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“That detector must be wrong,” Cable said, wiping his face wearily. He was a big, pinkish man. He had sweated off twenty pounds on Vuanu, picked up a bad case of prickly heat, and had enough treasure-hunting to last him a lifetime. He wished he were back in Baltimore taking care of his used-car agency. He didn’t hesitate to say so, often and loudly. He was one member who had not worked out well.

“Nothing wrong with the detector,” Sorensen said. “Trouble is, we’re digging in swampy ground. The cache must have sunk.”

“It’s probably a hundred feet down,” Cable said, stabbing angrily at the gluey mud.

“Nope,” Sorensen said. “There’s volcanic rock under us, no more than twenty feet down.”

“Twenty feet? We should have a bulldozer.”

“Might be costly bringing one in,” Sorensen said mildly. “Come on, Al, let’s get back to camp.”

Sorensen helped Cable out of the excavation. They cleaned off their tools and started toward the narrow path leading back to the camp. They stopped abruptly.

A large, ugly bird had stepped out of the brush. It was standing on the path, blocking their way.

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