you wouldn’t expect me to blab out on your doorstep the whole story of my life. I had to make some sort of selection, and the relevant selection was that I happened to be a shipwrecked fisherman. Remember that I expected to find a shepherd or a fisherman here and not a scientist; it seemed pointless to explain that I was a student temporarily employed as a fisherman over the summer.”
“And where would you be a student from?”
“Cambridge.”
“See here Mr.—?”
“Sherwood, Thomas Sherwood.”
There was a slight silence. Then Mitchell went on, “See here, Mr. Sherwood, as a fisherman there are two very queer things about you: one that you’re shipwrecked in forbidden territory, and the other that you seem to be a singularly well-informed mathematical student from Cambridge. What I want to be clear about is the connection between these peculiarities. I imagine you’re not going to pretend that there is no such connection?”
“Of course not. There’s the perfectly obvious connection that any self-respecting undergraduate would do his damnedest to get into a place like this. As soon as you forbid him to do something hell do it for sure, just for devilment.”
“That explains the psychology but not how it was done,” said the half-blond man, with the same slightly peculiar accent as the mathematically minded girl. It had rather the sound of someone who speaks Gaelic as a first language.
“Did you get permission to visit the west coast?” asked Hertzbrun.
“Naturally not. I got permission to visit Dublin and various points to the east. But I worked my way over to the west, not taking the various rules and regulations very seriously I’m afraid. When I found that fishermen outside the area were in the habit of poaching down this coast, just as I said this morning, I decided to join the ranks. There’s quite a shortage of men you know, so I’d no difficulty in landing a job. My idea was to get as near as possible to what you’re pleased to call ‘forbidden territory.’ Sooner or later I felt there’d be a chance to get in.”
“And are we asked to believe that you just happened to be wrecked by chance and your companions drowned?”
“Of course not. I soon saw that the right way to get in would be with a small motorboat. I persuaded the skipper of my trawler to let me make a shot with an old boat that I managed to put together. Unfortunately we were seriously out of position, due to the gale, when I started—far too much to sea down the bay. I expected to land near Dingle instead of here. And indeed I feel very badly about this miscalculation, since it has led me into abusing your hospitality, I’m afraid.”
“You can repay us by giving details of this trawler that carried you so close into our coast.”
“You must know that I can’t do that. For consistency with what I said this morning, let me only say that there were three of us and that we were out from Kilkee.”
I felt this to be well managed. They wouldn’t believe my last glib statement, and that was Mike’s best insurance. Kilkee would be the last place where they would look for the errant trawler. The inquisition ended with a sarcastic laugh from the “jolly-girl-that-wasn’t.” The other half-blond girl turned to her also with a laugh.
“Fanny, this looks like quite a chance, doesn’t it?” But what the chance was I couldn’t guess.
As often happens after a summer storm, the next day was bright and clear. When I came down to breakfast, the genuine blonde was alone in the kitchen.
“They’re having a business meeting today,” she said. “I’m not in on it, so I thought we might go off in the boat, if you haven’t finished with boats for good and all?”
It was a nuisance to hear that I couldn’t spend the day with the whole party, for I knew in my bones that I was now within a stone’s throw of the solution to the whole problem. Still, if they were having a meeting I could hardly barge in, and there would always be the evening anyway.
“And where have you a mind to go?” I asked.
“There’s some quite nice scrambling on one of the islands. I see by your boots that you’re a mountaineer. How about going over for an hour or two? The rock is surprisingly good.”
We packed lunch and set off. The boat was a far more powerful affair than the one I had wrecked. It forged easily through the still heavy sea, driving from wave to wave, the sun sparkling all around us.
“This is where one of the galleons of the Armada came through,” shouted the girl as we made the passage between Blasket and the mainland. The Tearaght appeared to the west, and the cliffs of Inishtooskert lay ahead.
I was now feeling as well as it was possible to feel. After the weeks of walking, and after the lifting and hauling of nets, I was exceedingly fit. The world around me was ablaze with color and light, and I had an exceedingly pretty girl to spend the day with.
We found an anchorage on the south side of Inishtooskert.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll just check the mooring ropes again.”
The girl led the way, almost at water level, until the cliffs steepened above our heads. Then she unslung a nylon rope.
“Let’s start with this. It’s quite easy really.”
We tied on and the girl took the lead, climbing very easily up the first pitch of thirty feet or so. I had made three trips with the Cambridge Mountaineering Club, and, although I am no expert climber, it was without misgiving that I followed behind. The climb was no more than “moderate,” and in any case I had the moral support of the rope.
At first I had made no attempt to “lead,” because evidently the girl knew the climb. But soon I realized she was a couple of grades better than I was. As we moved up the cliff I had the exhilarating experience of following an expert on a climb that was within my capacity. It was possible to imitate her light, delicate, almost dancing movement. Under these conditions one invariably climbs best, indeed often beyond one’s real ability.
We made three separate ascents of the whole cliff, all by different routes; one a strange pinnacle on the west side of the island, surmounted by an eagle’s nest. Then at the island’s summit we sat down to lunch. This was a day of color. The mainland was aflame—the bog, the stubble fields, the avenues of rowan trees, the line of Eagle Mountain. The sea was deep blue, except where it shone and sparkled like a vast jewel.
After lunch, the girl said, “Just one more climb, and then I think we ought to start back. They should have finished their meeting by the time we return. What d’you say?”
I said that I thought one more climb was a fine idea. In truth I was feeling in excellent shape.
The new route lay farther to the east, near the “fin” of the island. After a tolerable first twenty feet, it became difficult. But behind such a leader I had no worries. We struck the first “severe” pitch about a third of the way up. This was beyond my real capacity and by rights I should have protested and returned. But what young man would make such a protest to a very beautiful girl who climbed with such effortless grace? I would be all right with the rope as safeguard! She took the pitch like a Greek goddess heading for Olympus.
The next pitch, a long one without any adequate stance, was no better. It started from a good foothold, going at about sixty degrees up a long smooth slab. The holds were very small, no more than little knobs in the rock. Even the start was exceedingly awkward, a step up from the foothold onto a slight excrescence situated almost at shoulder height; Had this come at the beginning I would have pocketed my pride and said no very firmly. But now it would almost be as bad to return as to continue. I got up somehow. A pitch no more than “very difficult” followed. I used far too much brute strength on it.
By now we were some two hundred feet up, not too far from the top, thank goodness. But there was still trouble left, a shockingly steep climb over a projecting nose, with holds that were just adequate. I was panting pretty hard as I came up over this nose onto a wide stance. The girl was taking in the rope, a smile on her face.
“Jolly good,” she said. “That’s the last bad bit. I know it’s pretty awkward the first time. There’s just the boulder now.”
We were in a not-too-steep gully, jammed by a huge boulder. At first sight there seemed no way over this last obstacle. It was true that the boulder projected out of the gully on one side and that tolerable holds could be seen far out on that side, but they could not be reached.
“How on earth does this thing go?”
“Impossible for one, easy for two. A perfect argument against solitary climbing,” was the answer.
“You give me a shoulder, so that I can reach the top and haul myself up. Then I secure the rope from above so that you can swing out onto those good holds over there.”