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A TIP ON A TURTLE
Robert Silverberg
Here’s an elegant and darkly ironic look at the proposition that
some
things in life are better not to know…
Robert Silverberg is one of the most famous SF writers of modern
times, with dozens of novels, anthologies, and collections to his credit.
Silverberg has won five Nebula Awards and four Hugo Awards. His novels
include
Dying Inside, Lord Valentine’s Castle, The Book of Skulls,
Downward to the Earth, Tower of Glass, The World Inside, Bom with the
Dead, Shadrach in the Furnace, Tom O’Bedlam, Star of Gypsies
, and
At
Winter’s End
. His collections include
Unfamiliar Territory, Capricorn
Games, Majipoor Chronicles, The Best of Robert Silverberg, At the
Con-glomeroid Cocktail Party
, and
Beyond the Safe Zone
. His most
recent books are
Nightfall
, a novel-length expansion of Isaac Asimov’s
famous story, done in collaboration with Asimov himself, and the novel
The Face of the Waters
. Upcoming is another novel in collaboration with
Asimov,
Child of Time
. For many years he edited the prestigious anthology
series New Dimensions, and has recently, along with his wife, Karen
Haber, taken over the editing of the Universe anthology series. His story
“Multiples” was in our First Annual Collection; “The Affair” was in our
Second Annual Collection; “Sailing to Byzantium”—which won a Nebula
Award in 1986— was in our Third Annual Collection; “Against Babylon”
was in our Fourth Annual Collection; “The Pardoner’s Tale” was in our
Fifth Annual Collection; “House of Bones” was in our Sixth Annual
Collection; both “Tales from the Venia Woods” and the Hugo-winning
“Enter a Soldier. Later: Enter Another” were in our Seventh Annual
Collection; and “Hot Sky” was in our Eighth Annual Collection. He lives in
Oakland, California.
The sun was going down in the usual spectacular Caribbean way,
 disappearing in a welter of purple and red and yellow streaks that lay
across the wide sky beyond the hotel’s manicured golf course like a
magnificent bruise. It was time to head for the turtle pool for the
pre-dinner races. They held the races three times a day now, once after
lunch, once before dinner, once after dinner. Originally the races had been
nothing more than a casual diversion, but by now they had become a
major item of entertainment for the guests and a significant profit center
for the hotel.
As Denise took her place along the blazing bougainvillea hedge that
flanked the racing pool, a quiet, deep voice just back of her left ear said,
“You might try Number Four in the first race.”
It was the man she had noticed at the beach that afternoon, the tall
tanned one with the powerful shoulders and the tiny bald spot. She had
been watching him snorkeling along the reef, nothing visible above the
surface of the water but his bald spot and the blue strap of his goggles and
the black stalk of the snorkel. When he came to shore he walked right past
her, seemingly lost in some deep reverie; but for a moment, just a
moment, their eyes had met in a startling way. Then he had gone on,
without a word or even a smile. Denise was left with the feeling that there
was something tragic about him, something desperate, something
haunted. That had caught her attention. Was he down here by himself? So
it appeared. She too was vacationing alone. Her marriage had broken up
during Christmas, as marriages so often did, and everyone had said she
ought to get away for some midwinter sunshine. And, they hadn’t needed
to add, for some postmarital diversion. She had been here three days so
far and there had been plenty of sunshine but none of the other thing, not
for lack of interest but simply because after five years of marriage she was
out of practice at being seduced, or shy, or simply uneasy. She had been
noticed, though. And had done some noticing.
She looked over her shoulder at him and said, “Are you telling me that
the race is fixed?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.”
“I thought you might have gotten some special word from one of the
hotel’s boys.”
“No,” he said. He was very tall, perhaps too tall for her, with thick,
glossy black hair and dark, hooded eyes. Despite the little bald spot, he
was probably forty at most. He was certainly attractive enough, almost
movie-star handsome, and yet she found herself thinking unexpectedly
that there was something oddly asexual about him. “I just have a good
 feeling about Number Four, that’s all. When I have a feeling of that sort it
often works out very well.” A musical voice. Was that a faint accent? Or
just an affectation?
He was looking at her in a curiously expectant way.
She knew the scenario. He had made the approach; now she should
hand him ten Jamaican dollars and ask him to go over to the tote counter
and bet them on Number Four for her; when he returned with her ticket
they would introduce themselves; after the race, win or lose, they’d have a
daiquiri or two together on the patio overlooking the pool, maybe come
back to try their luck on the final race, then dinner on the romantic
outdoor terrace and a starlight stroll under the palisade of towering palms
that lined the beachfront promenade, and eventually they’d get around to
settling the big question: his cottage or hers? But even as she ran through
it all in her mind she knew she didn’t want any of it to happen. That lost,
haunted look of his, which had seemed so wonderfully appealing for that
one instant on the beach, now struck her as simply silly, melodramatic,
overdone. Most likely it was nothing more than his modus operandi:
women had been falling for that look of masterfully contained agony at
least since Lord Byron’s time, probably longer. But not me, Denise told
herself.
She gave him a this-leads-nowhere smile and said, “I dropped a fortune
on these damned turtles last night, I’m afraid. I decided I was going to be
just a spectator this evening.”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
It wasn’t true. She had won twenty Jamaican dollars the night before
and had been looking forward to more good luck now. Gambling of any
sort had never interested her until this trip, but there had been a peculiar
sort of pleasure last night in watching the big turtles gliding toward the
finish line, especially when her choices finished first in three of the seven
races. Well, she had committed herself to the sidelines for this evening by
her little lie, and so be it. Tomorrow was another day.
The tall man smiled and shrugged and bowed and went away. A few
moments later Denise saw him talking to the leggy, freckled woman from
Connecticut whose husband had died in some kind of boating accident the
summer before. Then they were on their way over to the tote counter and
he was buying tickets for them. Denise felt sudden sharp annoyance, a
stabbing sense of opportunity lost.
“Place your bets, ladies gemmun, place your bets!” the master of
ceremonies called.
 Mr. Eubanks, the night manager—shining black face, gleaming white
teeth, straw hat, red-and-white striped shirt—sat behind the counter,
busily ringing up the changing odds on a little laptop computer. A boy
with a chalkboard posted them. Number Three was the favorite, three to
two; Number Four was a definite long shot at nine to one. But then there
was a little flurry of activity at the counter, and the odds on Four dropped
abruptly to five to one. Denise heard people murmuring about that. And
the the tote was closed and the turtles were brought forth.
Between races the turtles slept in a shallow, circular concrete-walled
holding tank that was supplied with sea water by a conduit running up
from the beach. They were big green ones, each with a conspicuous
number painted on its upper shell in glowing crimson, and they were so
hefty that the brawny hotel boys found it hard going to carry them the
distance of twenty feet or so that separated the holding tank from the
long, narrow pool where the races were held.
Now the boys stood in a row at the starting line, as though they
themselves were going to race, while the glossy-eyed turtles they were
clutching to their chests made sleepy graceless swimming motions in the
air with their rough leathery flippers and rolled their spotted green heads
slowly from side to side in a sluggish show of annoyance.
The master of ceremonies fired a starter’s pistol and the boys tossed the
turtles into the pool. Graceless no longer, the big turtles were swimming
the moment they hit the water, making their way into the blue depths of
the pool with serene, powerful strokes.
There were six lanes, separated by bright yellow ribbons, but of course
the turtles had no special reason for remaining in them. They roamed
about randomly, perhaps imagining that they had been returned to the
open sea, while the guests of the hotel roared encouragement “Come on,
Five! Go for it, One! Move your green ass, Six!”
The first turtle to touch any part of the pool’s far wall was the winner.
Ordinarily it took four or five minutes for that to happen; as the turtles
wandered, they sometimes approached the finish line but didn’t
necessarily choose to make contact with it, and wild screams would rise
from the backers of this one or that as their turtle neared the wall, sniffed
it, perhaps, and turned maddeningly away without making contact.
But this time one of the turtles was swimming steadily, almost
purposefully, in a straight line from start to finish. Denise saw it moving
along the floor of the pool like an Olympic competitor going for the gold.
The brilliant crimson number on its back, though blurred and mottled by
 the water, was unmistakable.
“Four! Four! Four! Look at that bastard go!”
It was all over in moments. Four completed its traversal of the pool,
lightly bumped its hooked snout against the far wall with almost
contemptuous satisfaction, and swung around again on a return journey
to the starting point, as if it had been ordered to swim laps. The other
turtles were still moving about amiably in vague circles at mid-pool.
“Numbah Four,” called the master of ceremonies. “Pays off at five to
one for de lucky winnahs, yessah yessah!”
The hotel boys had their nets out, scooping up the heavy turtles for the
next race. Denise looked across the way. The leggy young widow from
Connecticut was jubilantly waving a handful of gaudy Jamaican ten-dollar
bills in the face of the tall man with the tiny bald spot. She was flushed
and radiant; but he looked down at her solemnly from his great height
without much sign of excitement, as though the dramatic victory of
Number Four had afforded him neither profit nor joy nor any surprise at
all.
The short, stocky, balding Chevrolet dealer from Long Island, whose
features and coloration looked to be pure Naples but whose name was like
something out of
Brideshead Revisited
—Lionel Gregson? Anthony
Jenkins?—something like that—materialized at Denise’s side and said, “It
doesn’t matter which turtle you bet, really. The trick is to bet the boys who
throw them.”
His voice, too, had a hoarse Mediterranean fullness. Denise loved the
idea that he had given himself such a fancy name.
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so. I been watching them three days, now. You see the boy in
the middle? Hegbert, he’s called. Smart as a whip, and damn strong. He
reacts faster when the gun goes off. And he don’t just throw his turtle
quicker, he throws it harder. Look, can I get you a daiquiri? I don’t like
being the only one drinking.“ He grinned. Two gold teeth showed. ”Jeffrey
Thompkins, Oyster Bay. I had the privilege of talking with you a couple
minutes two days ago on the beach.“
“Of course. I remember. Denise Carpenter. I’m from Clifton, New
Jersey, and yes, I’d love a daiquiri.”
He snagged one from a passing tray. Denise thought his Hegbert theory
was nonsense—the turtles usually swam in aimless circles for a while after
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