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The air field was small and situated near a wooden bridge that connected the coastal town of
Newburyport with what area maps called Plum Island.
From the air, Plum Island resembled an elongated amoeba of sand perhaps a mile in length and
separated from land by a small expanse of tidal flat and salt marsh.
Like an oversized barber pole, a small red&white lighthouse thrust up from the north end of the
island which Monk Mayfair informed them was named for the plentiful wild plums that grew on it.
The stocky chemist had his head buried in the atlas again. Ham Brooks was the target of his
recitation this time.
It was Johnny Littlejohn who brought the beached whales to their attention.
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Doc Savage: #186- "The Frightened Fish" III - The Ichthyologist
"Doc," he said. "I believe those are blackfish."
"I see them," the Bronze Man said. "And you are correct. They are blackfish."
"Where?" Monk said, looking out to see with an eager face.
"Not in the water, you gossoon!" Ham snorted. "They're up on the beach."
Monk's twinkling eyes raked the sandy side of the island. They went wide at the sight of the
blubbery black shapes that sat in the shadow of the lighthouse like a row of sardines fallen out of a tin.
"For God's sake!" Monk exploded. "There's seven(7) of them!"
The hairy chemist turned to Doc.
""Think it has anything to do with this fish hocus-pocus?"
"It is certainly another thing to investigate," Doc told him, scanning the beach.
On the island's long eastern side, waves crashed and spent themselves against long jetties of
seaweed-fashioned granite blocks.
"No way to land among those breakers," Monk judged.
Doc nodded as he requested clearance from the field.
It was a dirt field intended for private craft. A line of gaudy 1- and 2-engine planes were staked
down along one side of the field like expensive birds of prey.
It would be a difficult landing.
The Bronze Man took the wind direction and speed from the operations manager and brought the jet
around into the wind. It was blowing 20 mph. That would help decrease airspeed.
He adjusted the airfoil curvature until airspeed had dropped below 150 mph and lowered the wheels,
noting the gear locking lights as they turned green.
The high-pressure dual tires hit and stayed in contact with the ground as the jet's flaps dug into the
wind. The end of the field came up on them swiftly. Doc eased the wheel brakes into play.
With a decreasing whine coming from both engines, the jet lurched to a stop. Doc shut down No. 1
and turned his attention to No. 2.
The turbine blades wound down to silence.
Monk was the first one out of the jet. Doc Savage climbed down last.
A roly-poly man came running out of the operations shack ("shack" described it aptly) with a lot of
questions about the Bronze Man's jet.
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Doc Savage: #186- "The Frightened Fish" III - The Ichthyologist
But Doc cut him off impatiently and asked some questions of his own.
"Sure," he was told by the shivering operations manager. "The ship you described landed about an
hour-or-so ago. The pilot asked the way to the Gremlin. Then he and the others headed for the island
on foot."
"Gremlin?"
"One of the cottages on the island. They all have names. Kinda like boats. The Gremlin is owned
by Max Wood. I tried to tell them that Max only spends his summers here. But they didn't seem to care
about that."
"Ever hear of a Baker Eastland?" Ham put in, his dark eyes snapping.
"Sure. Old Baker's a swell egg. Friend of Max's and mine. But Baker ain't here either. I'd know
about it if he was. Besides, it's off-season. Only die-hards on the island right now. And a few island
sightseers come to see the whales."
"How many in the party?" Doc asked.
"Four(4). Four counting the girl."
The operations manager gave concise, accurate descriptions of the 4 gunmen and Celia Adams.
None resembled the Max Wood of Delia Adams' account.
"When did the whales beach"? Doc asked at last.
"Yesterday. But we've had a rash of beaching for weeks now. Never seen anything like it in all my
years on the island!"
They borrowed a car and drove it over the bridge & past the salt marsh ... and onto the island. The
stink of exposed tidal flat assailed their nostrils. On either side of the road, cones of salt hay lay piled on
wood staddles.
The Gremlin was easy to find, there being only one road worthy of the term. Past the church and on
the right.
It was a rude clapboard box of a weather-beaten thing sitting on the sand, close enough to the water
to be in peril during storms. It had a color of yellow cream with a gray tinge.
Doc drove past it. There was no sign of habitation. And they hadn't passed any of the quartet of
gunmen or Celia Adams walking on foot. Not that they really expected to at this late hour.
But the absence of life hanging about the seemingly uninhabited Gremlin stimulated the Man of
Bronze's sense of caution.
"We gonna double back and sneak up on it?" Monk wondered.
"The whales first," Doc said.
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