Once in the clear, they headed at top speed for Steve's, tied up at the pier, and plunged into the water without even bothering to remove their clothes. Their only precaution was to empty their pockets. Rick luxuriated in the coolness of clean water, then stripped to his undershorts and threw his sodden clothes onto the pier. Only when he was sure he had washed off the last of the clinging mud did he pull himself up to the houseboat cockpit, Scotty following. They toweled and put on clean clothes, then carried the equipment back to the farmhouse. Two bottles of Coke apiece from the refrigerator had them feeling normal again. Over the last one, they studied the photos. "I don't think we've ever known Merlin," Rick said thoughtfully. "We've seen him, but we don't know him." Scotty scratched a mosquito bite. "Think he might be some kind of public figure?" Rick looked up sharply. "I think you hit it! If that's true, we should be able to get him identified easily." "Steve could do it through JANIG," Scotty suggested. "It would take too long. He won't be home until tonight, and the picture wouldn't reach JANIG until tomorrow. Then it would take a day to check it out." "Are we in a hurry?" Scotty asked. Rick chuckled. "I am. But don't ask me why. Look, I'll bet Duke or Jerry could identify it by going through the newspaper morgue." Their newspaper friends were owner-editor and reporter for the Whiteside paper back home. "They're on vacation," Scotty reminded him. Once each year, the paper was turned over to a friend of Duke's, a former newspaperman turned professor of journalism, who used the occasion to give some of his students practical experience. That was true, Rick remembered. Neither Duke nor Jerry would be available. Who else did they know who could help? Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "I've got it! Ken Holt would help, if we could get the picture to him." Ken Holt, the young newsman whose adventures were favorite reading for Rick and Scotty, had once asked Spindrift for help, and Rick had given him a set of pocket-size radio transceivers of the kind known as "The Megabuck Network." "Sandy Allen is a photographer," Scotty pointed out. "He might know these people." Rick took a chair next to the telephone and dialed the operator. "A person-to-person call," he stated, "to Mr. Ken Holt, at the _Brentwood Advance_, Brentwood, New Jersey." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Let's hope he and Sandy aren't off on an assignment somewhere." Luck was on their side. Ken Holt was in, and he was delighted to be of help. "Put the picture in the mail," the young reporter suggested. "If you make it airmail, special delivery, we'll have it first thing in the morning. With luck, we might even get it tonight. We'll phone you as soon as we have an identification. Incidentally, the Megabuck units worked like a charm, as I told you when I wrote. Thanks a lot."