on the bottom of the lake, it was being forced drop by drop out of the airhole in the cap and was coming to the surface to spread out into a monstrous and inescapable marker over his grave. There was no faintest breath of air to form a ripple on the water, the surface lying as still and unmoving as glass, with the result that it had spread out evenly over an incredible expanse for so slight an amount of oil, so thin it would be completely invisible except for the sheen of color reflected from the sky and sun.
I cut the motor and let the boat drift, trying to get hold of myself enough to think. The oil was going to be here; there was no current in the lake to move it, and there was nothing I could do about it now. Nothing, I thought desperately, except to find the spot where the motor was lying and see if more was still coming to the surface. If there was, I had to stop it. But how?
Taking up the oars, I pulled slowly along, watching the surface of the water. There was no way to tell exactly where it was, so I turned and rowed back toward the shore to get my bearings. Bringing the boat up near the bank just off the place where I had reached it yesterday to put him aboard, I lined it up and started pulling very slowly, stern first, out toward the center of the lake. When I thought I had come almost far enough, I quit rowing and let the boat come to rest, not moving about in it to set up any motion of water. Sitting dead still and swinging only my head, I began a minute scrutiny of all the area for twenty feet or more around the boat, on both sides and in front. The film of oil was slightly heavier here, and I knew I was very near the spot. Two or three minutes went by and my eyes began to ache with the bright sunlight and the staring. Maybe there isn’t any more, I thought. Maybe it has all leaked out by now. Then I caught it, a glimpse of changing color seen out of the corner of my eyes, some ten feet ahead of me and to the left. I stared fixedly at the spot, waiting, almost afraid to blink my eyes. They began to sting, but I held them there, and in a moment I saw it again, quite plainly this time. A drop of oil had come up out of the dark, tea-colored water and spread, shining and iridescent in the sunlight, the colors changing as it thinned out across the surface. With my eyes fixed unwaveringly on the spot, I picked up the oars, gave them one shove, and then reached around for the anchor and dropped it. I was right over it.
Now what to do? I looked up and down the lake, afraid again of other boats or fishermen, but the long reach was devoid of any form of life or movement. I was alone in the whole immensity of the swamp here in the bright heat of the middle of the day, but still I could feel the stirrings of panic within myself. Perhaps it was because already, without thinking about it, I knew what I was going to have to do and I was afraid of it. The oil on the surface of the lake was something I couldn’t do anything about, except possibly to spread and scatter it by running through it with the boat and motor, but the oil in itself might not be too dangerous. After all, it would eventually disperse, collecting on the big leaves of the pads and the old snags and growth along the banks, and whoever saw it would probably believe that someone had spilled some fuel while refilling the gasoline tank of his motor, and think no more about it. But this other thing, this oil bubbling up here in one spot, a drop at a time and maybe going on for weeks, putting more and more on the surface, would be sure to arouse curiosity and eventually somebody would start dragging for whatever was down there. I had to stop it.
I sat still, thinking. The valve was probably shut off. There was very little chance that the fuel was leaking out there. That meant, then, that when the motor had come