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The Golden Rule Cannery had been closed until further notice. Gregory had bought all the fish brought in by the alien fleet. His wharves were piled high with fish-boxes. His vats were full of albacore. He was going to give everybody a chance if they "shot square" and became American citizens. Rock and Blankovitch had been taken with the men from Diablo Island to the jail at the county-seat.
Scarcely able to credit their sight, the villagers saw the magnate of Legonia led forth from the Golden Rule Cannery in the custody of strangers. Strangers who spoke and acted with an air of authority and displayed shining badges to part the crowd as they walked with their prisoner to meet the small boat from the cutter. Then came Blankovitch wearing hand-cuffs.
"Only the broken message a little before midnight," he answered. "You got that. Gonzolez landed. That's all we know." Rock fidgeted while his eyes roved about the room. "You don't suppose anything went wrong?" he hazarded after a moment. Blankovitch did not think so. The wireless had failed for some reason or other. But it had done that before. He was expecting Rossi in at any moment.
But only the soft slip of the fish through the chute and the drip of the water from the draining-table, disturbed the silence. Then he heard the murmur of men's voices from the platform. The valve was still open. When Blankovitch closed that, no sound would penetrate the vat from the outside world. He turned his attention at once to the fish.
Silvanus Rock was at the Golden Rule Fish Cannery at an early hour on the morning following the raid upon El Diablo. When Blankovitch entered the office, he noted at a glance that the face of the capitalist looked drawn and worried. "Any news, Blankovitch?" The words tumbled eagerly from Rock's thick lips as he caught sight of the ruddy countenance of the manager. Blankovitch shook his head.
Rossi had his regular crew. Still, one could never be too careful. For a moment he appeared to deliberate. Then he said: "Good idea, Blankovitch, we're short on high-grade stuff." The manager moved at once to the receiving-vat and pulled the grating over the traveling conveyer which carried the fish into the cannery. Then he opened a valve at the bottom of the tank. "All right, Rossi," he said.
The albacore, he noticed suddenly, had ceased to slip through the chute. He frowned at the observance. Surely Rossi had brought a larger cargo than this. Walking again to the intake from the tank above, he listened. The valve was still open. There would be more or Blankovitch would close the chute and assist him below.
I got some good fish." Rock was jubilant. His fears had been groundless. Everything was quite all right. For had not Rossi given the accustomed signal to that effect? Blankovitch had already taken the cue. "If his fish are first-class, we might put them up special for those A-1 orders," he suggested. Rock nodded as he noted the stolid faces of the fishermen peering over the rail.
After some time had passed a fisherman entered. "Rossi's coming in," he announced. Rock leaped to his feet with the youthful exuberance of a schoolboy. "I feel like a new man," he confided to Blankovitch, when the messenger had gone out. "The brandy was just what I needed. Lack of sleep surely pulls a man down."
Then one of the deputies who had made a cursory examination of the vat, began to speak: "Well, Mr. Rock," he said, "it kind of looks like we had the man higher up. At the point of a gun, Mr. Blankovitch showed us the way to your little office down here.
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