That’s how it is, sir. I know these parts better than Her Majesty’s Colonial Office, if you’ll pardon me.’ With an effort Captain van Toch struggled with his righteous indignation and after some further storming managed to master it. ‘See that pair of lazy bastards there? Those are pearl fishers from Ceylon, may God forgive me, Singhalese as the Lord made them - though why he should have done so beats me. That’s what I carry now, sir, and wherever I come across a stretch of coastline that hasn’t got a notice Agency or Bata Corporation or Customs Office I drop that lot into the water to rout out shells. That shorter rascal can dive to a depth of forty fathoms; over there on Princes Island he came up from forty-five fathoms with the handle of a film camera, yessir, but as for pearls - nope! Not a trace! Useless scoundrels, those Singhalese. That’s the kind of lousy job I’ve got, sir: making out I’m buying palm oil and all the time searching for new pearl-fishing grounds. Next thing they’ll expect me to do is discover some virgin continent, what? That’s no job for the honest master of a merchantman, no sir. J. van Toch’s not one of your damned adventurers, sir. No sir.’ And so on; the sea is vast and the ocean of time is boundless: spit into it and it won’t rise, or rant at your fate but you won’t change it; and so, after many preliminaries and diversions, we’ve at last reached the point where Captain J. van Toch of the Dutch ship Kandong Bandoeng with a deep sigh and a curse climbs down into a boat to step ashore at the kampong on Tana Masa, in order to discuss a few business matters with the drunken cross between a Cuban and a Portuguese.

‘Sorry, Captain,’ finally said the cross between a Cuban and a Portuguese, ‘but there are no pearl-oysters here on Tana Masa. Those filthy Bataks,’ he said with infinite loathing, ‘will even eat jellyfish, they’re more at home in the water than on dry land, the women here stink of fish, you’ve no idea - what was I going to say? Ah yes, you were asking about the women.’

‘And isn’t there any stretch of shore,’ the captain inquired, ‘where those Bataks don’t get into the water?’

The cross between a Cuban and a Portuguese shook his head. ‘None, sir. Except of course Devil Bay, but that’s no use to you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because … no one’s allowed there, sir. Top you up, Captain?’

‘Thanks. Are there any sharks there?’

‘Sharks and other things/ the half-breed muttered. ‘It’s a bad spot, sir. The Bataks wouldn’t like to see anyone going there.’

‘Why not?’

‘There are devils there, sir. Sea devils.’

‘What’s a sea devil? A fish?’

‘Not a fish,’ the half-breed countered evasively. ‘Simply a devil, sir. A deep-sea devil. The Bataks call them tapa. Tapa. They’re said to have their town down there, those devils. Top you up?’

‘And what does … this sea devil look like?’

The cross between a Cuban and a Portuguese shrugged. ‘Like a devil, sir. I saw one once - that is, only his head. I was in my boat coming back from Cape Haarlem … and suddenly it pushed its ugly mug out of the water right in front of me.’

‘Well? And what did it look like?’

‘It’s got a pate … like a Batak, sir, but bald as a coot.’

‘You sure it wasn’t a Batak?’

‘Quite sure, sir. No Batak would ever go into the water at that spot. Besides … it blinked at me with its lower lids, sir.’ The half-breed shivered with horror.