WINSTON A SCIENCE
FICTION NOVEL
Attack from
Atlantis
By LESTER DEL REY
Jacket Illustration by Paul Orban Endpaper Design by Alex Schomburg
Cecil© Matschat,
Editor Carl Carmer, Consulting Editor
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY Philadelphia • Toronto
Copyright, 1953
By Lester del Rey
Copyright in Great Britain and in the British Dominions
and Possessions Copyright in the Republic of
the
Philippines
first edition
Land Under the Sea
|
We really know very little about the world in which we
live. There isn't even any way to explore most of our planet at the present
time. This, of course, is because seven-tenths of the Earth is covered with
water.
And
today we know only a little more about the depths of the ocean than was known
fifty years ago. We have sent submarines down to a depth of seven hundred feet,
but not regularly. In a few cases, one man has gone lower, in a great metal
shell from which he can see out for a few feet. But the oceans have depths as
great as thirty-five thousand feet—over six miles straight down!
To prove how little we know about this
enormous territory, we keep fishing up forms of life out of the deeps which we
thought were extinct for as long as three hundred million years. Down there,
nobody told them about being dead, so they go right on
as always. We have mapped a little of the ocean
floor, using a device that shoots a beam of sound down and measures the time
required for the echo to come back. But almost anything could be hiding on the
ocean bottom without our knowing it.
Probably
no men live down there. And probably there never was an Atlantis. This
continent which was supposed to have sunk into the Atlantic Ocean, carrying a
great early civilization, is only a myth. Like many things the ancients
believed in it is interesting to think about, but there is no scientific
evidence that it ever existed. The whole story started as the account of a
writer quoting somebody else who was telling a story —and maybe a tall story,
at the time.
Yet
men have learned to live under wider differences in conditions than any other
animal. Men live close to the North Pole, and right on the equator. No other
highly developed animal can do this. Man, unlike other animals, doesn't have to
change himself to fit a new environment—he changes the environment enough to
make it livable. In almost any situation, he can find some solution that will
make life possible.
Men
have lived on the water. The Lake-Dwellers of Switzerland in the very old days
spent nearly their whole lives on the water and built houses right out into the
lakes. A great many early tribes lived along the shores, as their kitchen middens (garbage heaps) show. With a little luck and a need
to do so, they might even have found a way to live in the sea. Other animals
have gone from the land to the sea—the whale, porpoise and seal, for example.
Man, of course, would
Land
Under the Sea
do it by changing his environment instead of
changing himself. But can we say that the seal can do what human beings can't?
Until
we can get down into the ocean in better craft than we have now, we can't know
for sure. We can guess that there are no men living there and we'll probably be
right. But we have guessed wrong before. It seems like a good idea to guess for
a change there are men there, and then to see what such a civilization would be
like.
The
only way to get down, of course, is in an atomic submarine. With unlimited
power and new methods of construction, such a ship can go to depths and explore
the oceans in a way which has never been done before. It can cruise under the
arctic icecaps, or probably go all the way around the world without ever coming
up.
Such
a submarine isn't at all fantastic. The Nautilus is
already being built. And just as this is being written, word has come that the
first tests of an atomic power plant for the ship have been successful. We can
say safely now that there will be an atomic-powered submarine plying the
waters of the seas within a very short time.
This
means that the first horrible use of atomic energy has now given place to
another use. The bomb was a weapon, and nothing else. But out of it has grown a
motor which can do anything we ask of it; it can power merchant ships, perhaps
even railroads. It can bring light and heat to isolated sections. And it can
remake the world.
First, however, it may show us whole sections
of the Earth about which we really know nothing. With it, in a slightly
improved form that seems quite probable for the future, we can go down to the
depths of the ocean and see what might have happened there, out of sight of all
of the men who have been living on the surface.
Almost anything might be possible down there.
L.
D. R.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
Land Under the Sea................................. vii
1. Test Run.................................................. 1
2.
Operation
Depth...................................... 12
3.
Trouble
on the Triton............................... 22
4.
Head-On
Collision................................... 32
5.
Men
of the Sea.......................................... 42
6.
Distress
Signal......................................... 52
7.
Repair
Task.............................................. ..... 62
8.
Battle
Below............................................. 72
9. Captured!................................................. 83
10.
The
Bubble City....................................... 93
11.
Atlantis!.................................................. 104
12.
City
of No Return.................................... 115
13.
The
Dog-God........................................... .... 125
14.
The
Lost People........................................ 136
15.
Incomplete
Barrier.................................... 148
16.
Stranded
in Atlantis................................. .... 159
17.
The
Judgment of K'mith.......................... .... 169
18.
Emergency
Plans...................................... .... 179
19.
Mad
Dog!................................................ 189
20.
Operation
Contact.................................... ... 200
Chapter 1
S |
omewhere
south of Puerto Rico in the
Caribbean Sea, everything looked like a peaceful scene painted on canvas. In
the background was an island covered with small fishing houses. On the surface
of the calm blue ocean, a small ship cruised along slowly, its motor throttled
down until the drone of a plane far above could be heard. Except for that, the
ocean seemed deserted.
The
plane was up there to see that it stayed deserted. The hard-jawed young man
bending over the radar screen never looked up. Another man stayed poised over a
radio transmitter, in contact with the boat below, but ready to warn off any
chance craft that wandered into this deserted section of the ocean.
Aboard
the converted and disguised PT boat, Don Miller was almost surrounded by radio,
radar and sonar equipment. The hot sun had been pouring through the decks, and
even the fans had proved of little help. He was stripped to the waist and
sweating profusely, but he was still grinning as he finished a
routine
report to the plane, and switched over to another receiver.
"First
test okay," the speaker announced. "We'll surface in fifteen minutes.
All clear up there?"
"All
clear," Don reported. He switched off and reached for a towel, without
taking his eyes off the sonar screen. Sound waves were emitted from equipment
below the water line, and their echoes were picked up and interpreted on the
screen to show the presence of any foreign object in the water. Except for one
large spot, all seemed clear. The spot indicated the source of the
communication he had just finished.
Don
was hard-muscled and tanned to a deep brown from his belt to his black,
crew-cut hair. He was a trifle shorter than average, though his lean, trim
build made him seem taller. Track at college, and swimming for hours every day
during his stay here had left him in tiptop condition. It showed in his steady
nerves, as he handled the equipment before him, and in the clearness of his
dark gray eyes. He patted the sonar screen fondly and grinned. At seventeen, it
was good to have a chance to put his knowledge to good use, without anyone
standing over him telling him what to do.
A
dog lay at his feet, panting in the heat. Shep was as
black as Don s hair, and his schipperke ancestry
showed up in an expression that seemed cocky in spite of the heat, making him
look like a small, jaunty Belgian shepherd. But now he lifted his head and
growled faintly.
Don swung his head around, to see a
round-faced, heavy man in immaculate white naval uniform, smiling doubtfully.
Behind the officer, Dr. Simpson moved into view. "And this is my nephew,
Don Miller," he said to the other, and then grinned at Don. "And this
is Admiral Haller, Don."
Haller's
handshake was firm and friendly, but his sharp eyes were weighing Don.
"Glad to know you, Don. I'm sorry I got to this test so late I couldn't
meet everyone before it began. Umm, you look a little young for all this, but
you seem to be doing a good job."
"I'm
almost eighteen," Don began. Then he caught his uncle's grin, and realized
how foolish that must sound to an admiral. An admiral?
Suddenly he realized how important this test must be, if it rated so high an
officer for an observer.
"Don knows his stuff," his uncle
said quickly. "He's been getting ready for our first real run for three
years. Studying advanced communications physics at M.I.T., and he's been
licensed for everything since he was sixteen."
Don's
uncle was stripped to his waist, too. He was nearly bald, and he wore a small
gray mustache. But in spite of that and his age of nearly fifty, he looked
surprisingly like Don. He'd been both father and mother to the boy since Don's
parents were killed years before in an auto accident. To the world, he was a
leading naval engineer and a metallurgical physicist; but Don was happy
thinking of him as just Uncle Eddy.
The speaker came to life suddenly, snapping
the boy back to his job. The message was coming from the big set, equipped with
an elaborate scrambling affair to make the messages unintelligible to anyone
without such equipment. "Surfacing," it announced.
Don
acknowledged. His uncle and Admiral Haller were already at the rail of the
ship. He set the equipment to buzz for him if a signal came in, and ran
quickly to a spot where he could see the ocean beside them.
At
first, there was only the tiny buoy that carried the antenna for the submarine
below, connected by a thin, insulated wire. Its nearness showed that the
submarine would surface beside them.
Then
a vague shadow appeared in the water ahead and began to take on sharper
outlines as the sub rose upward at a steep angle. The buoy jerked as the wire
was reeled in. The periscope broke the surface and began sliding down, until it
fitted flush with the deck as the ship leveled off and floated on the surface.
It was less than a hundred and fifty feet long,
and seemed to be nothing but a slim, gray platform of metal rising a foot from
the surface—something like a huge torpedo. Then the conning turret, containing
the bridge and periscope, was raised to a height of about ten feet above the
deck, and it looked a little more like the usual picture of a submarine.
A hatch over die bridge
opened, and the sharp-featured, blond head of Oliver Drake came into view. The
designer of the ship's unusual atomic power plant waved at them. "How are
we doing from your end? Everything's smooth as silk here."
"Doing
fine, Ollie," Dr. Simpson called back. "No trouble^"
"Not a bit—except Hawkes
started seeing men in bubbles outside—at four hundred fathoms! Do you think I
should take her down all the way?"
Simpson
nodded, chuckling. "It's up to you. And tell Hawkes—"
But
the hatch had snapped shut already. The conning tower was drawn back, and the
submarine began diving, briefly showing the name on her stern —Triton I. Then she was gone, with the little antenna
buoy streaking out behind her.
Don
ducked back to his radio equipment to keep in touch. He heard his uncle and
Admiral Haller move by as he was making his checks.
"So
that's it," the admiral was saying, and his voice was disappointed.
"What's so special? I didn't have much chance to study the papers they
gave me after the last minute switch when Baylor got sick. Suppose you tell
me."
They
moved on, out of Don's earshot, but he could imagine his uncle's answer. The Triton wasn't the first atomic-powered submarine; the Nautilus had been that, a dozen years ago, and there
were others now. But they simply used an atomic pile to heat the steam for
their turbines in place of the older boilers. They still had to have heavy
motors to drive them by means of a propeller. The Triton was actually driven
by atomic energy. Drake had
invented the system. On the little submarine, a very small atomic pile was
operating at the highest temperature ever used, generating heat from broken
atoms. The heat was used to turn the water into steam, all right-but it was
water out of the ocean, and the steam was used as a jet, blasting back through
special nozzles at the rear, and forcing the Triton ahead exactly as a jet engine moved a plane.
It
eliminated all the complicated turbines, generators—except a small one to
provide electricity for light and control—and motors, and left the ship almost
entirely automatic, as far as power went. The Triton could probably cruise around the world twenty times without ever coming
up, or anyone going near the heavily shielded power plant.
Dr.
Simpson had designed the ship itself, using new alloys of metal and new methods
of adding strength, with the idea of building a submarine that could really go
all the way down, instead of a mere three or four hundred fathoms—not over
twelve hundred feet or two hundred fathoms for normal cruising. The two men
had met some ten years ago, and each had found the other's ideas just what he
needed. Now, finally, the result was being tested.
"Four hundred
fathoms," the speaker announced.
Haller
and Simpson had come up now and were listening in carefully. The speaker began
giving a series of figures on pressure, the strain on the hull, and everything
else that had to be known.
"Speed
thirty knots, depth five hundred," Drake's voice said. "This is it,
Ed—three thousand feet, and we're running thirteen hundred pounds pressure
every square inch. Not a groan out of the Triton. We've beaten the depth record. Thirty-five
hundred feet now. . . ."
"Better bring her back up," Simpson
said into the microphone, leaning over Don's shoulder. "We'll have to go
over her inch by inch to see how she takes it before going further."
"Right, Ed. Up we come. We—Hey, come about! Over there!'*
There were sounds of confusion suddenly, and
Drake's voice shouting from some distance beyond his microphone. Don felt the
hairs on his neck lift as he imagined a leak at that pressure. With fifteen
hundred pounds per square inch—a hundred times normal pressure—a pinhole would
let in a stream that could cut through sheet steel. "Calling Triton" he said tensely into the mike. "Triton!"
Drake's
voice was back almost at once. "Sorry. I thought I saw something. It
looked like—well, it looked like a man inside a bubble outside! The same thing Hawkes thought he saw. No trace, now. Must
be some odd fish that lives down here."
"Probably,"
Simpson agreed. He had picked up Don's towel and was mopping the sudden flood
of perspiration off his face, but he kept his voice calm. "Bring her up,
Ollie."
"Right." There was the sound of a switch, and the
speaker went dead.
Haller shook his head. "Maybe the
feeling of being down where all that pressure is outside is getting them,"
he suggested.
"They
wouldn't both have seen the same thing, if it's imagination," Simpson said
doubtfully. "Or maybe Hawkes' idea did suggest
it to Ollie. But Hawkes thought he saw it at five
hundred fathoms. It's probably just what Ollie thought—some kind of fish we
haven't found yet. What's the sonar indicate, Don?"
Don
had been trying to discover that himself. "It doesn't say," he
admitted, with a touch of worry. "There's a cold and warm current mixing
somewhere between us, and it's making a cold wall that deflects the sonar beam.
Uncle Eddy, suppose there are men down there?"
Simpson
chuckled, though his eyes showed traces of uncertainty. "Suppose Shep can fly, Donl Not in
pressure like that. It would . . ."
The
radio interrupted him. "Ed!" Drake's voice barked tautly. "Ed,
the Triton won't answer. Something's wrong with the
stern diving plane, and the bow plane has snapped its cable. Wait a minute, I'm
getting an observation on it now. . . . Stuck! There's something that looks
like a metal rod stuck in the bow plane somehow."
"Is
she equipped with normal trim tanks?" Haller asked quickly. At Simpson's
nod, he swung quickly to Don. "Tell him to blow out his bow tanks, young
man."
Shep growled faintly again at the roughness of
the admiral's voice. Don touched him reassuringly, and began relaying the
orders. Haller hadn't gotten to be an admiral in the submarine service without
knowing his business. With the bow lightened, the Triton should tilt up enough to climb.
"Trying
that," Drake's answer came. "The valve is stuck, too."
"Then flood the stern
tanks," Haller ordered. He
Tesf Run
swung to
face Simpson again. "I take it you have power enough to make up for any
extra weight."
"Plenty of
power," Simpson answered.
Don's
fingers were moist as he relayed instructions, and he snapped a quick look to
see that his uncle was frowning tensely. But Haller seemed unworried.
"Will they be all right, sir?" he asked.
"Plenty
of things left to do," Haller told him. "They can always blow out the
main ballast tanks enough to lighten the ship and float her. But it's better to
come up under power. Ah!"
An
indication had come onto the sonar screen. Don saw that the Triton was no longer masked by the cold wall. He switched on his microphone. "Report!"
"Coming
up," Drake said. "She's—Hey!" He
was quiet for a second, then resumed his report.
"Two of those fish, or whatever they were. Just caught a
glimpse of them, and they still look like men in bubbles. Gone now,
though—must be fast. Ah, the stern plane is working again. Depth
three thousand, coming up smoothly. Ed, I'm going to head straight back
to the docks as soon as we re only five hundred feet
deep. I'm pulling in the antenna, so there'll be no surface trace. See you
there."
He
cut off, but the sonar showed that he was still coming up, now under complete
control, and heading toward the docks on the island. Haller watched it for a
few moments, nodded, and went back toward the rear of the PT boat. Simpson
accepted a cup of coffee one of the men brought and dropped onto a seat near
his nephew.
"Do
we still run the official test?" Don asked. This was only a preliminary
test run to show up any faults before the full test was made with observers on
board the Triton.
The ship now had only the
barest skeleton crew of five aboard. Don had wanted to go on this one, but had
reluctantly agreed to wait, since he was needed here.
Simpson
nodded. "We'll go over her tonight and tomorrow. But unless the bugs are
worse than it seems, we'll run the full-dress test day after tomorrow."
They
were heading back to the island now, with the sonar showing the Triton cruising along below the surface toward her docks there. Under the camouflage
of simple fishermen's huts and tropical growth, the little island had been
turned into a small but efficient shipyard for assembling the submarine and
tending her.
Simpson
stood up slowly. "Don," he said reluctantly, "I'm afraid I've
got bad news for you. I've been talking to Haller, and we're going to have
more observers than I expected. The Navy wants to put on its own crew, too—men
having a lot of experience in submarine service. And . . ."
"You
mean I can't go?" Don asked slowly. At his uncle's faint nod, he bent further over his screens. He'd worked like a
fool for three years to qualify, and the Triton had
been the biggest thing in his life for long before that. But he knew his uncle
couldn't help it, and he tried to sound casual as he shrugged. "Okay, then
I don't go."
Simpson's
hand dropped onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Don. Everything will be made
up somehow."
Don
nodded, but he knew better. Nothing could ever make up for his not being on
either of the test runs. If he could even have seen those
things that looked like men in bubbles. . . .
Then he was suddenly busy as the PT boat approached
the little island.
Chapter 2 Operation Depth
piuring the ten years since Simpson and Drake had
found that each had what the other needed, there had always been secrecy, but
none had been very -
official. The Navy had stepped in to lend them money and help
when they had found part of the funds needed and formed their company. And it
had been at government insistence that they had taken over this little island,
once used as a secret repair dock for small craft. Except for school, most of
Don's memories centered around the island.
It
was a different place now. There were strange faces there, under uniform caps
with official insigne. There had always been excitement enough; there had been
the slow improvement of Drake's atomic power plant, and the trouble making it
work with sea water, without minerals from the ocean caking on the boiler
pipes. Lately, there had been the rush of assembling the parts of the Triton as they were shipped out secretly from factories back on the main-
land. But now the bustle was official, and Don
seemed left out of things.
He
wandered about, lost in the shuffle. He'd never before known what it was to be
on the outside looking in. The cold war had gradually grown less tense when he
was young, and most of the security checks of previous years had been relaxed.
The Navy had been interested in the Triton as
a ship to study the deeper ocean, rather than as any immediate war effort.
Lately,
though, tension had been growing again, and all controls were tightening up. If
Don hadn't already been on the island and mixed up in the building of the Triton, they probably would have forbidden him to be
there at all. Everything connected with atomic power, or capable of being
turned into a weapon, was going quickly under official security wraps, due to
the worsening condition of relations with certain other nations.
"Hi,
Miller!" a voice called, and he turned to see the long, lanky figure of
Sid Upjohn, the only reporter to be admitted for the official test. Upjohn was
one of those men who looked lazy and careless, but there was a keen brain under
his wild thatch of red hair. He'd been the leading science writer for the Times for the last eight years, and even the scientists respected him. Don had
met him the night before, on their return to the island.
"All the bugs
straightened out?" the reporter asked.
Don
nodded. "Looks like it." The ship had taken the first test beautifully,
except for the exhaust valve that had failed on the bow trim tank. As for the diving planes . . .
Nobody
had that figured out. Both stern and bow planes showed signs of having had
something jammed into their hinges, and there were bits of copper left in the
marks. But copper didn't float in the sea, to get there accidentally. He
remembered Drake's report on the metal bar in the bow planes.
It
almost looked like sabotage. Yet, unless it could be admitted that the
"men in bubbles" had been real men, this was ridiculous. Haller's
idea that they must have run into a bit of old wreckage was ridiculous, too,
but it was easier to believe. At any event, that was something Don couldn't
discuss.
"They
won't be going as deep this time, so it will be safe enough," he told the
reporter. "You'll be going out tomorrow all right."
"Yeah. Too bad you won't be along, Miller. Met your replacement yet?" As
Don shook his head, Upjohn jerked his thumb back to the mess hall. "Then
come on, I'll introduce you. I've met everyone by now. I was telling him about
you, by the way."
They
went inside and dropped down at a table where a young man in a Navy uniform sat
drinking black coffee. "Lieutenant Ricks, this is Don Miller," Upjohn
introduced them. "How do you feel now?"
The
man grinned. "Lousy," he answered. "Hi, Don. Remember me?"
Don
frowned. Then it came back; Ricks had been a senior on the high-school track
team when Don had first gone out as a freshman. "Glad you're the one
replacing me," he told the lieutenant.
"I'm not. I feel like a first-class
heel," Ricks said. "If I could, I'd pull out fast."
The
talk then switched to old days at school, by mutual consent. When Don finally
got up to return to his uncle's house, Upjohn joined him. They moved along in
silence, until Shep's barking caught Don's ears. He
hurried around a corner of the street and to his house.
But
Shep was only enjoying himself. Admiral Haller, still
in spotless clothes, was squatting down and throwing a stick for the dog to
fetch. Shep's normal hostility to strangers had
completely disappeared. He stopped to greet Don happily, and then went back to
the stick.
"Hello, Don—Upjohn," Haller said
casually, standing up and brushing dust from his hands. "Hope you don't
mind my having a little fun with your dog? I've always been fond of
schipperkes."
Don's liking for the man increased
immediately. "He seems to like you, too." '
Upjohn motioned back toward the visitor's
building. 'I see the last of the observers have come, Admiral. How come they
sent Senator Kenney? I thought Meredith was supposed to be scheduled for this
junket. I can see why the President sent Dexter—I've been with him before. But Kenney!"
Don had met the two men early that morning,
and his own impression fitted Upjohn's reaction. Dexter had seemed like a
successful businessman of the nicer sort, but Senator Kenney acted as if all
the world was wrong except himself, and all other men were fools.
"I
don't know any more about it than you do," Haller answered. "I don't
pick them, after all; that's higher than I rate. In fact, I don't even have
much to say about anyone's going or not going." He half smiled at Don, and
then was serious again. "Don, everyone else is busy getting the Triton ready. I was wondering if you'd be good enough to show me around the
ship before the test. Upjohn, if you'd like to come with us . . ."
"It
should help me know what not to report," Upjohn agreed. "And that
seems to be the important thing now—knowing enough not to give away too much. Fine life for a reporter."
They
headed back toward the Triton,
where men were going over
every inch of her in the concealed dock. Shep bounded
along behind, sniffing happily as they entered the ship. He was familiar with
it, but there were always new things to smell, it seemed.
Don
spent most of the day showing the other two over the craft. It was smaller and
simpler than most submarines, but there was still a lot to be seen. At the last
minute, she'd been redesigned to handle torpedoes, and the tubes filled the
nose, with the torpedo room behind that. Then came quarters
for the crew. Just in front of the conning turret was the captain's
room, an officer's wardroom and the little galley where all food was prepared.
Below lay the crew's mess hall, and at the bottom were storage rooms for
immense amounts of food and other necessities. The conning turret with bridge,
navigating room, control room, radar-sonar room, and the periscope housing
took up the center of the ship. Behind it lay other bunkrooms and the small
engine-control room. And the rest of the ship was devoted to the atomic power
unit, sealed off by thick layers of shielding.
There was one other new idea, however. Under
the conning turret and the stores, a low space had been left. This was filled
with tank after tank of growing plants, designed to keep the air pure and
breathable indefinitely. Men had been talking about that for years, but this
was the first test. Men used up the oxygen and gave off carbon dioxide; the
plants reversed this, under the long rows of sun lamps. With that and atomic
drives, the ship could theoretically stay under the surface for years at a
time.
But
like all submarines, it was a lot less simple than it sounded. There were trim
tanks and ballast tanks where the amount of water admitted regulated the way
the sub floated, sank or leveled off. There were pipes and fittings everywhere,
control valves, damper rods, small motors, escape hatches, a garbage ejector,
windlasses, machinery to drive the diving planes that looked like elevators on
airships, and a host of other things. No spot seemed completely free. And
nothing could ever be quite large enough, though the Triton was more comfortable than most ships. The absence of complicated engine
equipment and oxygen supplies had helped, at least.
It
was late when they finally came out, but Don had the feeling that Haller had
already mastered the ship. The admiral held out a hand as they parted.
"Thanks, Don. I wish you were coming along."
"He should be,"
Upjohn commented.
"So
you and Mr. Dexter have told me repeatedly," Haller said. "Don, I'd
give in to them if I could. But except in matters of emergency, I have to
accept official assistance; Ricks has been sent for the job, and I have to use
him."
Don
understood, and felt no anger at Haller. He wished they'd all drop the subject.
He'd been trying not to think about it, though he hadn't succeeded very well.
He went up to his room and tried to work up some interest in a new signal
shifter for his radio equipment, but he couldn't even concentrate on the
diagram. He'd always liked electronics and the theory of communication, but his
real drive had been spent in trying to get ready to be part of the crew on the
first official test of his uncle's submarine. Now it all seemed pointless.
He
finally gave up and went to bed, not even bothering to go out to eat. Shep came over beside the bed, curling up where Don's
fingers could reach his neck. He seemed to sense his master's feelings, since
he licked at Don's hand.
But
in the morning, Don forced himself to look cheerful as he stood watching the
final preparations. Haller was busy inspecting things, with Drake and Simpson
beside him. Most of the men going aboard were ones in uniform whom Don had
barely met. The cook, the two crewmen, Kayne,
the navigator, and the helmsman, Cavanaugh. Only Drake, Simpson and the
master mechanic, Walrich, were men who had helped
build the Triton.
Ricks
came up late, nodding to Don. He went over to see Haller, and a long
conversation followed.
Finally,
Haller shrugged and motioned for Don to come forward.
"We've
got a problem," he said, and his face was serious. There was the barest
flicker of his eyelid in a quick wink. "Lieutenant Ricks reports that he
is suffering from a touch of food poisoning, and feels that he is not in
condition to perform his duties satisfactorily under the circumstances.
Unfortunately, however, we have no official replacement. In an emergency like
this, I wondered if you might be willing to volunteer, Mr. Miller?"
Don
gulped, and felt his knees turn to jelly under him. He might have guessed. He'd
had hints before. But it came as a complete shock to him. He swallowed twice,
before he could answer, and he could feel a completely foolish grin of pleasure
creep onto his face. "I—I'd be happy to volunteer, sir!"
"Good.
Then get anything you need and report on board in ten minutes, Mr.
Miller." This time Haller smiled back at him. Beyond, his uncle and Dexter
were smiling, too. Only the thin, bilious face of Senator Kenney remained
unsmiling. Kenney was looking on with a vague displeasure at the interruption
to having his luggage carried on board.
Simpson
caught his nephew's arm and drew him aside. "By a strange coincidence, I
happened to find a bag of your stuff already packed and down here, Don,"
he said with a chuckle. "Upjohn told me Ricks was going to try to let you
on last night, and I thought Haller might go along with it. But don't let on it
was a put-up job!"
Don located Ricks, and tried to thank him.
But the lieutenant was playing it very straight, acting as if he really were
sick. "Got to report to the doctor," he said. "Glad you were
around to replace me, Don. And have a four-oh test run, boy!"
Don
found himself assigned to the bunk he'd originally been scheduled for. He put
the bag his uncle had packed into his locker, wondering why he'd need so much
for a simple test. Then he remembered that there had been talk of Haller's
having sealed orders, and that the trip might be one of several days duration.
He doubted this, but it was probably smart to be prepared for anything.
He
reported to Haller
in the captain's stateroom,
and was given the routine assignment to the sonar-radar room. Inside, he
dropped to his seat and stared about him. He'd been there a thousand times, but
it all looked new now. The hum of the air-conditioning machinery blended with
the other sounds of a ship getting ready to move. And the smell of metal, oil
and machinery had a new meaning.
Mr.
Miller, electronics officer of the Triton! And
all set for Operation Depth!
He
heard the closing of the after hatch, and watched the hands of the chronometer
creep around to the hour of ten. Three minutes more and they'd be on their way.
Then
there was a sudden yell that blended with the closing of the fore hatch. The annunciator in the radar room announced: "All hatches
closed. Lower the turret!"
But
Don was on his feet before the big conning turret began sliding down to fit
flush with the deck.
From the bow of the Triton had come the shouts of men mixed with the barking
of a dog!
Almost
at once, there was a scratching on the door of the room. He threw it open, and Shep came bounding in, leaping up to lick his hand. The annunciator spoke again, but he didn't hear it. He felt
the shudder of the ship, but it barely registered.
Beyond the dog stood one of the new crewmen and Senator Kenney. And Kenney was fuming in outrage at the idea
of a dog sneaking aboard at the last moment. "Get him off, at once!"
he ordered the crewman.
A
metal door opened then, and Admiral Haller came through it. "What's going
on here?" he demanded. Then his eyes fastened on the bouncing form of the
dog, and leaped up to meet Don's. "Oh," he said. "A
stowaway!"
Don
picked up the dog. He might have known that it was too good to last. They'd
probably decide he was a hopeless child, more interested in bringing Shep aboard than in doing his duty. And then he'd be sent
ashore with Shep, while Ricks was hastily summoned
back.
"I'm
sorry, sir," he said weakly and started through the door.
Chapter S Trouble on the Triton
aller stopped him before he could leave. "Were
you responsible for this, Mr. Miller?"
"I didn't bring Shep
on board, sir," Don answered, and something in the tone Haller had used
made him more hopeful. "He just slipped in, I guess. I'm sorry—"
"See
that he keeps out of the way," the admiral ordered. He was interrupted by
a stream of protests from Kenney, but shrugged them aside. "We're under
way, on official orders, and I don't intend to put about. Anyhow, I don't see
how it can cause trouble, and Upjohn will have something to write about. If
you'll return to your quarters until we reach depth, Senator . . ."
Kenney
spun around and stalked off, muttering something about future appropriations.
Don had to agree with Upjohn. Most Senators were good men, as he knew from a
group who had visited the island two years before. It was a shame that Kenney
had to be the one to go along.
Haller grinned faintly at Don, and turned
back to control. "Take her down," his words drifted back. Don shut
the door of the radar room and returned to his work, with Shep
lying quietly at his feet. The sonar screen showed that they were already well
away from the island. He flipped on the television viewing panel—the Triton ran under the surface without ports, but with a number of television
pickups that could be tuned in on the viewing panels. They were already diving,
and there was nothing but water around them.
The
Triton could move downward in a hurry when set for
it; now she must have had both stern and bow planes set for
descent, and was heading down in a leisurely way on even keel. The water
grew darker as they dropped, and he had to set the gain up on the viewing
panel. At daybreak, there had been the threat of a storm, and it must have been
brewing up above, since it was growing darker than it should have been. At two
hundred fathoms, the outside lights were cut on ahead of them.
This
time, they were not trying to maintain radio contact with the surface. The
antenna was stowed away with its miles of thin, insulated wire—insulated with a
plastic which held enough air to make it weigh the same as the water it
displaced, so there would be no strain on it. It would be used only for
emergencies now.
Haller's
voice suddenly came over the annunciator. "Were on open orders now, gentlemen. We'll cruise in
the neighborhood of the Milwaukee Deep, and take echo-soundings to maintain an
accurate chart of our course. We will simulate certain maneuvers and return to
port in forty-eight hours."
The
Milwaukee Deep lay north of Puerto Rico, reaching a depth of five and a half
miles in some places. Don wondered what would happen if a submarine got out of
control there and sank all the way. But he knew the answer—even the Triton couldn't stand a pressure of thirteen thousand pounds per square inch;
she'd be squashed flat before she reached bottom. Probably the area had been
chosen as the least likely spot for the test of a new submarine—and hence the
best place for secrecy.
They
were down to four hundred fathoms now, nearly half a mile. Now and then, fish
could be seen in the lights of the ship—strange fish, unlike those found at the
surface or shallower waters. Don kept glancing at them, but they were somewhat
familiar from numerous pictures that had been taken by remote control and from
bathyspheres—the heavy, round, hollow steel balls barely big enough to hold a
man which had gone down to greater depths than the Triton had yet reached, though not as comfortably.
Down
here, the water stayed at a uniform temperature of 39° Fahrenheit, no matter
what the surface conditions. No sunlight could reach such depths in any amount
that could support plant life. The plankton that supported most of the upper
life drifted down from above, however, along with bits of other life. Down
here, plants and animals were scavengers.
Don
kept careful track of their progress, reporting the information from the sonar
screen and the echo-sound device regularly. But his interest still centered on the viewing panel. He was looking for the "man in the
bubble." It was still a mystery to them all, particularly since the unexplained
metal traces had turned up on the diving planes.
At
five hundred fathoms, they leveled off and proceeded along an even course,
ticking off a steady thirty knots an hour. Don began working with his listening
devices, trying to determine how much noise was produced by the Triton. It seemed nearly undetectable. He released a
listening device from a rear compartment and let it trail them for fifteen
minutes before having it rewind. The jets of steam and water that drove the Triton were so well designed that they were practically noiseless, and the ship
itself slipped through the water with no projections to cause trouble. The Triton would be almost undetectable, fortunately.
Normal
practice called for four hours of watch, with eight hours off. But the Triton was only a test ship, and had been designed for océanographie surveys, rather than as a weapon. Most of
her machinery was so automatic that a minimum crew of twelve was enough; on
this run, observers had swelled the ranks, and made less room available for the
crew. There were only ten aboard who could do the work that had to be done.
Officers and crew would have to work most of the time on this run, catching
barely time for sleep.
Upjohn
came slouching in a couple of hours later. Haller had issued orders that he was
to have complete freedom of the ship, so Don let him
in.
"Go stretch your legs, kid," the
reporter suggested.
"I asked the skipper, and he says I can
take over here for a while. I used to be able to handle this stuff well enough.
Anyhow, nothing much will be done until we fix the depth controls."
Don
got up, glad to move around. But he frowned. "What's wrong?"
"I
gather they've found that they can't blow their trim tanks again, and they're
trying to find out why. No trouble now, but it could be, later. So we're idling
along. Go on and see for yourself."
"No men in
bubbles?" Don asked, grinning.
Upjohn
stared at him thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. "As a matter of fact, I
thought I saw one in the bow viewing panel just before they found the trouble.
But it could have been anything, I guess. Heck, we were bound to have trouble.
I figured out there are just thirteen of us aboard!"
"You
don't believe that superstition, do you?" Don asked, but he was pretty
sure of the answer.
Upjohn
grinned, and then sobered. "No—but if anyone on board who is superstitious finds out the number, we'll have accidents; that's the way
it goes —men who are afraid always create the situation they're afraid of. Scram, Don, while you can. I'll call you if anything comes
up."
Don
hurried along the little passage toward the bow, where he heard the sounds of
men at work. Walrich and his uncle were busy going
over the pumps and controls for the bow trim tanks.
"Just
stuck again," his uncle said in answer to Don's questions.
"Apparently the valves don't work when there is enough pressure outside,
though I can't figure out why. We can take on water, but we can't eject it.
Well, we'll have to change back to the older design, I guess, unless we can
work the bugs out of this. Figure out how to get more torque from that motor, Walrich?"
The
broad shoulders twitched slightly as the mechanic looked up. "Sure. Put in
another motor and try to force the valve. I think it'll stand the extra power.
But that valve should work! Well, I'll get one of the men and we'll get busy on
it."
Simpson
and Don went back toward the wardroom where a steaming pot of coffee stood. The
older man looked worried, though there was no sign of panic. "We're
already as deep as we intend to go," he said. "But I wish we were
cruising higher up. I don't like the way that valve is acting. There's
something funny about it. And we found some tarry stuff on it before; we put a
screen over the valves this time, but it doesn't seem to help. Maybe there's
something down here that we don't know about."
Drake
came in and filled a cup. "There's something funny, Ed—no question about
it. The main ballast tanks won't clear. Same as the trim
tanks. And in testing them, we've taken on enough water to overload us
already. If we stopped moving, we'd sink to the bottom right now. The diving
planes are all that's holding us up."
He
fished out a cigarette and stood playing with it, making no effort to light it.
"Well," he said at last, "I've tried something. I suspected that
tarry stuff before, and tested it. It seems to dissolve in a weak detergent
solution, so I've had a few drums of the powder dumped into the tanks. Getting
it in was a job, too! If it works, we're all right; there's plenty of detergent
on board."
"I'd
better tell Walrich to try the same, then,"
Simpson decided.
"Already
saw him. He's working on an injector now, instead of the extra motor."
Don's
uncle got up to go back, and Drake joined him. The boy started after them, and
then gave up the idea. It was time he got back to the sonar controls. He
picked up a sandwich and started back just as an annunciator
barked out overhead. "Miller wanted in radar!"
There
was a sliding panel between the main control room and the sonar room, and Don
saw that it was thrown back now. Upjohn got up as he came in quickly and Don
sank into the seat. Haller was watching intently from the other side of the
panel.
Then
he saw it on the sonar screen—a big pip that was traveling beside them, and
apparently matching their course, since it stayed fixed on the screen.
"Probably something wrong with the sonar," he said. It was ridiculous
to think that there could be another submarine capable of operating at this
depth.
He
turned to his listening devices, but there was no sound beyond the noises the fish
made. Men had been surprised, at first, at the idea of fish making sounds—they
were too used to thinking of sound as something that traveled only in air; but
by now, every man who worked with the equipment took the fish "talk"
for granted.
Then the spot on the screen moved, indicating
the object was rising. It moved back again,
almost at once, but it had proved that it wasn't merely a flaw in the
instrument. Something was out there.
HaJler issued orders to change course by ten
degrees. As the Triton
swung, the pip moved aside
for a few seconds. Then it drew nearer again. It was pacing them, deliberately
matching their course.
Haller
picked up his microphone and put through a call for Drake, who appeared almost
at once. "How's the freeing of those valves going?" he asked. Then he
added, almost as an afterthought: "You don't have to answer in person, Dr.
Drake; you'll save time by using the engine-room phone."
"Too early to tell about the effect of the detergent —if it can
reach the tar at all. And if it is tar.
I've put Walrich back to doubling the motors on the
trim tank." Drake ran a hand through his blond hair, and grinned weakly in
an effort at apology. "I forgot about the phone—wasn't in the engine room,
anyhow. I'm not used to Navy methods, I guess."
"I
don't expect you to be," Haller told him. "When I was sent to skipper
your ship, I expected to throw the rule book out
of the window. Anyhow, do what you can about those valves. It looks as if
there's another submarine pacing us. We have to figure it's an enemy, and to
expect attack!"
Drake
took a look at the sonar screen and whistled. He nodded curtly and went out at
a run.
"Enemy still holding
position," Don reported.
Haller
nodded absently. "Take her up as fast as you can—and full power," he
ordered the helmsman. The ship shuddered faintly as the tall Negro threw the
power lever and moved the wheel. Here, there was a direct connection from
control room to power, without the need to relay orders through the engine
room. The ship began climbing painfully upward, fighting against the overload
of water ballast in the tanks.
"A
nice ship, except for a few little bugs," Haller said quietly, as he
studied Don's screens. "Too bad in a way though that the government kept
its hands off so much—otherwise, we'd have her fitted for a full crew, and
there'd be auxiliary standard valves until these were thoroughly tested. That's
one place where Navy experience is better than private enthusiasm. We're too
small a crew here for any real cruising—even for survey work. But if we get
back, I'm going to recommend that we build this general type exclusively from
now on. . . . Isn't it drawing closer to us now?"
"Yes,
sir," Don admitted. He could feel moisture on his palms, but Haller's
casualness had helped to ease some of the tension—as the admiral had probably
intended. The "enemy" was definitely closer, probably not more than
a quarter of a mile away.
"Aren't
you going to man the torpedoes?" he asked finally.
Haller
laughed grimly. "The Navy can make mistakes, too, Mr. Miller. No, there's
no use manning them. We intended them only for practice tests—never expected to
meet another ship at this depth—so they're not armed. No explosive charge. We
don't have any weapons at all, in fact. All we can do is hope we can outrun any
torpedoes they send—if they attack."
Now Don's hands really began to sweat. The
pip on the screen seemed to swell up to double its size, and to be leaping out
of the screen at him. He swallowed and forced his eyes to focus on it. Then he
saw that it was nearer, judging by the brightness.
"It's catching up with
us, sir," he reported.
"Take
her down, Mr. Cavanaugh," Haller ordered. "We can't outrun them when
we're fighting our weight. But maybe we can stand more pressure than they can.
And keep going down until I order you to stop."
On the screen, the pip showed that the
"enemy" was heading for them still, and rapidly shortening the
distance. They went roaring down into the darkness of the depths, but the pip
on the screen grew brighter and brighter, as whatever was behind them rapidly
caught up.
Chapter
4 Head-On Collision
I |
hey
passed the depth of five
hundred fathoms and kept going down. Don jerked his eyes from the screen and
got a quick reading on the depth from the echo-sound. Here, the ocean floor lay
some fifteen hundred fathoms below the surface, where the pressure would be two
tons per square inch. He shivered at the idea. His uncle claimed the Triton should stand a depth of two miles without any danger, but he didn't want
to try it yet.
The
pip on the screen slipped behind them completely, then
showed that the pursuer was just off the stern.
Something
hit them violently. The Triton
seemed to slew around and
to tilt sharply. There was a dull rumble of sound. Don waited for the fatal
noise of water hissing in, but it did not come.
"No
torpedo," Haller announced. His face had tensed, but his voice was still
quiet and cool. "Steady as you go, Mr. Cavanaugh." He picked up the
general call microphone. "We've just been hit, but not by a
torpedo.
What you felt was only a deliberate collision, and we can stand a great deal
of that safely, if not comfortably. In such a game, the risk is at least as
great to the attacker as it is to us."
There
was another heavy thump. This time, it turned the Triton part way over. Don grabbed at the radar desk to keep from falling. His
stomach was sick, but he held onto himself somehow.
And
again the thump came. This time there were excited shouts from somewhere on the
ship, but no warning gongs sounded to indicate a rupture to the seams.
Kayne, the navigator, looked up from his concentration
on the dials and indicators. "Why doesn't he use torps
or something?"
"Pressure,
maybe," Haller answered. "We're down to seven hundred fathoms—a ton
of pressure per inch. If we get far enough down, an explosive can't even
explode. The pressure—"
This time the ship threatened to turn over
completely. Cavanaugh and the navigator went into frantic action, but they
finally came back to level.
". . . pressure outside might be greater
than the explosive pressure inside the torpedo," Haller finished.
"Instead of exploding, it might collapse."
"Unless
he uses an atomic war head," Don muttered under his breath.
Haller heard him, however. "Unless he
uses atomics," he agreed quietly.
Then
there was a shout from the helmsman, and he was pointing frantically to the bow
viewing plate.
Don's
view was blocked, but he switched his own plate rapidly over to the bow pickup.
There
was no question about it. Outside, in the lights of the Triton, a great whale was swimming rapidly alongside
and slightly ahead of them. Their "enemy" submarine was simply a huge
whale.
It
seemed incredible that any living thing could descend from the surface into
this pressure, but he'd seen accounts that claimed the great cetaceans could
descend for over a mile. The strange thing, really, was that such a large one
should be in this part of the ocean. Usually they were found further north, as
he remembered it.
The
creature drew off to the side and suddenly came rushing at them. This time, Don
switched the pickups to follow it all the way. It came charging up to the
stern, striking with its great nose. Then it swung about and seemed to nuzzle
against the ship.
He
barely saw the last as it shook the Triton about,
but Haller seemed to have seen the same.
"He's
playing with us," the admiral said. He laughed, grimly. "Maybe he
thinks we're another whale with our spouts on the wrong end! How long has he
been with us?"
"About twenty minutes,
sir," Don guessed.
"Good.
He must be running out of air, with all the effort he's been putting out. Maybe
he'll surface."
The
whale wasn't surfacing yet. It turned for one last gesture of friendship to
this strange invader of its home waters. But apparently it had grown tired of
the stern, or the hot exhaust there had proved uncomfortable. This time its
charge was straight for the bow. It met the Triton head on. The bow seemed to lift and twist. The whale slid under it,
hitting it again with his great flukes as he passed.
That,
apparently, was enough. With a sudden directness of purpose, he turned upward
and began rising, until he was gone from the light of their lamps. The sonar
screen showed him fading away quickly toward the surface.
But
now the Triton
had other worries.
Cavanaugh was sweating and laboring at the helm, and Kayne
had gotten up to assist him. The Triton was
wobbling uncertainly, like a leaf drifting in the wind. It kept threatening to
roll, and only the wild efforts on the helmsman's part were keeping it anywhere
near level.
"The
bow plane, sir," he gasped, nodding toward the screen. But there was only
the ocean ahead showing there.
Don
twisted his switch, until he found the pickup which would show the bow diving
plane at the far edge. Haller bent down to study it. He gasped faintly.
"Bent," he reported.
"Neutralize it and use your stern planes, Mr. Cavanaugh."
The
bow plane was buckled into an odd curve, as if some giant had taken a sheet of
wax and bent it in his hands. The whale must have struck it dead center.
Cavanaugh
shook his head. "Can't, sir. Stern planes have
been stuck since he first hit us. Been using only the bow
ones."
Haller grunted as if
someone had hit him in the stomach. "Cut speed. Dead slow ahead/* he
ordered. Some of the shaking stopped then. The trim tanks were well enough
balanced to hold them level. But now they had no way to control their ascent or
descent. In fact, there was no way to keep from sinking slowly downward,
unless they could free the tank valves and lighten themselves.
Haller
was talking with Simpson over the engine phone, but the news obviously wasn't
good. He put the phone back on its cradle and swung to stare at Don's screens.
Then he pulled a diagram of the Tritons construction
from one of the little lockers and began pouring over it.
"We'll
have to eject everything we can to lighten weight, and do what trimming we have
to by moving things about by hand," he decided. "We'll start with the
torpedoes. Better do it two at a time, with time to trim between. There's
probably a storm going on up there, but we'll have to risk it."
Don
felt his confidence coming back, and now he was glad that they had a man with a
lot of practical experience on subs for their skipper. His uncle was a fine
designer, and Drake was a wizard with atomics —but neither could have sounded
as confident as Haller did; and it seemed to be a confidence that grew from the
man's knowledge that there was always another answer, if the first one didn't
work.
He
glanced back at his screen and let out a sudden shout. Haller jerked around,
and Don dropped his finger to the screen. "The whale!
He's coming back. See!"
The pip was there again, indicating something
coming down toward them. The whale had apparently gone to the surface, taken a
few good breaths, and immediately started down again.
Don
realized he'd sounded close to panic, as Shep whined
and came against his legs. The dog was always sensitive to tones of his voice.
To have appar-endy found the answer to their problem,
and then have the whale decide to return, though . . .
"Kill
the jets," Haller said. He sounded disgusted, but there was still no fear
in his voice. "We'll sink faster without speed, and that's the best we can
try now."
They were nearly eight hundred fathoms down—a
trifle under a mile—when the whale drew above them. It came down, but it was
obviously uncomfortable. Instead of a charge against the Triton, it slid down slowly, to nuzzle against the
ship once, and then retreat. It started down after them again. For a second, it
hesitated. Finally, reluctantly, at eight hundred and fifty fathoms, it gave up
and rose before circling around and seeming to wait for them to come up again.
Don
sighed at the end of that menace for the moment; it would at least have to
return to the surface, which might give them a chance to ascend. He wondered
again at nature's ability to handle problems that had baffled men for years;
it had taken huge amounts of the finest alloys and careful design to permit the
Triton to stand the pressure, but that big animal of
simple flesh and bones could drop from the surface to a region where the
pressure was over a ton to the square inch without apparently worrying.
"He
must have high blood pressure down here," he commented. It wasn't much of
a joke, but it brought enough of a laugh to ease some of the tension, and he
felt better for it.
Haller
had been speaking on the phone again. He cradled it now, and shrugged.
"Torpedo tubes won't open at this pressure; I should have expected it. The
Triton wasn't meant to carry them originally. And
there isn't enough other weight we can eject. All the hatches were meant for
escape, not for undersea dumping. Well . . ."
They
were used to having Haller find a solution for them by now, and waited for his
next idea. But he shrugged at last.
"So
we go down," he said. "Unless someone has ideas?
No? All right, Don, try to spot the highest section of the bottom you think we
can drift to, will you?"
Don
noticed the use of his first name, and knew it was actually an admission that
they were now under extreme emergency. Yet Haller seemed as unruffled as
ever—until he came around to join Don in the search. Then the boy saw that the
admiral's hands were sweating as much as his own, and noticed that there were
tiny lines of strain around the man's eyes. Haller was worried and afraid too,
but he had it under complete control, and wasn't losing his head. Don's respect
for him rose again.
Upjohn
stuck his head in then. The expression in his eyes showed that he was aware of
the seriousness of the situation. His grin was a failure, though he managed to
keep up a generally good act of normality. "Dexter and I've been busy
keeping Kenney from tearing up the ship/' he said. "We
finally got him knocked out with a little force and some sleeping tablets.
Anything we can do?"
"Thanks, nothing. Oh, tell the others we've decided to find a place on the bottom while
we make repairs. That whale you felt made things pretty rough, but nothing we
can't fix. And tell them what I said, Sid —not what you think I mean!"
"Right." The reporter went back quietly.
Haller
turned back to the echo-sounder as Don grunted suddenly. The boy indicated what
he had found. "There. It's about the highest point I've seen, and we might
make it. Big enough, too."
"Twelve
hundred fathoms—that's within our limits, from what I can find. About a ton and a half pressure to the inch." He
nodded, and began giving directions to Cavanaugh.
The
power came back on, at half speed. They shuddered and fluttered through the
water, and Cavanaugh was having a rough time trying to compensate for the erratic
behavior of the damaged diving plane and the stuck stern planes. They turned
gradually until they were heading for the undersea plateau Don had spotted.
"Can you stand a
little more?" Haller asked.
"Try,"
the helmsman said. The muscles bulged on his arms, but it was from strain
rather than effort; the control motors were still working, doing the physical
labor.
The ship increased its speed a trifle, and
the fluttering and twisting grew worse. But now they were covering more
distance for each foot they drifted downward. The plateau was nearer, but they
were almost too low to make it.
"I
can take a little more, sir," Cavanaugh forced out between clenched teeth.
The deep brown of his skin seemed to be covered with tiny rhinestones of
perspiration. At Haller's nod, he pushed the lever over a bit and hastily
grabbed back at the wheel as the pitching threatened to get out of control.
It
was going to be close. The edge of the plateau was a sharp cliff. If they
missed the top, they would strike against that and go drifting down for
thousands of feet more.
Then
it was below them. They held their breath for a second, but there was no
scraping or shock of collision.
"Kill the jets,"
Haller ordered.
Cavanaugh
reached for the lever, and pushed it to STOP, but they continued drifting. Now
there was a faint scraping sound from below. They began to relax, just as the
helmsman shouted.
Ahead,
and too small to have shown by echo-sounding, a single rock the size of several
houses stuck up, and they were headed straight for it. There was more crunching
against the bottom; then they barely had time to brace themselves for the
collision before they hit.
It
knocked Don over against his radar panel, and there
was a terrific din. But most of their speed had been killed. He pushed himself
back, saw that the others were all right, and let out a sigh of relief.
They were still helpless, stranded where the
pressure would be sure death at the least tiny leak, but there wasn't the lost
feeling of drifting that they had known before.
Smoke
suddenly reached his nose, together with a hissing sound. He jerked his eyes
down and hastily ripped aside a panel of the set. With a groan, he yanked out a
section of 600-ohm cable that had broken free on the impact and was shorting
his power. But it was too late. The short had already burned out one section of
his radio transmitter, leaving blackened resistors and melted connections mixed
with the soft, waxy goo that had surrounded other parts.
"Better
eject the antenna and send out a call for a rush job on a new diving
plane," Haller began. Then he saw the mess of the transmitter. They could
receive signals now, but there was no chance of sending any message from the
ship.
"All
right," he said. "So we'll have to make all repairs ourselves."
Don looked at his viewing panels, seeing the
damaged diving plane outside. Fixing that from here was going to be a real problem!
Chapter 5 Men of the Sea
ajller assembled the key men in the officer's wardroom
to talk everything over before trying to start repairs. Don and his uncle were
there, along with Drake, Walrich, Kayne
and Upjohn. Haller summed up the situation. As he saw it, they were lucky in a
lot of ways. The Triton
was standing the pressure
with no sign of trouble, and they had no need to worry about air or power for
their living needs. There were even supplies on board for at least six months.
In the old days, a submarine on the bottom meant that it had to be rescued in a
few hours or the men inside would suffocate. In their case, there was no immediate
need to worry about the time repairs would take.
Simpson
shook his head. "Afraid it isn't that good, sir. We can stay here quite a
while, but I'd hate to risk it even for a month. There's a ton and a half of
pressure on every square inch of hull. She can take it; she can take twice that
for a short time, maybe. But even a ton wouldn't be safe indefinitely.
When metal is under steady strain, the
crystals of the alloys weaken—fatigue, we call it. Sooner or later, something
will give—and we'd better not be here then!"
"I
was coming to that," Haller agreed. "And men can only stand so much
strain, too. In a month, some of us might very well crack under the emotional
pressure, and that would be almost as disastrous. All right, we've got to get
back to the surface as quickly as we can. That means repairing the tanks or the
diving planes—preferably both. What about it?"
Drake
looked at Walrich, who shrugged. The scientist made
a disgusted grimace with his lips. "If we count on the tanks, we'll have
to get outside to clean the valves. I was hoping the tar might have got inside
—tar or whatever it is—and that dissolving some of it would free them. No
results from the detergent, however. And doubling the engines on the valves
strained the gears, but didn't budge them. As for the planes—well, it's the
same situation. We'd have a hard time straightening the bow plane, even if we
had it in our repair shop; but we can't touch it out there. All I know about
the stern planes is that they won't respond."
"They
stuck, just before the whale took after us," Kayne
struck in. He was a slight, nervous man who always wore his cap to cover up his
completely bald head, though he was only about twenty-five. "I was
watching Cavanaugh when it happened. They just froze, with no warning. I'd like
to get a good look at them."
"All right. Let's." Haller
got up and started for the control room. "Will the packing glands on the
periscope stand raising it, Dr. Simpson?"
Don's
uncle grinned crookedly. "I wish the rest of the ship would hold as surely.
The more pressure, the better they'll hold."
Don
had never had a chance to look at the periscope in action before. It used a
television remote pickup, too, instead of the old mirrors and prisms, but could
be raised, tilted and turned to cover all directions. Haller reached for the
controls, standing so the rest could see the big viewing screen that had
replaced the tiny little opening of the old-style periscope. The big tube
lifted easily for ten feet, while indicators threw cross-hatched lines over the
image to show height and direction. He swung it to the bow diving plane first;
it gave a better view than the bow pickup had done, showing that the plane was
badly bent, but with no apparent damage to the hinge on which it swung.
"It'd
be simple enough to get it off, if we were in shallow water," Simpson
said. "Out there . . . Well, we've got a bathysuit
on board that will stand any pressure the ship will. But working on that in the
suit isn't going to be any picnic."
Haller's
face cleared a little, though. Don remembered that he'd overlooked the bathysuit, which had been installed in a hatch after the
plans had been first completed. It was a heavy steel ball, like a bathysphere,
with just room inside for a man and an oxygen tank; but it was equipped with
small caterpillar treads to move about and with grapples that could be
controlled from inside, like arms. The trouble was that no grapple could be as
skilful as a hand, and operating it was a continual backbreak-ing
series of contortions.
The
admiral swung the periscope to the rear, and began focusing on the stern diving
plane. He frowned and adjusted it to show both rear planes. "What . . .
?"
Driven
between the big planes and the tail assembly on both sides were two bright
wedges that looked like copper! They looked as if they'd been designed to lock
the planes, and had succeeded.
Drake
recovered from the shock first. "Then I wasn't crazy. It was sabotage
before. But how? Don't tell me your whale did
that?"
"Somebody
human, or something with a human being inside," Haller said grimly. "Something small and quiet enough to come up without our
detecting him. Dr. Drake, when it happened to you, could it have been
done at five hundred fathoms or more?"
Drake
considered. "I guess so. We wouldn't have noticed it until we stopped
diving, then, of course. I suppose so, yes."
"And
this probably happened to us at about five hundred. Well, the Nautilus has reached almost that depth. And other bathysuits have been operated lower than that. Gentlemen,
it looks as if someone doesn't want the Triton to
succeed, and may be up there now, making sure we don't surface again. That
would also account for the tarry material which apparently is jamming our
valves."
It
was the only explanation that seemed to fit, yet Don wondered about anyone in a
bathysuit who could keep up with the Triton—even at half speed— and maneuver enough to remain out of sight of the
pickups, make no sound, and also know exactly where to locate the ship, even
when it was sailing under sealed orders. He saw his uncle stare at Drake; both
of them also looked doubtful. Still, it was the only explanation they had.
And it wasn't a comfortable
one.
Don
moved to the sonar room, and began working the pickups, trying to explore the
bottom around them. They were close to the edge of the clifflike
drop that went down for thousands of feet further, he saw. Too close, in fact.
The bottom sloped slightly, and it seemed that they were in constant danger of
sliding slowly off.
Then
he became aware that they had moved since landing. The ship was tilted
slightly, as if it had rolled a few degrees toward the edge of the abyss below.
And on the upper side, away from the cliff, there was a hollow in the soft
bottom to show where they had first settled.
He
looked at it sickly for a second before turning to call Haller. But the skipper
had already guessed from his expression that something was up. Haller was at
the screen at once, following Don's pointing finger. He studied the situation
for a moment, and then began switching from pickup to pickup to get a better
overall picture.
"I
think we're all right," he decided. There was no need to tell the others.
They had switched on the control screens, and were seeing it for themselves.
"We slipped a litde at first, but now we've dug
in and settled enough that we should be all right. Of course, we don't know
what it's like under this soft stuff here; if there's a steeper slope than
there seems to be, the least thing might tilt us over and send us rolling down.
But the rock we hit is still there, and it rolled a trifle when we struck—so I
think we can forget that."
Yet he still stood studying the screens. Don
got up, almost afraid to move for fear that the minute jar might upset the
balance; Haller might think it was safe, but he couldn't know. Then he saw for
himself what was worrying the skipper.
They
had sunk into the soft mud enough to keep from sliding more, but also enough to
hold them down to some extent; and the hollow their slipping had left was
filling in as the soft stuff rolled down into the hole. If they continued to
settle, they would reach a state where the mud would suck down on them and keep
them from floating properly, even after repairs.
"We've
got less time than I thought," Haller decided. "All right, we'll have
to be out of here in forty-eight hours or so. But that still gives us time
enough. If we can get a signal out, they can at least drop us a new diving
plane. That will save repairs."
"We
can do better than that," Simpson told him. "There are two more of
these bathysuits back on the island, both bigger
models than the one we carry. I meant to take them along when I was still
hoping we'd use the Triton
for océanographie mapping. If we can send out a message, they
can drop those down from above and handle the whole job."
Don looked at his uncle and then down at the
wreck of the transmitter. He'd already checked the repair manual on the
transmitter, and found that it was meant for normal troubles, and lacked the
all-important information for a real rebuilding job. Still, there were
replacements, and it could be fixed. He nodded doubtfully.
"I
can fix it," he said. "But I don't know how long it will take."
Haller
was also inspecting it. "We'll have to try. But the first thing we do is
turn in and get some sleep. We'll save time in the long run—and sometimes a
fresh idea hits while a man's asleep. Don, you want to take first watch here?
You can start in on this. I'll relieve you in four hours. This is about the
only place where we need to keep a watch—on the screens."
"I'll
stick with him," Upjohn volunteered. "I know enough about radio to
hand him anything he needs, though that's about all."
Haller
grinned. "I know a little more than that. Leave the routine stuff to me,
and I'll solder your joints when I take over. Want some food sent in?"
Don
settled down, studying the mess of the transmitter and keeping his eyes on the
screens. Haller hadn't actually done a thing, or contributed a single idea. Yet
somehow he gave the feeling of having everything in hand. And because of his
presence, their chances were probably a lot better. He didn't look like a
typical admiral—he was too stout, too short, and much too chubby-faced. But his
calm voice and spotless suit lent him an air of confidence they needed, and it
was clear that he knew how to get things done. Apparently that was what being a
leader meant.
Upjohn
pulled out a pencil and began chewing on it idly. He grinned toward the
captain's stateroom, as if reading Don's thoughts. "Quite
a guy, Bob Haller. I knew him when he was commanding an old-time sub in
the war, which makes me older than I look, Don. When he came on, the crew hated
him because he was replacing one of the real hero-type commanders. Haller never
did anything you could call heroic, but he saved two big battlewagons, sneaked
into a heavily mined harbor and wiped out a whole nest of the other side's
subs, and then got depth-bombed trying to unsnarl a situation his superior had
made a mess of. He brought the old ship back through enemy territory when any
sane man would have known it couldn't travel ten knots under water. And never lost a man. When he left, his men acted as if the
world had come to an end. . . . Well, what can I do to help?"
"Not
much," Don admitted. "Keep Shep out of
things, maybe."
The
dog didn't like the smell of the burned parts, but he was curious about all the
work Don was trying to do, and kept sticking his head up to see what was going
on. Upjohn laughed shortly, and pulled him away, while Don went ahead with the
work.
The
first job was to diagram all the layout that had been
ruined. When he was sure he had it all down on paper, it would be safe to rip
out the damaged section, but not until then. And since a few of the wires had
come unsoldered, it was a matter of tracing and retracing circuits to be sure.
This was work that would have been saved if the instruction manual had carried
a complete schematic diagram, but that had somehow been omitted. From the fact
that the list of tubes didn't check with the ones in the set, Don guessed that
it was one of those cases where a model had been changed, and the manual
revised hastily, with the idea of rewriting it later. He wondered how many men
had lost their lives because somebody decided that such details weren't really
important, and put off doing a good job until later.
Upjohn
yawned after an hour of it, and stood up. "Gonna
get me some coffee and walk around a bit. Want anything from the galley?"
Don
shook his head. He glanced up at his screens, and switched to various pickups
to keep an eye on things. But nothing seemed to have changed, except that the
mud had filled in evenly around the Triton now.
He'd
come to an experimental part of the rig now, where some engineer had discovered
a new way to do things. He frowned over it and began pulling down books of tube
characteristics while he figured out the mathematics behind it, so that he
could reconstruct the actual circuit. The work at M.I.T. was coming in useful
now.
Finally,
he began tearing out all the ruined section. Since he had spare parts—something
he'd checked carefully—it was simpler and faster to discard all this than to
try to save whatever was still good. Shep suddenly
growled, and Don glanced at him.
The
dog was standing up, looking at the screen. Don glanced up at it, and saw
something just sliding out of range, but was unable to make out any details. He
frowned in surprise. While the screen gave a clear picture in colors as natural
as could be expected through the water, he was surprised at Shep's
reaction. Like most animals, the dog usually paid no attention to anything on a
screen, apparently on the idea that if it didn't smell real, it was all
nonsense. A few times before, he'd reacted to Don's uncle's face on the telephone
panel from the office. He could recognize things when they interested him,
apparently, but he usually didn't believe in them.
He must have been aware of the nervous
tension on the ship, and ready to bark at anything.
Don
went back to his work, only to hear another growl. This time he jerked his eyes
directly up to the screen.
Swimming there in front of the pickup was a
man! There was nothing unusual about the man, except for a seeming paleness to
the skin and the odd clothes, that looked like a
combination of a woman's ice-skating skirt and swimming trunk tops. But all around
the man was a bubble. It didn't quite touch him anywhere, but was never more
than half an inch from him. It seemed to be made of nothing but air, impossible
as that was—or else of very thin cellophane. And on the back of the man was a
small tank, which might contain more air.
Then another one swam into view, carrying a
load of what looked like mud in his hands.
Chapter Ö Distress Signal
s he watched, Don saw the second swimmer come
closer and heave the dark stuff in his hands. Then blackness settled onto the
screen, just as Shep let out a sharp bark. Don stood
with his mouth ajar for a second, then dived for the
switch to change to another pickup. He heard Upjohn come into the room, but was
too busy to look up.
He
caught just a shadow in another pickup. Then the swimmers were gone.
"Did
you see them?" he asked quickly, finally glancing at the reporter.
Upjohn
looked puzzled. "I saw the screen go blank and saw you trying to get
something on the pickup. What was it? It must have been good to make Shep react."
"It
was," Don said. He told what he'd seen as factually as he could, trying to make it sound believable. But even with the
knowledge that Drake and another had seen something of the same thing, he
couldn't make it sound convincing to himself. Men
simply couldn't exist without elaborate protection
from bathyspheres or submarines at this depth; and air didn't form bubbles that
fitted exactly the contours of a human being.
Upjohn
didn't laugh, but he didn't seem excited, either. "I'm not saying you
didn't see just what you said, Don," he decided. "I've seen things
that couldn't exist before. One of the pictures that the experimental automatic
rocket we sent around the moon brought back showed something that was obviously
a piece of machinery. And no life of any advanced kind can live up there. But
I've also seen some queer forms of life coming out of the ocean. You already
heard Hawkes' story. And men just naturally see faces
in clouds, and such things. Still-it must have looked darned close to human, if
it wasn't. And there's that copper wedge out there in the diving plane."
He
shrugged. "If we see 'em again, we'll yell out
for the rest to come up. Otherwise report it to Haller later. What can we do
about it if there are
men out there,
anyhow?"
When
Haller came in to replace Don—looking as if he hadn't just gotten up—he
listened, his face expressionless, and agreed with Upjohn. "No use
writing it up in the log yet. I don't believe you saw such things, Don, but I
don't think you're crazy or lying, either. Sid, where's your camera?"
Upjohn
went out to get it, and came back, giving instructions on setting it so a
picture could be taken from the screen. Haller set it beside him within easy
reach, and went over Don's schematic and the work he had done on the set.
"I'll stick to this section," he decided. "You handle the trick
stuff, and I'll wire up the rest of it."
He
ran a resistor wire through the hole in a tube socket, twisted it easily with
needle-nose pliers, and touched it with the hot soldering iron, adding the
smallest amount of solder. It was a beautiful job, and Don felt more confident.
Haller had done electronic wiring before, obviously.
"I'll be back in four
hours, Mr.—sir," Don said.
Haller
grinned up at him as he marked off the work done on the diagram. "Make it
Bob, Don. You're not bound to Navy regs, and I've
been handing out first names already. Except when you're on duty—then we'll
stick to the 'sir.' You're entitled to eight hours sack time—but if you want to
cut it to four, I'll be grateful. Want me to buzz you?"
Don
nodded. "Please," he said. He'd always been hard to wake, even with a
full night's sleep, and he'd been wondering how he'd get up in time. The period
between full sleep and really waking up always seemed too pleasant to give up.
But
surprisingly, he was up when Haller buzzed him. Shep
growled at the signal, and then relaxed as he heard Haller's voice. He was an
obedient dog, but ships imposed strains on his habits; anything more than a
small sailboat was foreign territory to him, except as something men kept at
the docks to make interesting smells.
Haller
had done a remarkable amount. Except for the experimental section—the part with
the circuit that had given Don the trouble before—it was finished.
The boy took over,
twisting the coils around coil-forms of plastic he had stripped. He could only
hope they would work; coil tables told how they should be wound, but any time a
man followed such a table and got exactly what he wanted, he put it down as a
minor miracle. Haller finished them with coil dope and tinned the leads as Don
completed them.
"Wish
I had a Q-meter," Don complained. "We're a little limited on test
equipment. I'll have to check it all with a signal generator and meter, I
guess."
He
stayed at it while Haller began picking up the business of getting repairs
under way, as the rest of the men got up.
From
the wardroom, he heard the querulous voice of Senator Kenney complaining. There
was the sound of the man's feet stamping toward the control room, and more
angry words. Don strained his ears, but he couldn't make out what Haller told
him. Apparently, it was a short course on the events that had happened.
"And
you didn't waken me? You let Dexter and that upstart reporter lock me up while
that was going on? Admiral Haller, I might have been killed! When I report this
..."
"Not
at all," Haller said, and this time his voice was plainer. "If we had
been about to die, I'd have had you wakened, Senator. I've always felt that no
man should die in his sleep if he doesn't want to."
"Hmm." The Senator thought that one over, apparently, and decided to ignore
any possible sarcasm. "Well, what's done is done. And you say we'll soon
be able to communicate?"
Don heard the panel slide back, and looked up
to see the Senator's gray face. The man looked in and nodded slowly. "Go
right ahead, young man. Don't stop anything that will get us out of this
situation." His voice was curiously subdued. "Admiral, I—I'm not used
to this sort of thing. I find it—well, I find it somewhat shocking. I confess, I feel somewhat sick. I think I'll retire.
I—uh—thank you, Admiral. Thank you, young man."
He
staggered out of the control room, no longer a man who could make and break
others, but a beaten, tired old man who saw signs of danger he was untrained
to meet or even understand. When talk failed to settle things, he had nothing
else to fall back on. He probably was the same man underneath as he had been
thirty years before, when his name had been on so much of the legislation that
was still studied in schools as a model of good government. But too many years
had passed with people around who bowed to his slightest wish, and the Senator
had no real contact with the world outside of his own narrow sphere. Maybe he
knew he hadn't kept up, and that added to his bitterness.
Don
shrugged these thoughts off, and dug the voltmeter and signal generator out of
the kit. The signal generator was a small, portable one. It had tiny batteries
to power it, and a pair of the new aluminum-antimony transistors to generate the
signal. By varying the setting, a tiny radio signal of any frequency between a
hundred kilocycles and five hundred megacycles could be produced. Don switched
it on and tested it quickly, setting it for an audio modulation. This added a
four hundred cycle beat to the regular signal. The four hundred cycles raised
and lowered the amount of the high-frequency radio signal four hundred times a
second, of course—and he could strip it back off with a tiny crystal and pair
of headphones, to give him an audible test of how it was going.
He
coupled on the generator, set it to the proper frequency, and began testing the
circuit with the meter. Then he stuck the generator into his shirt pocket and
began checking voltages.
Everything
seemed to be in order, except that the signal barely crept through, where it
should have been amplified thousands of times. He puzzled over the circuits,
while he heard Haller, Drake, Walrich and his uncle
conferring. The ship was busy as men went about trying everything that they could
think of.
Repairs
of the transmitter had gone much faster than he had expected, but obviously the
others weren't waiting on him. They were hoping he could get a message out, so
that nobody would have to go out in the bathysuit,
but they weren't counting on it. Maybe it was a good thing, too—certainly the
set seemed as useless as before.
Then,
as he tapped an electrolytic condenser in the tricky section, the meter
suddenly jumped. An intermittent! A part that seemed to be in good condition,
but went off and on, sometimes acting one way when "loaded" with the
meter and another way in normal operation.
He
yanked it out and soldered in another. And this time, the signal built up a
step at a time as it should, until it reached the main transmitter section, which
was still in good condition. The new coils weren't quite right, but a few trial
squeezings and spread-ings
settled that; it wasn't perfect, but it would work properly.
He
called in Haller, but didn't wait to eject the antenna buoy and began letting
it unreel toward the surface. The buoy collapsed violently as the pressure hit
it—he could follow that from a nearby pickup— but it was filled with helium and
designed to collapse without losing the power to float. The thin, insulated
wire began rising steadily.
Haller
clapped him on the back. "Good work, Don. Here, I've had the message
written out for hours. It'll give them enough dope to proceed with caution and
watch out for whatever jammed those planes. Keep sending until they locate the
buoy."
It
might take hours for an accurate fix, Don knew. But now there was hope again
inside the ship. Finally an automatic signal came back down the wire to indicate
it had surfaced. He pulled the key to him and began sending the dots and dashes
of an SOS.
The
little antenna, so far above, was the best that could be designed for the
purpose, but it wasn't too efficient. Lying so close to the
surface of the ocean, it was capable of sending out only a limited signal.
If someone were listening for it, and conditions were good, the answer might
come at once. Otherwise, he'd have to keep trying.
He
cut off after five minutes, and began listening across the dial. The receiver
could operate better, since it was hunting for a signal pumped out by the huge
shore installations, with kilowatts of power and whole buildings of equipment;
anyhow, even a small receiver could amplify by millions of times a signal
picked up.
He
caught a rapid flash of Spanish, and started to turn on. But Haller bent
closer, twisting one of the phones to his ear. "Storm up above," he
translated. "That's the big government job sending out storm warnings to
all small craft. The storm we saw coming must have hit. Waves . . . Uh! We're
right in the hurricane path, if they're correct. There it comes in
English."
Don
heard it through, groaning. It was coming in with a heavy surge, fading to
nothing, and then blasting out again. The little antenna must be bobbing
about, under water a lot of the time. It was completely waterproofed, but it
couldn't operate normally under such conditions. It must be really pitching on
the surface!
He
tried again, listened, and then again. There was no answer. He shifted down to
the lowest frequency his set could handle, where there would be less chance of
the beaming effect keeping it from spreading the maximum distance. And still
there was no answer.
Then an answer came, faint and almost
inaudible. Obviously, judging by the hand-operated keying, it was from some
ship, rather than from one of the big installations. From the words he got, he
gathered that they were asking what they could do.
"Have them
relay," Haller instructed.
Don
sent instructions, and repeated the message. This time he got more of the
answer as the operator checked back. They were having trouble receiving him.
Only part of his message was complete.
There
was more, too. He read it off to Haller as it came through. ". . . Sorry
can't do better. Bad shape ourselves. Edge of
hurricane got us. We're sinking fast, waiting arrival rescue ship. Will send
what we have, then must contact rescue ship. Will..."
Then
it cut down to a faint trickle of sound, and was suddenly gone. Don shook his
head. From the sound of things, and the erratic keying, the operator up there
was in a lot worse trouble than he was. He had a picture of the man, sitting
pounding at his key while he heard the shouts of the men on his ship as the
water rose higher and higher, and the ship probably began to break up under the
pounding of the waves. In the middle of his desperate attempts to keep in
touch with the rescue ship, he'd taken time out to answer another SOS and relay
what he could of the message. Don had no idea of how close that rescue ship
might be, but he made a hasty, silent prayer that it would arrive in time.
He
began searching and sending again, alternately, trying to make another contact.
He heard bits of totally useless chitchat. And then a strong signal came
through, in precise, machine Morse, obviously beamed with the full power of a
land station.
"Calling Triton. Relay message received, incomplete. We are attempting to get a fix,
will despatch destroyer for bathysuits—query
bathysuits?—earliest possible and proceed to
location. Set transmitter to frequency. . . ."
It cut off abruptly, without warning. Don
checked
his receiver, and then began tuning again. But
now there was no message of any sort coming in. He cut in the transmitter, and
a meter dipped suddenly, indicating something wrong, as if his antenna were
disconnected.
A
sudden sickening sensation ran through him. He cut on the pickup that covered
the section where the antenna wire had run out, and pressed the rewind button.
The wire was almost invisible, even under the lights that bit through the thick
water, but he could just make it out as it bobbed downward under the slightly unsteady
force of the reel.
After
about five hundred feet had been reeled in, it came to an end. There was
nothing more. The wire had parted. Somewhere up above, their only antenna buoy
floated on the lashing waves of a hurricane, no longer connected. There was now
no way in which they could send a signal for the needed fix.
And
without that, the Navy might hunt for weeks without locating them. The buoy
would drift for miles, even if it could be located. To make matters worse,
there was a storm raging which might not abate for days, and sonar traces from
this depth would be useless.
Chapter 7^po ir Task
Out!" Haller exclaimed. "Don, I'm almost
ready to believe in those bubble men everyone has been ■ seeing!"
^
Don jerked back from his bitter thoughts to even grimmer ones. Haller was
right. The line couldn't have broken. Not at five hundred feet up. The reel was
set to soak up all normal shocks—even such ones as might be produced by the
waves above. And if the wire had broken under strain, it would have broken near
the top, where there would have been more snap, rather than so far down that
all the pitching had long since been absorbed.
It
looked as if something had deliberately severed the line. And since the wire
was a tough alloy of copper and beryllium, it must have taken some cutting; an
alloy like that could cut steel, or stand more bending than the best phosphor
bronze—not to mention the protection of the rugged plastic insulation.
It couldn't have been the whale, either, even
if
the creature had teeth with which to bite, which
it did not. The whale had stayed up a good deal higher than that. He'd spotted
it on the sonar screen, high above, not too long before. He was sure that this
wasn't the explanation. There were also a number of monstrous creatures
swimming about outside, some that looked as if they had evolved from lobsters,
except that their pinchers had great flaming bunches of hairlike
material growing from them, shining phosphorescently as most of the life forms
did down here. But they had shown no interest in the wire, and certainly
couldn't have cut through it without giving some warning on the strain signal.
Haller
called Drake and Simpson up, and reported the situation. "We'll have to go
out," he said finally. "The bathysuit is
our only hope now. Is it ready?"
"It's
been ready for hours," Drake told him. "And we've attached the tools
that should be needed. Ed and I have pretty well worked out the way of tackling
the job, too, but I haven't convinced him yet that I'm the one to do the
job."
He
grinned at Don's uncle, who grinned back. But Haller shook his head.
"Neither one of you will do it. This is a job for the best man, not for
volunteers. That means a young man—even half an hour in that thing is tough
going—and someone who's small enough to have a better chance of moving around
in it."
"I'm
ready," Don told him. The words came out, but he wasn't sure that he meant
them. The idea of being down here in the Triton was
bad enough, but the ship was so much a world in itself that he didn't think too
much about it, most of the time. But to go out in that
pressure, with only the small bathy-suit . . .
Haller
stared at him thoughtfully. "I was thinking of Kayne.
But you're right. You're younger than any of us, so you're probably more
adjustable and have better reflexes. And you're shorter than Kayne—and a lot slimmer than I am. All right, you've got
the job."
Simpson
started to protest at having his nephew take the risk, and then nodded slowly.
All things considered, Don was the logical candidate
for the job.
The
machine shop had been crammed in under the torpedo-control room, and the bathysuit was in a small hatch just off that. Properly
speaking, it wasn't really a hatch. The bathysuit fitted
exactly into it, with almost no spare space; there was an outer section that
could be opened to let the suit out, and an inner screw-type seal that
permitted entrance directly into the top of the bathysuit
globe, and could be closed then to keep the ship watertight under the terrific
pressure.
That
was open now, in line with the screw top of the globe, which had also been
opened. Inside the bathysuit was a cluster of
controls which would direct the treads underneath it or the grapple-arms at the
side. There were also batteries and an oxygen tank, together with a small
lithium-hydroxide arrangement for removing the carbon dioxide from the air.
Haller, Drake and Simpson went over the plans
with Don. The first job would be to remove the wedges from the stern diving
planes; after that, he was to remove the whole damaged bow plane and put it
into the hatch. That would then be blown out, and men would go to work on it
frantically while he cleaned out the valves on the tanks as best he could. If
they were lucky, they'd be able to pass the bow plane out again before he had
to come back.
He
had air in the bathysuit for an hour and a quarter.
Under no conditions was he to stay out more than an hour. "No
heroics," Haller cautioned him. "We don't want to lose you—and
remember that the suit is the only one we have. If you endanger yourself, you
endanger that—and all of us. No matter what happens, don't stay out one second
beyond the hour mark. I'd rather have a man who takes precautions and follows
necessary orders than a man who could swim to the surface with the whole Triton on Ins back, fighting off monsters all the way.
Heroism is a wonderful thing, when it's done for a good reason and with
intelligence. But foolhardiness wins medals only half the time—the rest of the
time, it ruins everything."
Don blushed. He'd been thinking that he'd
stay as long as he possibly could if necessary; he'd been suppressing his worry
about going out by imagining their tribute when he staggered back at the last
second, having saved them all at the risk of his life. But Haller's words made
sense.
He
had been in the bathysuit once before, when it had
first been completed, and he was fairly familiar with the controls, which
meant he could make it move about where he wanted and could locate the grapple
controls. He went over them now with his uncle, trying to memorize everything,
and to make sure he knew how to locate and handle the various wrenches and
other tools.
Finally
he climbed into the interior of the "head" of the bathysuit
and settled into place. He had to fit into a cramped space, with his legs bent
up and his back against the curved, padded wall. A tiny pickup on top could be
swiveled around to reveal his surroundings outside on a small screen in front
of his eyes, and a telephone connection to the ship snapped over his ears and
throat. In theory, his legs were free enough to operate the tread controls,
leaving his hands for the grapples; the pickup was controlled by motions of his
head.
His
uncle clasped his shoulder briefly, and then the top began to screw in. All
sounds vanished, except the hissing of the tiny air-purifying machinery. His
stomach knotted up in a ball, and he felt his lungs begin laboring at the
tightness that cut him off from everything. Sweat popped out on his forehead.
But after a few seconds, it passed. He still felt uncomfortable, and he was
sorry he'd ever volunteered. But now was no time to back out.
Suddenly
he heard a heavy crash, and realized that the valves must have been opened,
letting in the water outside. The inner seal would be closed, except for a
narrow air valve that would bleed off the air as the sea rushed in. Then it was
over.
"Okay,
roll her out," Drake's voice said in his ears. "And take it easy at
first. We're a little doubtful of that power cable that connects you with the
ship's generators. If you see your lights flicker, pull back
that red lever. You'll be on battery power then, and you'll have just
ten minutes in which to get back."
Don
watched, but there seemed to be no trouble. He maneuvered the controls with his
feet, and there was a faint feeling of movement as the suit backed out. In the
panel, he could see himself passing out of the compartment in the ship. A
minute later, he was moving over the mud of the bottom, with the ship between
him and the cliff.
The
mud was soft, but it supported him on the wide treads. He rolled along slowly,
keeping a careful watch on the power cable that stretched out behind. He'd have
to be careful not to let that kink.
Now
that he was moving, he was less aware of the pressure around him; he began to
feel almost like some weird undersea creature. He moved back carefully until he
was beside the diving plane. The ship had settled more in the rear here, and he
found that he could just reach over the top of it; he'd expected to have to use
the grapples to pull himself up onto it.
The
copper wedge showed up plainly now in the light that streamed out from just
under his pickup. He got two of the "hand" grapples onto it finally,
and began working at it. It had been driven in tightly, but was soft enough for
him to work on. Slowly at first, he wiggled it about. A minute later, it came
out —a simple wedge of copper. He dropped it and moved around to the other
side.
Here
the plane was higher off the mud, and he had to pull himself up, using four of
the grapples. There was a faint sound of groaning from the motors built into
the shell, but they lifted him slowly, until he could inch along the plane
itself. This was the tricky part, since a slip might throw him off and onto his
side. He could right himself with the grapples, but it would be a tedious and
slow job.
With
better leverage, however, the wedge came out more quickly. He reported back
over the phone, and began letting himself down—a lot more difficult job than
lifting himself had been. There was little work involved, since the motors took
care of that, but the strain of manipulating the controls left him sweating
again, faster than the air conditioning could soak up the moisture.
"Stern
diving planes are working again," Drake reported. Don swung the pickup
back and saw that the planes were tilting up and down. Now, if anything should
happen and the ship were to slip off, there would be a
faint chance of climbing back.
He
worked back around to the bent plane, watching his power line carefully. This
time he couldn't climb up. He had to stand on the mud, moving about a little to
keep from sinking, and reach up to work the grapples and try to remove the
plane.
Getting
a wrench into just the right position proved to be worse than anything he'd
tried yet. He got it onto the big nut, finally, and began working on it. The
wrench had a motor-driven action, geared down, but it threatened to lift him
from his treads as it went to work. Then he realized it was because he didn't
have it fully on, where another section would hold it firmly, giving him the
full benefit of the motor drive. With the clumsy grapples, it took another two
minutes to get the wrench properly placed.
The
weight of the diving plane put a strain on the power of the suit, but he got it
off finally and lugged it back to the hatch. He forced it in, muttering unhappily
as he found that it had never been designed to fit. Finally, though, he managed
to find a way of making it go in far enough for the outer seal to close.
As
soon as he reported the job done, the hatch closed and the pumps began to drive
out the water so men could open the inner seal. But Don didn't stay to watch.
He still had the valves to take care of, and it was becoming increasingly plain
that the tanks would have to be drained to float the Triton. She was still settling deeper into the ooze.
He
had begun working on the valve ports for the bow trim tanks when his uncle
reported that they had maneuvered the big diving plane into the ship. "Pretty
bad shape," Simpson said. "We won't be able to do a good job, but I
guess we can straighten it enough to work for a while. How's it coming out
there?"
"The valve looks as if someone had
deliberately stuffed it with that tarry stuff," Don reported. "It's
hard as iron, too, and seems to be glued to the metal." He was trying to
chip out a hole in it, but the pick wouldn't touch it. The detergent might have
softened it, but the ocean would have diluted that too quickly.
"Must
be the temperature; it softened up enough to wash away by itself before when
the Triton reached the surface—if it's the same
stuff." Simpson paused, and Don could hear him talking to someone else for
a minute, though he couldn't make out the words. Then he spoke into the phone
again. "We're putting the underwater welding torch through to you. Try to
warm it up with that."
Don
lumbered back to the hatch, just as it opened. Inside, he found the torch and
its cable, and turned back to the trim-tank valve again. It was a good thing
he'd stuck his nose into everything during the assembling of the Triton; he even had a little experience with the
welder.
He
cut it on and turned the glaring spot of concentrated heat on the black stuff
in the valve. The torch didn't work as well at this pressure as it would have
done further up, but it apparently gave out enough heat for the job. The tarry
substance suddenly began to soften rapidly and to dribble out of the valve,
dissolving as it went.
He
cleaned it out as thoroughly as he could and went on to the others. His body
ached from the cramped position, and it was getting harder all the time to
control the steering with his feet. But he cleaned out the valves, one by one.
To get at some of them meant standing between the edge of the abyss and the ship;
he worried about it every second there, but nothing happened.
Finally
he reported back, and headed for the hatch. The big diving plane was just
finished, they told him, and was being put through the hatch. Then he saw the
outer seal open, and moved up to begin removing the plane. It came out easier
than it had gone in. He saw that it was nearly straight now, with evidence of
hasty pounding and welding. It didn't look like a good job, but there was
nothing to be done about that now; it was probably as good as they could do
with the limited facilities of the ship.
Then
he glanced at his watch. "Time's up," he reported. "I'm still
okay on air, according to the tank valve, and I feel fairly good. I might be
able to install the plane in the time left. But . . ."
"Good
man," Haller's voice answered quickly. "You've got one minute left,
to be exact. All right, Don, since you're keeping your head and following
orders, I guess it's safe. Take twelve minutes more. Then get back here, no
matter what happens."
Don
sighed with relief at not having to go through the process of getting out and
then back into the suit again. He picked up the diving plane and towed it along
to the bow. Getting it in place was tricky, but by now he'd learned how to
control the grapples better. And this time, he knew enough to use the big
motorized wrench properly.
He
still had four minutes of air left when they tested the plane and decided he
had done all he could.
Then,
as he turned back to the hatch, he saw the men in bubbles again. This time,
there were a dozen of them. Some were equipped with something like pots of the
black tar, and three held wedges of copper. They waited, swimming about lazily
a mere fifty feet beyond him.
"Captain Haller!"
he shouted into his phone.
But
Haller answered before he could report. "I know. We can see your bubble
men this time. But there's nothing you can do. Get back on board!"
Chapter $ Bank mow
s he stepped into the hatch, Don saw the
bubble U men begin to swim forward. They moved easily,
turning to circle around the ship. For the first time, he saw that each wore a
maze of tanks and small machinery on his back, with what must be weights
scattered about to balance him and to keep him from floating upward.
Then
the seal on the hatch closed, and his view was cut off. He could hear Haller
shouting quick orders, the sounds coming faintly through his phones. But he had
to wait what seemed hours, while the water was forced out of the hatch, and the
inner seal opened. Then there was the delay of getting the seal on his bathysuit unscrewed. The warning light blinked just before
that came off, indicating his air supply was nearly exhausted.
Simpson
and Haller helped him out of the suit. Don found that his muscles were so
cramped that he could hardly stand for the first few steps. But with fresh
circulation, his legs began to function again.
"They're
trying to jam the planes and block the valves," he gasped out.
Haller
nodded grimly. "I know. We're watching this time, so they can't sneak up
on us. They can't make that tar work while the trim tanks are being drained;
the outgoing water would wash it away. And Cavanaugh's keeping the diving
planes moving as fast as they'll go, so it should be a little hard to block
them. Did you see anything to show what nationality they might be?"
"No—they
didn't even look like anyone I've seen," Don told him. "No nation
could be that advanced, sir!
They were moving back toward the bridge. Don
slipped into his sonar room, to relieve Upjohn, while Haller stood staring at
the instruments on the control panel. "They're not Martians 1" the
admiral said, but his voice didn't sound too sure. In the screens, the bubble
men were swimming about busily. One drew near one of the valves with some of
the black stuff, but from his expression as he moved off, it was plain that the
tar hadn't stuck.
"Bottom
ooze is still sucking at us," Cavanaugh reported. "We seem to be
stuck, sir."
"We'll
reach flotation in a second," Haller said confidently. Almost on his
words, the Triton
seemed to lurch a trifle.
"Keep pumping."
Simpson
had come up, and now shook his head quickly. "Not too much flotation!
We've got to go up slowly. The hull's been under pressure for hours. Too fast a
release might put more strain on her than she'll stand."
"Cut pumps to minimum, run them every
other minute," Haller ordered promptly. "That should be enough to
keep their tar from sticking. Ah!"
The
Triton had stirred weakly. Now she began to come up,
and suddenly seemed to leap sharply. Haller issued quick orders for the main
tanks to be opened. They rose rapidly for a few seconds, and then slowed as the
intake of water increased their weight to nearly that of the sea water they
displaced. Haller set the pumps to working alternately, taking in water and
then ejecting it.
Outside,
the bubble men were apparently in conference. Two of them started for the ship
with the copper blocks. The Triton lurched
sickly as Cava-naugh started wiggling the diving
planes. At this depth, the pressure of the steam and water coming from her big
atomic jets was largely neutralized by the outside pressure, and the ship was
sluggish. But the maneuver was enough to discourage the men outside. Don
watched them confer again—then swim off.
"They're
going down!" he reported, in surprise. He'd expected them to rise toward
some ship which must be higher up.
Haller
nodded, but made no comment. He was watching the instruments as the men rose
cautiously.
Don
suspected a trick, and began scanning carefully with all pickups and the full
sonar equipment. But the bubble men had gone. And he could get no pip
indicating a ship above. Even the whale seemed to have given up and gone
elsewhere.
The bow diving plane that had been hastily
welded didn't work perfectly. Obviously, it still caused some turbulence in the
water, and kept Cavanaugh busy correcting. But navigation was possible now. The
Triton was nearly a hundred fathoms off the bottom
and rising steadily in a wide spiral. Haller stopped the emergency work on the
pumps, and had the ship balanced against her displacement and carefully leveled
off with the trim tanks. She began acting more normally, now that the strain
was taken off the diving planes.
Upjohn
came back, standing lazily in the doorway and chewing on a toothpick.
"Kenney's gone back to bed," he told Don. "He's sick again. I
told him about the bubble men, and he's expecting them to drop an atomic depth
charge on us, or something. He took a batch of sedatives. Maybe I should do the
same. I'm going nuts trying to figure out how those men can get down this far in
those things—and why. If any nation has a scientific development like that,
what do they care about the Triton? She'd
be kindergarten stuff to them."
"Get the pictures off
the screens?" Haller asked.
The
reporter nodded. "I developed a few. The negatives show enough details,
unless someone decides they're darkroom fakery. I wish I'd gotten a better
group shot, though."
Don
ran through the pickups again, and turned back to the sonar screen. He frowned
at what he saw, and again tried the viewing panel connected to the pickups.
This time he could make out enough to be sure.
"You'll
have a chance," he told Upjohn. "They're corning back!"
At
the limits of the distance they could scan, a group of the bubbles had
appeared. Don couldn't count the number exactly, but there seemed to be more
than the dozen men who had surrounded the Triton before. And with them was a larger bubble,
glowing very faintly in the darkness of the water around it.
"Full
speed ahead!" Haller ordered quickly.
The
Triton had been moving along lazily. Now she jumped
ahead. Surprisingly, at full speed the turbulence which had bothered them from
the imperfections of the bow diving plane seemed to smooth out. Cavanaugh
reported steering normal, and widened the spiral in which they were rising.
But
the sea men came on steadily. They were close enough now for Don to make out
more details, and he pointed to one who was in advance of the others. The
bubble man wasn't swimming, this time; instead, he was lying on a thin, flat
object which seemed to be something like a surfboard. Two small propellers at
the front were lashing the water, and pulling the whole device along at a speed
considerably better than the Triton could
make. It was as if the bubbles offered no resistance to the sea.
Kayne snorted. "Using
propellers as tractors. Who'd do a thing like that?"
"Somebody
who knows more about conditions down here than we do," Haller said
crisply. "Not entirely dumb, either. There'd be
better control that way. And the force of the slip stream doesn't seem to
bother them. They must have ridden those things when they came up to us for the
sabotage before."
"While
the whale took up all our attention," Upjohn agreed. "I'd say we're
dealing with some smart people, whoever they are. I wonder what other gadgets
they've got up their sleeves?"
Haller
frowned, and ordered Cavanaugh to take the ship up faster. They began rising
more steeply. But the men outside seemed not to notice. They also rose, still
shortening the distance. And now Don could see that each had something like a
rope in his hands, with one end fastened to the front of the board he rode.
The
sea men drew up alongside the Triton, and
the ropes suddenly shot out sharply. At the end of each was a cone of what
seemed to be metal, and it was this which tipped him off to the idea. He
chuckled sharply, bringing Haller's eyes around. The admiral smiled wryly.
They'd have a hard time making the trick work. The weights must be magnets,
designed to stick tightly to the hull of the Triton; but the alloys of which the hull was made
were nonmagnetic.
The
sea men became aware of that a second later. Don had one in clear focus on the
screen, and he could see the surprise run over the pale features. The man
stared at the metal piece he had recovered, then
glanced around at his companions.
They
drew back for a second, before coming in again. This time,
the throwing was repeated, but with no attempt to touch the hull of the Triton. The
cords went over the top of the ship. On the side opposite the throwers another
group was waiting. Don switched from one pickup to another, and saw the
opposite group catching the ends of the ropes and fastening them quickly to the
boards they rode.
Haller
frowned. "Blow the tanks," he ordered. "And take her up!"
Cavanaugh
began bringing the bow of the Triton up,
just as the men on the boards started to circle around the ship, trying to wrap
their ropes firmly around her. As soon as they saw the ship tilt, they began to
concentrate on the bow of the Triton. The
ropes should have slipped off the smooth hull, but instead they clung tightly;
somehow, they had an impossible holding power. They stuck as firmly as the
suckered arm of an octopus. Don wondered whether they might not have something
similar to the suction cups built into them, on a tiny scale.
Now
there were nearly twenty of the men with their motorized boards attached to the
ship, and they began to exert their full force downward. They had power far in
excess of their appearance, too. The ship came back to even keel, then began to head downward.
Haller was staring at the screen, and the
skin around his eyes had whitened with strain. "The one fault with this
ship," he said tautly. "You can reverse a propeller, at least. But .
. ."
Don
stared at him in surprise. Then he realized that Haller had never been give^ a
thorough briefing on the ship, and that the papers given him by the
Navy had been so bulky he couldn't have read
all the fine print—and that some of the most important features probably were
treated as things to be passed over quickly. He was beginning to realize that
an engineer couldn't look at a ship in the same light as a skipper must.
They'd
never gotten around to installing a reverse stop on the indicator, either.
There were probably a lot of things like that on this model.
"The jets work either
way," he said.
Haller
didn't waste time on surprise. He picked up the phone to the engine-control
room and signaled frantically. "Reverse engines," he ordered when
Drake must have answered. "Full speed astern."
They
were bucking against the ropes one second. The next, the ship heaved violently.
Reversal here could be done in almost no time. Don saw the sea men on the
screen look back in shock and then move wildly aside as the superheated jets
kicked out through the ocean ahead. The heat would be dissipated almost at
once, but it still must have seemed horrible to them. They broke free, throwing
off their ropes, and began getting out fast.
It
was a good thing for them, too. The jets of water that shot out of the engines
weren't just hot in temperature; they were hot from a radiation point of view.
In going through the engines, they picked up a definite radioactive charge.
There was no reason to try to keep from contaminating the water—in the great
mass of the ocean, a million Tritons could
have operated for thousands of years without raising the general radioactivity
level enough to matter. But at close hand, long contact with the jets could
have been fatal.
The
Triton shot backward, still trailing the ropes. Then
her bow came up again, and Haller called for full speed ahead. She was rising
now, faster than had seemed safe. But they had to take chances. The sea men
were already reforming and getting ready for some other move.
It
came suddenly from above. Don saw one of the men outside look up, and shifted
his pickup to one that would cover the water overhead. He'd noticed that the
sonar was absolutely useless against the bubbles; even at close range, there
was no response from the sound-echo device.
On
the screen of the television hookup was the big bubble he had seen from a
distance, keeping pace with the Triton and
exactly above it. Men in bubbles were driving their rafts toward it. As he
looked, he saw one move up to the big bubble and apparently fade through it and
inside, where there were bulky objects of some sort.
A
moment later, the man came diving down again, bringing with him one of the
objects. It seemed to be a large rock, except that the bottom had been ground
smooth.
"Hard a-lea!" Haller ordered. The Triton swung
sharply, taking off at an angle. They had been spiral-ing
toward the port side, and the course was a reversal of their previous one.
But the rock was obviously being guided with
sufficient power to keep up. It stayed overhead, coming down steadily. A few
seconds later, it struck just ahead of the conning-turret section. It landed
exactly over one of the pickups, and Don had a last-second view of the bottom
of the stone, equipped with small cups in something that resembled the tar he
had seen before. The effect was similar to the suction cups on an octopus, as
he had suspected.
He
swung to another pickup as the screen went dark, and saw that the rock was
being detached from a larger sled that had guided it down. Above it, another
one was coming.
Cavanaugh
was already having a difficult time trying to keep the Triton operating properly, with the added weight toward the bow and the
turbulence of the water set up by the rock.
Haller
glanced at the screen again, and nodded slowly. "Ram them if you
can," he ordered.
Cavanaugh
set the screen in front of him, and brought the ship around in a surprisingly
smooth maneuver, considering the rock resting on her. Ahead lay a group of the
bubble men on their boards. He lined them up and began heading for them,
driving the ship at full speed.
The
move must have been unexpected. The sea men looked back just as the Triton came bearing down on them at her top speed. Don
saw one of them open his mouth in surprise. Then the Triton hit.
The
men in the bubbles were tossed aside instantly, while the Triton ploughed through the space where they had been. Don felt sick, but he
switched to a
rear
pickup. He brought his eyes back to the screen reluctantly—and let out a
surprised cry as he saw what lay behind.
The bubble men had not been hurt. They had
been pushed aside, but those odd, fragile looking bubbles had taken the full
impact of the Triton
without a sign of strain.
Behind, the bubble men were re-forming, and one of them was grinning savagely
toward the ship.
Then the second rock hit
the ship.
Chapter 9coP^d\
I |
hree
other rocks came down
almost at the same time. The Triton dipped
and lurched as the weights altered her balance. She threatened to turn over,
and Don grabbed at his control board, his stomach twisting inside him.
Cavanaugh and Kayne were working frantically, with a
flurry of words that were mixed up with the sharp, quick orders of Haller.
Somehow,
Kayne managed to get the trim tanks adjusted in time,
while Cavanaugh fought and won the battle of holding the Triton upright by using the diving planes and rudders.
Haller
gave orders to blow the tanks completely, and the main ballast tank pump began
working. The speed of the descent changed, until they were settling slowly. But
they could not rise, even with the full power of the jets driving the ship
forward on diving planes that were set to force her upward.
"Locate
that plateau, Mr. Miller," Haller ordered. "We'll have to land there
again."
Don
began a frantic search, to find that by some
accident they were exactly over the spot from which they
had taken off. He tracked down a spot that should be just beyond the spot where
they had first landed, further from the edge of the abyss. He called out the
co-ordinates.
They
came down in a tight spiral. And now the sea people seemed content to let them
land with no further trouble. The whole maneuver appeared to be aimed at
keeping them on the bottom, rather than in doing them any actual direct harm.
The men in the bubbles came riding down alongside.
Most of them had sent their odd sea sleds up to the big bubble, and were
swimming along casually on their own power.
They
landed about fifty feet from the hole in the muck of the bottom which marked
the original site. This time there was no trouble. They found a flat place,
with no tilt, and drifted down to it, to land with almost no shock. Haller
nodded quick approval at Cavanaugh.
"Coffee/*
he said, and it was an order. They moved back to the wardroom where the
steaming pot was always full. Don hadn't seen the cook since they had first
left the island. He had a mental picture of the little man scurrying about
nervously, making coffee and sandwiches, afraid of his own shadow, and never
looking at another man. He was a little surprised to see the lean, short man
standing there, grinning out of a mouth that had a big scar twisted across it
and up his face.
"How's it going, skipper?" he
asked, touching his forelock.
Haller grinned at him, and slapped his back
roughly. "Not so good, Ham. Looks as if you won't be
able to retire, after all. We're in the brig."
"We'll
get out, somehow," the little man said. He grinned at Don. "Best
skipper in the Navy, kid—or out of it. Shipped out together, we did, first
time-before the skipper made Annapolis the hard way. When you gonna eat a decent meal, skipper?"
"Later,
Ham, later." Haller grinned after him as he went back to the galley, and
then his face sobered. "I wish I believed him. Getting out of this doesn't
look so good."
He
turned as Upjohn came in with Simpson and Drake behind him. Don stared at his
uncle, and sudden pride washed over him. Simpson looked worried, but there was
no real fear there. Drake showed some signs of being afraid; he was licking his
lips nervously and running his hands over his hair as if to dry them. But both
seemed far more worried about the ship than about themselves.
They
talked it over, dropping all formality and going back to first names. Dexter came in, lifting an eyebrow to Haller. His face
sagged at Haller's shrug, but he took the bad news like a soldier. He sat down
quietly, listening, but not saying much of anything. His eyes were busy
studying them, but his attitude was that of a man who knew he could do nothing
and was willing to wait for those who could to decide. Don knew very little
about him, but liked what he saw.
The cook bustled about, setting the table for
them and trying to get them to sit down. He'd cooked up a hasty meal of canned
bacon and frozen eggs, scrambled. Don dropped into a chair and sampled it, his
appetite whetted by the odor. Then he fell to on it, while the others gradually
followed his example.
They
had few suggestions to make, and those few came to nothing. The idea of using
the jets, alternating between forward and reverse rapidly, was the best. The Triton might bob back and forth under the kicking of power, but not too much,
with low power. And the hot liquid from the jets was supposed to rise over the
hull and heat the tarry stuff on the rocks until it would loosen and free them.
Haller
disposed of that when he and Don's uncle went over the way the currents would rise around the Triton. None
of the hot liquid would come near the rocks; it would boil upward, doing
nothing to help them.
Don
finally made the inevitable suggestion which they must all have thought of.
"Someone has to go outside in the bathysuit again,"
he said. "If the welder won't free the stuff under the rocks, maybe we can
set up some kind of deflector that will throw the hot jets back where they will
warm it up."
Dexter
made one of his few comments. "And what will these men in the bubbles be doing
then, young man?"
"Who
knows?" Don admitted. "But with the welder, it shouldn't be too hard
to keep them off. That's quite a weapon, if we want to use it."
"See
if you can switch the viewing panel down here, will you?" Haller asked
Don.
It wasn't too hard to
connect one of the pickups to the small viewing screen in the wardroom. Don
came back a minute later, to see a group of the bubble men standing around,
performing a series of elaborate ritual gestures with their hands. It must be
a code for carrying on a conversation down here, where sounds were so distorted
that normal speech was impossible. And from the number and speed of their
gestures, it looked as if they'd had a lot of practice.
Haller
had decided the same. "That's a regular language," he commented.
"I don't like it. I don't think a group could work up any set of gestures
like that in even ten years."
"Maybe
they live down here," Upjohn said, grinning. "There used to be a
book—by a man named Charles Forte—that claimed Earth was being visited by
people from Venus who lived in the sea. He thought Venus was a watery world,
then."
"Why
not make them Atlanteans while your imagination is
working at it?" Haller asked. "All the same, somebody has been down
here and has developed ways of living here for a lot longer time than I'd have
thought. I'd like to know what nation has gotten the jump on us, because I
don't see how any country could have been that much ahead without our scientists
catching some hint. In our own waters, too!"
Don
brought the conversation back to the main topic. "But what about going out
in the bathysuit? They couldn't do much against
that."
"They
could capture it. But you may be right, Don. I've been thinking it over."
It was obvious that Haller had, before Don mentioned it, for that matter.
"I don't like the idea, but maybe we'll have to try.
And that means asking for a volunteer. No,
wait a minute."
He
shook his head as Don started to offer himself again. Don had taken it for
granted that he would be the one, since he was best suited to work in the
device and now had the most experience. But Haller's face was grim as he held
up his hand.
"It
may be a suicide mission. We don't know what those men out there can do. And
even if they don't try anything, they're going to get the idea at once. They'll
at least bring up that supply bubble of theirs with more rocks. The only hope
we have is to take off as soon as the Triton is
free—and before they can get their supplies overhead. Maybe there'll be time
enough after we're free to pick up the man in the bathysuit.
Maybe not. But if I had to, I'd leave him behind and
surface as fast as we could rise. This ship is more important to our country
than any one of us!"
Don
thought it over, and wished he could honestly volunteer. It must be a great
thing to be so brave that a man could be happy in offering to die for his
friends, without getting cold chills at the idea. He wiped his palms on the
legs of his trousers, and tried to tell himself he wasn't really afraid. But he
knew he was.
Haller
looked at him, and there was warmth and sympathy in the skipper's eyes. But his
voice was flat. "I can't ask anyone to go. But you're right, Don, you're
the best man for the job. You might make
it back in time. At least, you'd have a better chance than anyone else in that
suit. There's nothing cowardly about turning down the job, and nobody here will
think less of you if you do. Only a fool or an egomaniac wants to do a thing
like that, with the risks involved. But—if you volunteer, I'll accept!"
Don's
uncle cut in hotly, protesting. But Don had made up his mind, somehow. He
didn't know why he was doing it, exactly, or how he managed to get his tongue
unstuck from the roof of his mouth. But he nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir.
I—I do volunteer."
Haller
nodded gravely. "I expected it, Don. Thank you. I'll hold the Triton on the bottom every second I can."
Then
die fear left Don, to be replaced by a sort of numbness that was oddly mixed
with satisfaction. There was a sickness down in his deepest being, but also a strange
gladness that he had offered himself. He was grateful when Haller cut off the
words of the others, and got down to business. If anyone had told him how brave
he was, Don knew he'd have broken completely. He
wasn't brave, exactly. He was only doing what the inner part of his mind told
him to do.
They
moved down reluctantly toward the bathy-suit hatch. His uncle's face was gray
and Drake looked almost as miserable. Upjohn was trying to act normal, but he
was biting his lip. Don realized it was actually harder on them to see him
leave than it was on him. Haller saluted him precisely and went up to the control
room, with Kayne and Cavanaugh, to be ready at any
moment for whatever had to be done. After a brief hesitation, Upjohn went with
them, probably to take over the sonar room.
This
time, getting into the bathysuit seemed to take
longer. But at last, Don was settled. He nodded for them to screw down the seal
on the dome of the suit, and tried not to look at his uncle's misery. Then
there was quiet while they sealed the inner seal of the hatch. Don sat waiting,
trying to plan his moves to bring himself nearest the hatch as he freed the
last rock.
The
seconds ticked by, and he still waited. Then, just as he was about to shout
over the phone, he saw the inner seal open again. Drake and his uncle began
unscrewing the top of the bathysuit.
It
was Drake who explained, when the cover was off.
"No dice, Don. The outer seal is stuck. They must have cemented it shut
with that tar of theirs. We're locked in!"
Don
had been struggling up. Now he dropped back helplessly, just as Haller and
Upjohn came into the tool room. He could feel the reaction from his keyed-up
state hit like a hot hammer smashing against soft butter. He seemed to swell up
and spatter against the walls. For a minute, his senses reeled, and the little
globe swam around in front of his eyes.
Drake
and Simpson were lifting him out. At a motion from Haller, they put him on one
of the work tables. "Take it easy, Don," Haller said quietly. "I
know what you feel like. I had something like it happen once. And don't fool
yourself. You did just as much for us as if you'd freed us and died doing it.
There's nothing ridiculous about it. I'm glad that hatch was sealed—and so are
the rest of us."
The
feeling passed finally. Don got up, still a little shaky, but able to walk
without showing it. He didn't try to grin, because he knew it would be a
failure.
Instead, he nodded, and followed Haller back
toward the control room. As he passed his uncle, Simpson put a hand on his arm;
it almost unnerved him again, but it felt good.
In the sonar room, the viewing screen showed
the bubble men still clustered around, but now they seemed more excited. One of
them swam off and came back a minute later, pointing behind him.
Then
Don saw the things for which they were waiting. Upjohn and Haller were staring
at the same screen, and he heard their breaths catch.
Swimming
through the water, behind a smaller group of the bubble men, were ten huge
creatures of unbelievable ugliness. They looked like a cross between a
crocodile and an unusually ugly fish. Their huge heads were almost all mouth
and teeth, and their bodies were covered with ugly grayish warts that glowed
with a faint phosphorescence. They were over twenty
feet long, dwarfing the men who led them on halters of some sort.
"Ichthyosaurs,"
Upjohn said in surprise. "Fish lizards. The dinosaurs that took to the sea and were supposed to be extinct
three hundred million years ago. Not like any I've seen pictured, but
not too different, either."
Don saw the resemblance then. And he knew
that the sea was always bringing up forms of life that were supposed to be
extinct. Instead of dying out, some of the ichthyosaurs had apparently gone
further and further down into the depths of the ocean, and had lasted long
after all the other great reptiles had died.
"I thought they breathed air,
though," he protested.
Sid nodded. "Yeah.
They were supposed to, like any reptile. But you're seeing something that
nobody ever saw before—an animal that not only went back to the sea, but
learned to breathe water again. In three to five hundred million years, I guess
anything can happen. Look, see there by their ribs—see how the water swirls
out. They don't have gills, but they've developed lungs that can handle water,
and an opening below their ribs to exhaust it. Man, what a good zoologist
would give for a chance to examine that lung tissue!"
Now
the last of the creatures had been driven up beside the Triton, and Don could see that the beasts wore harnesses.
More ropes were being wrapped around the Triton. The
bubble men began hitching their beasts to the ropes, using an odd, glittering
object to make the connection between the harness and the ropes. The
ichthyosaurs seemed impatient to be off.
They
started at a gesture from one of the bubble men. There was one of the men on
the back of each beast. The lizards stretched out great flippers and began
churning the water. The Triton
stirred, and began to slide
along the ooze of the bottom.
They
reached the edge of the abyss finally, and the ichthyosaurs headed downward,
dragging the Triton
behind toward the depths so
far below—and toward unthinkable pressures that might crack the stout walls of
the ship like a walnut in a nutcracker!
Chapter 10 The Bubble City
aller snapped up from his study. "Full speed . astern!" he ordered
sharply. The downward movement had been smooth and effortless before. But as
the great jets lashed out, there was a feeling of wrenching inside the ship. On
the screen, the bow pickup showed the sea men and their mounts scattering
wildly to the side. But their ropes were long enough, apparently, to permit
them to move off to the side out of the wash of the jets and still keep dragging
the ship down. The jets slowed the Tritons descent,
but could not stop it.
A
big bubble flashed up from below at an amazing speed, and came to a stop beside
the ship. There were men inside it. Apparently it could be enlarged or contracted
to vary the displacement of water, and hence make it rise or sink as they
wanted. Now it hovered, while other men in bubbles moved into it. Don could see
no sign of doors, but the men moved in effortlessly, as if the walls weren't
there. For that matter, there
was no sign of anything that could be called a
wall. The water just seemed to end and the air to begin.
A
bulky piece of apparatus was being assembled inside the bubble, apparently from
a group of smaller units. Each part looked like a four-inch crystal cube, with
a black box under it. It was similar to one of the things worn on the back of
the men. The final equipment was simply a group of such things attached
together.
The
bubble floated over beside the Triton, nearly
touching. A smaller bubble was shoved out, with the equipment inside. Then that
bubble suddenly disappeared, and the apparatus drifted against the wall of the
Triton and stuck there. Don could see only a portion
of it at the far edge of one of the pickups angle of view.
One
of the bubble men suddenly darted ahead of the ship, just beyond the reach of
the jets, and began making frantic gestures toward the hot steam and water
issuing from the ship.
"Threatening us?"
Upjohn asked.
Haller
shook his head doubtfully. "Doesn't look like it—but I can't be sure. Kayne, get on the jet control. Be ready to cut at my
signal. It looks as if he's warning us of something. . . ."
Abruptly,
the Triton was surrounded by a bubble that lay about
half an inch beyond its hull. It looked as if it had started out touching the
hull and been pushed beyond almost at once.
"Cut
jets!" Haller shouted. The navigator threw the lever and the meters
flopped over. With the bubble around them, the jets could get no water to cool
the atomic reactor, and had to be cut before they could overheat.
But
that left them completely helpless. Shep had been
curled up sleeping through most of the excitement. Now he got up, sniffing
doubtfully. He smelled around the control room, casting unhappy looks at Don.
Then he lifted his nose and let out a wild, low howl. Don reached for him, and
ordered him to be quiet. Shep sank back then, without
another sound, but with a worried, uncertain expression.
"Something
about the way that bubble is made that he doesn't like," Haller said.
"Maybe something like a static charge that we
can't sense. And maybe he reacts some to our emotions."
They
were still going down. Don tried to guess their rate of descent and add the
amount they had dropped to their original depth. It came out to a figure that
he hated to consider. They would soon be close to two thousand fathoms down—over
two miles, and where the pressure would exceed the two tons per square inch
that was all the Triton
had been built to stand for
even short times.
He
looked at the pressure gauge, and frowned. It was registering less than
twenty-five hundred pounds and going down rapidly. Either whatever was making
the bubble had interfered with its operation or else it had been broken in one
of the series of shocks.
He
wondered for a second if they could have turned around and be moving upward.
But the pressure of his feet on the deck told him unmistakably that there was a
definite down direction, and that they were heading that way.
"How deep is it
here?" Haller asked him.
He
tried to remember, but couldn't be sure of the figure directly below the edge
of the cliff; he couldn't know definitely whether they were heading straight
down or drifting horizontally, either.
"From
the minimum of about seven thousand to a maximum of over twenty thousand
feet—about twenty-five thousand in some places," he answered. "And we
weren't too near any minimum spots, except for that one plateau."
"So
we could drop to four thousand fathoms," Haller said. "That's better
than five tons to the inch. Hmm. We would be over the
Milwaukee Deep when it happened."
The
bubble around them seemed to have lightened them until the Triton now weighed practically the same as the water they displaced. The ship
was moving smoothly, being drawn down by the ichthyo-saurs.
Don studied the scene on the panel, and blinked as he saw a new detail he must
have overlooked before. The bubble ran out along the towropes, keeping its
distance from the cords the same as its distance from the hull. But where the
odd plastic or crystal hitches joined the rope to the harness of the
ichthyosaurs, the bubble ended abruptly, closing in just before it could touch
the hitches.
When
Don pointed this out, Simpson studied it, and traced the bubble back and forth
from ship to hitch. "I don't know how they do it," he admitted.
"It's new to me. They must have some science that we haven't hit yet. It
acts like a controlled electrostatic shield—though I don't know exactly what
that would be, either."
Drake
could give no better explanation. "Unless you figure on these tractor and pressor rays the men on those space-opera programs throw around.
If the pressor ray were anything more than just a
meaningless word—and if you could make one lie down on its side and hug the
ship—it might act like that. Something's keeping the water away from the hull.
Maybe they've learned what the energy that binds the atom together is. Call it
binding force energy—one form of it—for want of a
better name. But it's only a name—it doesn't explain anything."
"It only muddies the water,"
Simpson protested. "You men who talk about exact science are always
pulling a razzle-dazzle with words. If you'd learn a little engineering . .
."
Then
he stopped, realizing that this wasn't the time and place for his favorite
argument over whether theoretical science or applied engineering was more
valuable to human progress.
Upjohn
filled the gap in the conversation. "As long as we're all going to go down
to our death with a fine, philosophical conversation, you might consider those
ichthyosaurs again. Men don't domesticate animals unless they live around them.
If we came down here with all the science those boys out there have, we'd never
think of taming those beasts. We'd use machinery. But if we grew up down here,
with the lizards around all the time, some of us would decide to use
them."
"You
mean those people live down here?" Haller asked.
"I
dont know. But it looks like it. The clothes they
wear might be a disguise—but they don't act as if they were wearing anything
but normal clothes. The science doesn't fit ours. And they don't even look like
people we usually see. They remind me of some figures I've seen in museums. Cro-Magnards—the
men from the Cro-Magnon."
Don
blinked, and stared out again. But now that he thought of it, Upjohn was right.
They did look a little like the reconstructions he had seen and studied.
Cro-Magnon man had replaced Neanderthal man in Europe somewhere between fifty
and twenty-five thousand years before, and had then either disappeared or been
absorbed by other races. He'd left his bones, and the
beautiful colored pictures of his life on the walls of his caves. With his
large brain and fine physical structure, he seemed almost superior to the races
that had survived.
"Nonsense,"
Drake said. "No race could live down here. Those men don't breathe water
like the lizards. Maybe they could adapt to the pressure in enough centuries.
But they couldn't maintain life down here without a lot of science, and
primitive men never had that."
"What
about Atlantis?" Upjohn asked, grinning at Haller. "We have accounts
there of a scientific race long before our time."
Haller
grunted this time. "A bunch of mythology. The
Greeks claimed they had heard about it from Egyptian priests, who never told
where they heard it. And ever since, people have been talcing
what was meant to be a good story seriously. There are a lot of myths about
continents that sink into the ocean, but no scientific evidence has been found.
No, this wouldn't have anything to do with either Plato's Greek Atlantis or
some of the later nonsense men have used to explain things that already had a
better explanation. And you know it, Sid."
"Sure,"
Sid Upjohn admitted. "I know it. But do they? Anyhow, I wasn't too serious
about Atlantis. But you might consider the number of stories about mermaids and
mermen. Because out there, unless I'm crazy, is a race of people who have lived
here long enough to domesticate animals."
Dexter
smiled faintly, and nodded. "If you'd look at your screen, I'm afraid
you'd have to agree with Mr. Upjohn."
They
turned quickly to stare where he pointed. There were more people out there now—and
a different crowd. Among the men were others dressed in fuller costumes,
extending from neck to near the knee, with a split skirt something like a pair
of jodhpurs, something like a woman's bicycle skirt.
They were obviously women, now staring at the ship the men were dragging home.
And with them were even a few smaller figures that must have been children. All
were in the bubbles, and the crowd of bubble people was growing steadily.
"All right," Haller admitted.
"You win, Sid. When you find women and children around, I guess it means
they live here. We're collecting quite a crowd."
The gathering grew by the second. Don studied
these people. Except for the pallor of their skins and their odd costumes, they
were rather attractive. They must have averaged over six feet in height, with
straight figures. Their heads were a trifle large, but the sharp planes of
their faces hid this. He saw no one who was either too fat or too thin; in
fact, they seemed surprisingly alike, even to their faintly golden hair.
Haller
sighed, and swung back from the screen. "All of which is fine—but it
doesn't get us out of this. We can be crushed just as flat being captured by
genuine sea people as by some enemy nation down here. How deep are we?"
Kayne
stared morosely at the useless depth gauge, which now registered a depth of
about three feet on its fine dial. "I estimate we must be down to about
three miles—a little over three tons per square inch. But it may be nearer
four."
They
were still going down. Don sat frozen, staring at the useless gauge, trying to
make the figures mean something. Over fifteen thousand feet
down, with a pressure of more than six thousand pounds on every square inch.
That meant nearly a million pounds for every square foot. He'd taken the
ability of the Tritons
hull to stand such
pressures for granted before, but now it seemed impossible that anything under
any conditions could endure.
Yet
there was still life swimming in the water. Every so often, a strange thing
would flash by, or pass near the people. One looked like an old oak root that
had been dug up and had sprouted new twigs with leaves. It swam along by moving
its "roots" in a totally fantastic way. One of the young girls
outside reached out and shoved her hand down into it, to come up with a tiny
thing that looked like it, except for size. The bigger one stopped swimming and
began to curl up until she put the little one back among the twisting arms.
Nothing like that had been in any of the pictures Don had seen.
Brought
to the surface, such a form would explode with all the violence of a bomb. The
pressures inside, now equalized by the outside water pressure, were simply
impossible to picture.
They
were still going down, but more slowly now. Ahead, the ichthyosaurs had
stretched out in a fanlike arrangement and were paddling along. Don went to
the sonar gear, but could get no response. The bubble cut it off completely. He
had no way of finding how much further down the bottom lay.
Abruptly,
they leveled off completely, so far as he could tell. Now the lizards seemed to
pick up speed, as if heading for some place they knew.
The
crowd began to stream away. Some of them swam along casually, drifting behind.
But most had either the small sleds with propellers or else held something that
looked like a brief case, also with a propeller sticking out from it. These
began leaving the ship behind, as they disappeared into murkiness beyond which
the ship's lights could not penetrate.
Cavanaugh
had been standing by the helm all during the trip. Now Haller looked up, and
seemed to become suddenly aware of this. He motioned toward the galley.
"Better knock off, Paul, and get something. No sense in your standing by
the helm now."
The
big Negro threw a glance back that was a mixture of worry and amusement.
"Ever see a car towed on a line, sir? It needs someone at the wheel. Same here. We ride a lot smoother when I keep the ship
centered behind them."
"You
mean the rudder still works?" Simpson asked sharply. Then he nodded to
himself. "Yes, it would. If the bubble around us is that thin, it wouldn't
make much difference in steering."
"Take
over, Kayne," Haller suggested. "Thanks,
Paul."
The
navigator took the controls, but Cavanaugh remained beside him, staring into
the screen he had been using to guide the ship behind the ichthyosaurs.
"Something up ahead," he reported.
Don
had been using a side pickup to study the crowd. Now he switched to the forward
one. Cavanaugh was right. There seemed to be a faint glow of light ahead that
was increasing rapidly as they cut through the dark water.
Slowly,
they made out the outlines of a great bubble, about a mile in diameter, and
perhaps five hundred feet high, like a bowl of glass turned upside down. It
glowed in the surrounding gloom, but there were outlines of buildings inside.
As they drew closer the city took on more details. It conformed to the outlines
of the dome, except that no building rose for more than seven or eight stories
in height. White
and black stone seemed to be the basic building
materials, and the architecture varied from almost Grecian simplicity in the
center to things that looked like rough adobe houses near the edge.
Upjohn
chuckled. "Welcome to Atlantis, gentlemen. And don't tell the inhabitants
that it doesn't exist, or that they're just myths. They might not like
Chapter 11 mm
I |
hey were being pulled toward a section of the dome which was not crowded
with buildings. Beyond it, and touching the dome on the inside, was a pool of
water, perhaps fifty feet longer than the Triton, and three times her width. There were half a
dozen children swimming about in it—with no bubbles surrounding them now—who
were being chased out as the Triton was
drawn up.
The
ichthyosaurs drew as close to the bubble as they could, and tiien
stopped. Some of the men uncoupled them and led them off, while others seized
the ropes that had been towing the ship. They headed for the dome confidently,
and moved through it with no sign of effort. As they stepped through, the Triton began to move after them. The bottom of the pool was about fifteen feet
higher than the floor of the ocean here—apparently most of the city was above
sea level, and only held in place by the bubble around it.
There was no feeling as the Triton touched the bubble. They began sliding through without any resistance.
Simpson whistled.
"No
resistance at all," he said. "They walk through it as if it were air—and yet it holds back the ocean on one side, and is
supporting that wrecked house on the other."
One
of the men towing the Triton
suddenly jerked to a halt,
half falling over. The others gave every indication of laughing as he swung
around and came back through the bubble. The hitch which had connected the
ichthyosaur harness with the towrope had not been removed, and it was this,
striking the bubble, which had snapped him back. Obviously, the plastic or
crystal was an insulator of some kind against the spreading of die bubble, and
it couldn't pass through.
Drake
rubbed his hands over his hair, and stared as the man went through easily,
after removing the hitch. "A field of force of some kind," he
decided. "It has to be. It isn't there, in the sense that normal matter
is. It's just a line drawn that says so far and no further. Like the magnetic
lines around a magnet-except here all the lines are together in the shape they
want it to take. But there isnt any such field. Maybe I was right. Maybe it's nuclear-binding energy —in
this case, the same energy that keeps the electron from rushing straight to the
proton."
"How
do the men get through?" Haller asked. "And the
ship?"
"Because they're enclosed in the same stuff. Notice, when they're
almost through, they turn off the stuff, and it melts into the main field.
It seems one field can penetrate another—but nothing that isn't in a shield can
get through. Heck, I don't know. According to the science I learned, that
couldn't exist. But it does, so we have to accept it. For all I know, it has
absolutely infinite strength."
The
Triton was almost through now, gliding into the
former swimming pool. It was a little bumpy, since the bubble men had
apparently had to guess how its weight was distributed, and hadn't always been
right. But eventually, the Triton was
inside.
Abruptly, the bubble around
them cut off.
Kayne
reached for the jet control. "Maybe we can blast out, while they're not
expecting it—" he began.
Haller
pushed his hand from the control. "No! That wall, or whatever it is,
wouldn't let us through, now that the bubble's gone. And if you start running
the jets in here, you'll contaminate their water and spray it all over. We
can't poison them with radioactives yet."
"Why
not, sir?
They attacked us."
"Maybe
they figure it the other way around. Maybe they've got a boundary line up
there. Everything above it belongs to our people, everything below to theirs.
When we crossed the border, they went into action, of course. We can't figure
they're any less human than we are, just because they happen to live
differently. They're not the same—but that doesn't mean they're any better or
worse."
Kayne stared at him with a touch of sullenness.
"They're enemies of our country. They've committed an act of piracy."
"Nonsense. They haven't hurt us. They probably never
meant us to come to any harm. They're simply picking up people who are
trespassing. This is their
territory, Kayne."
Simpson
sighed in the back of the group. "I'm not sure about their not hurting us.
We've stood the pressure so far, somehow—I allowed a safety factor in building
the hull, but this is more than I had in mind. We can't take it forever."
"Probably
they don't realize the pressure is dangerous to us. Why come down here, if it
is, from their point of view. Maybe they think we've let the pressure inside
the ship go up to as high as it is outside."
"Air
that much compressed would burn out our lungs—we couldn't stand so much
oxygen," Don suggested. He'd been trying to figure it out. With four
hundred times normal pressure or more, a man breathing such air should be able
to hold his breath for over six hours! But of course, nobody could breathe it
at all. Oxygen is a corrosive gas, which is why it unites with so many things
and gives off heat in fires. The lungs were meant to make use of it—but not
when four hundred times as much was acting all at once. He wondered how the
city outside could exist.
Drake
answered it for him before he could ask. "They must have an atmosphere
that's mostly some inert gas—nitrogen, helium, or some such. Probably
not much more oxygen in it than in our own air."
"They seem to want to test it on
us," Cavanaugh said. In the screen, one of the men was making motions
which could only mean that he wanted them to come out. He was older than most
of the others, with grayer skin and snow-white hair. He was also set apart by a
beard, which was worn by no one else they had seen, and by a sort of robe that
came down to below his knees.
"Hospitable
city, Atlantis," Upjohn remarked. "He wants us to come out and be
squashed flat."
"You
insist on calling it Atlantis," Haller said. Don was beginning to wonder
how much of the conversation was meant, and how much of it was just an effort
to cover up the nerves and worry. "Why not call it Lemuria?
That was another country that sank beneath the ocean, according to the
legends."
Upjohn
shook his head sternly, "No. Never. That was
supposed to be in the Pacific. Anyhow, why not Atlantis?
This is in the Atlantic Ocean. People in America are Americans—people in the
Atlantic are Atlanteans—which is what the citizens of
Atlantis are called."
Outside,
the old man was making more insistent gestures, and a couple of others in robes
had appeared. Finally, he shrugged and seemed to give up. He made a quick
motion toward the ship with his hand.
A
group of other men dressed in dark blue came forward, pushing a cart loaded
with various tools and equipment. They headed straight for the bathysuit hatch, where some of their people had seen Don come and go.
Haller
frowned as they began choosing tools. "They're more than hospitable.
They're too insistent. Dr. Simpson, can they find a way to open the
hatch?"
"I don't see how," Don's uncle
answered. "It locks on the inside, and is about as tough a job as any
safecracker might have. They may be able to get into the hatch. The outer seal
has a manual lever, and if they work it right, they'll have no trouble. But
we've got the inner seal secured."
The
Atlanteans had no trouble at all with the outer seal.
In less than five minutes, they were dragging out the cumbersome bathysuit. Then they disappeared with their tools into the
hatch.
Haller
switched the screen over to the wardroom and started back, with the others
following. Senator Kenney was standing there, drawing a cup of coffee, his eyes
red from sleep. He looked almost cheerful for him.
"Good
work, Admiral," he greeted Haller. "I felt sure you'd get us away
from those aliens in the bubbles. I noticed how calm everything was when I
awoke, so I knew we'd surfaced safely. When do we start back for the
base?"
Haller
pointed to the screen that showed the crowd outside and those near the bathysuit hatch. A fair amount of the city spread out
beyond it. Kenney studied it, smiling at first. Then he seemed less certain.
"I'm
afraid I don't place this base. And you've got some odd workmen repairing the
ship. Secret government base, I suppose. Or can you tell me where we
are?"
"Approximately
three miles below the surface, somewhere in the Milwaukee Deep," Haller
told him. "Those people are the bubble men, and this is their city, which
Sid here calls Atlantis. Right now, they're trying to break into the ship. If
they do, the pressure in the ocean at this depth is measured in tons per inch.
If they don't . . . Well, we'll think about that later."
Kenney
stared at Haller, putting his coffee down slowly. "You mean, Admiral, that you let this ship be captured? You let them
take us, knowing I was aboard—and with the McCurdy bill coming up next week on
the floor of the Senate! You mean you're just sitting here, while they try to
break in. Admiral Haller, I wonder if you realize that the
matter of naval appropriations . . . But you're joking, of course."
He started to pick up the cup again, and his
eyes rested on the screen. He set the coffee back. "You are joking, aren't you? We—we're safe?"
"We're
probably less safe than any other thirteen men alive, Senator," Haller
said.
Kenney stared in fascination at him and back
to the screen. He shook his head very slowly. "You're not joking. No.
Admiral, I'm an old man! I've got to get back to Washington. They want to put
through that bill—raise the tax on tobacco. My state can't stand another such
raise, sir. I promised to fight it, and I intend to fight it. I . . . No,
you're not joking. I—I don't quite know what to say."
He lifted the coffee and drank it carefully,
never pulling the cup away from his mouth until it was empty. He set it down,
wiped his lips slowly, and nodded. "Very good. Excellent. . . . Admiral Haller, I consider your conduct in
this affair an appalling example of egregious incompetence, and I intend to see
that something is done about it. Gross and egregious incompetence! I won't stand for it. I've had enough! Sir, I'll give you exactly one hour—exactly —to
return this ship to the surface. Not another minute. Those foreign spies out
there don't fool me with their fake sets. And neither do you, you traitor to
your country. Yes, sir, traitor! A man who would steal this ship and
deliberately turn it over to an alien power is the lowest, vilest, sorriest
scum that ever infested this fair . . . How far down?"
"Three
miles.
And we're locked in down here."
"I'm
getting old," Kenney said. "I'm ten years older than my constituents
think. Seventy-nine this summer. Sometimes I think I
can't remember things well. Forty years in the Senate, and now they won't
re-elect me again. But I guess I'm just an old bag of wind, at that. Bad
temper, silly, out of touch with reality. Forgive me—I'm upset. There's no
chance to escape, I take it? No. No, so I gather. I guess it's a good thing
they sent me instead of some of the younger men. There are some excellent men
in the Senate, Admiral. Not like me—like I was thirty years ago, rather, when I
was a good man. They can get along without me. Nobody'11 miss me. Well, I've
done some good work in my time. Now I'm just a hanger-on, all bad temper
because I know I'm not much of a man. Thank you for your courtesy, sir. I won't
trouble you further."
He went to the opposite side of the wardroom
and sank onto a seat. From one pocket, he produced a handkerchief and began
wiping his glasses slowly and carefully.
Don
turned away uncomfortably. It wasn't nice to see a man wbo
knew he didn't count any more, and who was driven by fear and bad luck to the
point where he found it necessary to admit it. Kenney had been a good man once,
according to his record. But he'd been through a long siege of sickness years
before, and had never quite regained his abilities. Probably the newspaper
stories of his temper hadn't helped.
There
was a sick silence for a few minutes. Then they went back to watching the
screen. But there was nothing there to see. The pickup couldn't look around a
corner to see how the Atlanteans were doing in the
hatch.
Suddenly
the screen leaped with splashes of zigzag color as static cut through the
image. But that was ridiculous, Don knew. This signal was carried over shielded
wire, and not picked up like nonnal television. It
should be completely free from static. Yet the crackle and hiss of wild energy
somewhere near went on.
Then
there was a clang from below. Haller cut off the screen sharply and swung about
to face toward the bow. From below came the sounds of feet moving across a
metal deck, and up the little stairs.
"They
couldn't—" Simpson began. But Drake cut him off.
"They
did. If they can use binding energy—it has to be that—of one kind, maybe they
can use other kinds. And some of those energies hold the atoms together. Do
something to that force, and they could push the door down with their hands,
for all we know. Anyhow, they're in."
The
feet drew nearer, and with it came a whiff of strange air, carrying the odd
odor of the sea. But the pressure hadn't crushed them inside! Don struggled
with that idea, as the others must be doing. He tried to remember whether the
outer seal had been closed again. Then he knew that it had remained open.
The
air inside the bubble was at almost the same pressure as the air on the surface!
That meant diat the thin bubble of whatever it was
could stand the incredible pressure of the sea. The Triton had been protected by the bubble around her, or they might already have
been squashed by that incredible force.
Then
the steps were in front of them, and he looked up to see six men standing there
with some odd instrument that might be a weapon in the hands of one. The Atlantean motioned them forward.
Haller
stood up slowly. But Kenney came to his feet first. He leaped from his seat and
almost ran toward the Atlantean.
"Traitor! Spy!" he screamed. "You'll never get this ship. You shan't
have it, I tell you. Your whole city can go hang! You—you monster! You alien, sneaking, spying monster!"
His
thin old fist came up from his waist to strike squarely into the Atlantean's face.
The
man drew back, blinking. Then his lips twisted suddenly, and the weapon leaped
up in his hands,
with a crackling sound coming from it. He swung
it slowly toward the crew of the Triton.
Shep let out a snarling growl and charged. In
mid-leap, he fell to the deck and went skidding across it, limp and
unconscious. Don saw his friends begin to fall, and then it hit him. A violent
electric shock seemed to leap through him, and his mind blacked out.
Chapter 12 City of
No Return
on
came to with a vague memory
of men standing around him and of a sharp pain in his arm. But the room in
which he found himself was deserted. Light came down softly from a ceiling that
seemed to glow all over with a soft fluorescence. He looked around,
to find himself in a place perhaps ten feet square, with bare stone walls and a
plastic floor. There were no windows, and only a single door, now tightly
closed. The room was bare of furniture, except for the hard pad on which he
lay, raised about a foot from the floor, and a padded stool across the room.
His arm itched, and he glanced down to see
that his sleeve had been rolled up. Near his elbow, a spot of bright red
indicated that his memory of the pain must have been correct; something had
been injected while he was unconscious.
He
got up, surprised to find no sickness or headache, and went to the door. There
were two levers at about the height of a doorknob. If they were sup-
posed to be squeezed together, then they must be
locked now, since they could not be moved. He was locked in!
"Hey!"
He yelled, and then yelled again as he got no answer. He kicked at the door,
but it seemed to be made of heavy stone, and gave off only a faint, muffled
sound. If the rest of the crew were in nearby rooms, they couldn't hear him.
He
was just dropping onto the pad again when the door opened quickly and an old
man stepped in, to close it sharply behind him. It was the same man Don had
seen outside the ship inside the city. At closer view, his white hair and beard
were somewhat disordered, and his robe was of a coarse material. He set a bowl
of something that looked like rice pudding and a metal goblet of water before
Don.
The
boy realized he was thirsty, and swallowed the water quickly. But the
fishy-tasting food didn't appeal to him. He pushed it away and regarded the old
man. Then he saw the weapon in the other's hand and gave up any wild notions.
"Okay,"
he said. "So I'll be good. What do we do now.
Point to things and start learning the language? I'm Don."
He
indicated himself, and repeated the word. Maybe if he could get the other
started on teaching him and wait until the old man was off guard, he could
somehow get the weapon. . . .
"I'm
Muggins," the old man said, and his lips parted
in a wide grin. His English was as good as Don's except for a faint New England
twang. "And we wait here until K'mith is ready
to see you."
Don's mouth dropped open. He should have been
used to surprises. Screens that kept back the weight of the ocean, cities under
the sea, gadgets that could break down steel doors—and now English!
"Don't
be so dratted surprised," the old man told him, and his grin broadened.
"No reason I shouldn't speak English. I was born in Gloucester."
"You mean—you're all
from the United States?"
Muggins shook his head. "Only
me. The others came from right here. Been here since I donno when. I've been here nigh fifty years myself. Came
down in a submarine that got hit in the war—lessee, that'd be 1918. German sub
torpedoed us, and down we went. Pressure broke us open, and water started
squirting in. I got to the escape hatch. Knew it wouldn't do any good, but had
to try something. No sooner out, than something slaps me in the back and one of
them bubbles springs up all around me. K'mayo—that'd
be K'mith's older brother that died years ago. . . .
He'd been watching, hoping somebody'd come out. He
wanted to find out about the world up above, and he needed someone who'd teach
him the language. So he brought me back to Mlayanu
here—and here I still am."
"Then
you'll help us?" Don was up from the cot, new hope running through him.
"You've got a weapon, and maybe you know where all the others are. Help us
get away, and we'll take you back with us in the Triton! They won't expect . . ."
Muggins shook his head again and the grin vanished.
"Nope. No reason I should try to get away. They
saved my life, and they treated me all right here. I like it. Got a wife, family, friends. I don't mind if you can
escape—but don't count on my helping you. This here's my city, and I ain't turning traitor to it. Anyhow, you couldn't get out.
You've got a blamed sight better ship than we ever had, but it ain't that good. When you get in here, there's no going
back. And don't figure you can swipe a suit and go up to the surface. That
stuff goes fine in the books, but here the bubble-suits aren't allowed for
anyone without a permit—and his family, if he says so. Once you get to Mlayanu, there's no return to the surface. Sooner you learn
that, the better off you'll be."
"What
about the others?" Don asked. He could see by Muggins'
expression that it would do no good to argue. And it was hardly worth making
plans for escape when all he'd seen of the interior of the city was a single
room!
Muggins relaxed, and his smile came back.
"Reckon I can show you that. Don't get me wrong, youngster. I'll do
anything I can for you people—I'm tickled pink to see somebody from the
surface. Use to dream about getting a chance to pay a visit up there
again." He went to the wall and shoved back a small flush-set panel Don
hadn't noticed, revealing a glass-covered opening. "Your friends are in
there. Been before the Council all morning. I guess
they're waiting to hear the results."
Don
looked, and his heart sank. All twelve of the men from the Triton were there, but he could tell from their expressions that things had
gone anything but well. He spotted his uncle talking unhappily with
Drake and Haller. Then he frowned. In the back of the room,
and held by four strong chains, was Shep.
The
dog was chewing futilely at the metal. Now he seemed to see Don, and tried to
stand up, opening his mouth in what looked like a bark, though no sound came
through. At the same time, Simpson glanced toward the window. Don's uncle got
up quickly and came to the glass, making motions.
Muggins closed the panel at once, and Don went back
to the pad. "What will happen to them?" he asked. "And why am I
separate?"
"Donno what," Muggins
answered. "No precedent for this. I don't reckon they'll hurt your friends
much. You? Heck, here you're just a baby. They figure
you're a child. Mlayanu kids don't even start school
till they're eighteen. Before that, they're not supposed to know or amount to
much."
There
was a muffled sound from the door, and the old man went to it. He stuck his
head out, and a babble of liquid-sounding conversation began. At last, the old
man nodded, and turned back to Don.
"Come along. K'mith wants to see you now."
Don
got up and followed the older man. Whoever had spoken before was gone, and
there was nothing but a long hallway, lighted by the same glowing ceiling as
had been in his room. They went past doors and up a ramp, to follow a somewhat
better hallway; the layout was the same, but the stone was better-grained and
the doors now had peculiar curlicues on them.
Muggins
finally stopped at one of the doors. He tapped on it, and waited. There was a
faint sound from inside. The old man opened the door and motioned Don inside.
The
room was somewhat fancier. There was a mat on the floor, and benches along the
walls. In the center of the room, a large man about fifty-five sat at a boxlike
desk. His complexion was gray and his hair the yellow-white of all the Atlanteans, but his face seemed squarer than any other Don
had seen.
"iCmith," Muggins
introduced him. "And it's an honor down here to have only that much of a
name. So call him that. He wants to ask you some questions."
Don
nodded, studying the man. He seemed to be a man of considerable strength, but
his face was pleasant, and a rugged smile somehow gave the feeling of natural
warmth. K'mith's arm moved, indicating a small seat
by the desk, and Don dropped onto it.
"You
might tip me off if I say something wrong," he suggested to Muggins.
The
big head of K'mith tilted back, and a low laugh came
from his mouth. He sobered quickly, however. "That was the first wrong
something, Don Miller," he said in precise English, with only a faint
accent. "As you can hear, I have learned your language—from Muggins and from the books which my people have rescued
from your ships that sank, before the water ruined them." He indicated a
shelf of books that had obviously been water-soaked and carefully dried.
"Also, we send up an antenna and sometimes listen to your radio. That is
how we heard of atomic-powered submarines. Naturally, we were interested, and
have been trying to discover one. Yours was the first we located in our
scouting. Are there many such ships?"
Don
nodded. "Fifty, not counting the cargo ones," he admitted. There was
no point in telling K'mith that those were all older
models, not related to the Triton.
K'mith nodded thoughtfully in turn. "So. I heard it, but so much of your books and radio is
not true-fiction you call it, though we say it lies. And of course, all your
adults have been schooled to the fantasies, so I can learn nothing from them. Even Muggins here, though he is a good
man."
It
was obvious from Muggins' grunt that this was a sore
subject. But after reading a mixture of Gulliver's Travels, Alice in Wonderland, and Haggard's She, K'mith had reason to be confused. The books were an
odd mixture of fiction and out-of-date fact books. Don saw that one was a copy
of Plato's Republic,
and wondered how that
serious but impossible scheme of government compared with what K'mith had heard.
K'mith
had followed Don's quick glance. He grimaced. "An odd world you have. All
your books are fantasies, it seems. Truth may be in them, but I cannot find the
key that tells what is true. And your friends will not help. At what age do
your children start to school?"
Don
started to answer. Then he saw Muggins gesturing
below the table. Don stared at the figure the old man was writing.
"Eighteen," he said, without thinking, reading the figure aloud.
K'mith let out a satisfied chuckle before Don could
correct himself. "Aha. The same age as we use. Naturally—who would risk
burning out the delicate mind of a child before it was ripe enough for study?
So I can learn the truth from a child who can't know anything I need—and I get
only lies from those who may know."
"I
know enough," Don said quickly. "Would you let us all go back, if . .."
K'mith shook his head, looking like a father laughing
at a child. "No, Don Miller. Don't pretend things. And you needn't worry.
We don't punish children for the acts of their adult friends. You'll be treated
just like one of our own children. Muggins will find
you a place to stay until you're a few months older. Then we'll find a teacher
for you. In a few years, you'll be one of us. For now, go out and meet some
other children and enjoy yourself. You're quite free, as long as you don't try
to leave the city."
"What about the
others?" Don asked.
K'mith
shrugged. "That's a problem between adults, Don Miller," he said, and
held out his hand. "Thank you for seeing me. When you are eighteen, I'll
help you pick a teacher. Now good-by."
Don
tried to protest, but Muggins was beside him,
steering him out. They began threading their way down the hall again, before
Don could face the old man. "What was the idea of making me say
eighteen?"
"Pretty simple, youngster. Now they think you're uneducated, so you're
harmless. You can do just about anything you like. Otherwise, you'd have been
locked up, or something. It made a liar out of me, but I figured it'd help you.
So don't go kicking about favors done you."
Don
turned it over. It would have advantages, at that. He'd had thirteen years of
schooling, with added study given by his uncle, but people here would think he
knew nothing. Definitely, it put him at an advantage. He should be able to
figure some way to get the others out of that room where they were being kept.
Muggins caught him suddenly, and tried to turn him.
But Don resisted, long enough to see what had caught the old man's attention.
Then he gasped.
Passing
down a corridor that crossed the hall he was on were the others from the Triton. Each wore a crude set of handcuffs with a
weight attached that pulled their hands down in front of them. And they were
surrounded by more than a dozen guards, each armed with the weapons he had seen
used before.
His
uncle was toward the rear, walking hopelessly, with his face a picture of sick
misery.
"Uncle Eddy!" Don
shouted.
Simpson
looked up, and surprise gave place to pleasure and then to determination. He
jerked his arms up, bringing the weight above his hips and suddenly broke out
of the group, running toward Don. The guards let out a surprised shout, and
started after Simpson. The others from the Triton immediately blocked their way.
Simpson
was almost at the corner, where he could swing down it and perhaps dart into
one of the offices. Don jumped for one at random and tried the door. It started
to open, and Simpson headed for it.
Then
there was a faint hissing sound, and Don's uncle collapsed in a heap. The guard
who had fired his weapon came forward and lifted him up, slinging Simpson over
his shoulder and heading back to the group.
Don
started toward them, but Muggins' hand fell on his
shoulder. "None of that, Don. You've made
trouble enough. Now you come along peacefully or Til have to stungun
you."
"Go
ahead," Don told him bitterly. "Go on. You expect me to stand here
quietly while they take Uncle Eddy and the others off to be executed or
something?"
"They
won't be hurt. They're just being put where they can't make any trouble. Jail,
you might say. I tell you, they don't kill people down here. They don't even
mistreat people unless they have to. At least, I never heard of anyone being
hurt." But Muggins sounded doubtful as he
finished.
Don
saw that the group had vanished beyond his sight. He let Muggins
lead him outside, still burning with resentment at die
treatment he had seen. "They have no right. .."
"Maybe
not," Muggins agreed. "But they can't let
your people escape, youngster. They have to be locked up. Prisoners of state, I
guess. They know too much to be let go. And don't go planning to go getting
them out or running off yourself. I told you before—this is the city of no
return. Once you get here, you stay here!"
Chapter 13 The Dog-God
I |
here's
no place that can't be
escaped," Don argued hotly. "It just takes more work and skill in
some places. If you think you can keep me from trying by scaring me off, you're
wrong!" The old man chuckled. "You think so? Ever try figuring how
you'd stand the pressure once you got out? Without a license, you couldn't get
one of those suits. They're kept locked up good and tight. And you'd sure need
a bubble to get out of here. Anyhow, once you got to the surface, how'd anyone
ever find you?"
"There's
the submarine," Don pointed out. "If you think I'm going to let K'mith or anyone else hold the whole
crew prisoners, while he tries to blow everyone up working on the atomic plant.
. ."
"Don't
know anything about atomic plants," Muggins
said stubbornly. "But I know this place. I should. If they got you with a
whole crew aboard, how you figure you can get the machine out alone? How you gonna get it through the dome?"
Don
had no idea, but he couldn't admit defeat. Not when K'mith
left him free, and the others were being kept prisoners for life, or worse.
They wouldn't be hurt for a while, though; the Atlanteans
would need the crew, if they intended to try to learn more about atomics.
Then
a familiar sound caught his ear. It was the short, protesting bark of a dog.
There was no question in Don's mind. It was Shep's
bark. And the last time he'd seen the dog in chains. . . .
"Shep!"
he yelled.
Immediately,
the barks rose to a frenzy, with a new note added. Don started toward the sound
at a run, with Muggins trailing along behind. He shot
around a corner, and then down the street toward the sounds. They seemed to be
coming from the back of the same big building from which he had just come.
He
reached a little square behind it—and spotted Shep.
The dog was fastened with half a dozen small ropes, and each was held by an Atlantean. The six men stretched out to form a network that
kept Shep from leaping in any direction. He was
hopping up and down wildly, trying to get his mouth around to tear at the
ropes, but not succeeding. When he caught sight of Don, he seemed to go crazy.
One of the men reached for a stungun.
"Quiet, Shepl" Don ordered. "Down!"
The
dog stopped his noise at once and settled down to the stone paving, panting
furiously but obeying the familiar commands. Don swung about, studying the men
who were around. Then he spotted K'mith at the top of
the stone steps. The big man was coming toward him with a curious expression on
his face.
"What
are they doing with my dog?" Don demanded.
K'mith frowned in quick surprise. "Your dog, Don Miller? Then those books . . . But what do you want
with him?"
"He's
my pet, my friend," Don answered. "What goes on here, anyhow?"
The
Atlantean studied the quiet animal thoughtfully.
"Once," he said, and he sounded as if he were
quoting, "men lived on the forbidden highest level, and there they were
surrounded by great beasts. And the beasts were wild and savage, killing the
men and destroying them. There were beasts higher than houses,
and beasts smaller than the hand. But they all bit and trampled and killed. And
when the upper level rested in darkness, that showed
the god's displeasure that man had found only half his proper way, then the
beasts came roaring and wailing out of this darkness, since some of the beasts
were angry gods, who led the others. And no man could stay the strong jaw and
the savage teeth."
"You
may be remembering your people's accounts," Don told him. "But my
people had a tough time of it, too, and they tamed the dogs to help them. Maybe
that's the start of our whole civilization. Shep
isn't any wild beast. He's an old friend."
K'mith
considered it. Finally he indicated that the men holding the ropes should let
them go. Their faces froze at that, but after a few words in the language of
the city, K'mith convinced them somehow. They dropped
the ropes and ran back as fast as their legs would carry them. Only K'mith remained beside the boy.
"C'mere,
Shep," Don said.
Shep was up at a single leap, hopping
stiff-legged into the air and trying to lick Don's face. There was a shriek
from the crowd, then an awed mutter of surprise as Don stretched out his arms
and Shep leaped into them. The animal wriggled and
licked happily, whining faintly, until Don finally put him down. Then he began
running in circles around his master.
"Wild,
yes," K'mith decided. "But not dangerous.
Come with me—just beyond this corner." He led the way, until they had
rounded the corner of the building, and then pointed to another small square
with a statue mounted on a pedestal.
The
statue was probably carved from pure tradition. No animal had ever looked like
it. The parts were from several animals—the head even had a bit of a trunk and
tusks. But oddly enough, it was a little like Shep.
The
crowd had streamed after them, and now a great cry began to go up. Muggins grinned, and K'mith shook
his head. "They are crying that this animal of yours is the dog-god, the
one the statue is carved to show. And that after all the centuries, the dog-god
has repented his evil ways and has come back to do good for all his old harm.
There is a prophecy that when the dog-god swims through the water in the belly
of a fish and comes into our city with a smile, then all will go well with us
as long as he stays. It looks as if you've fulfilled the prophecy, though it
didn't say the fish would have atomic power."
He
addressed the people briefly, while Muggins grinned.
The old man leaned over and whispered into Don's ear. "Three weeks ago, he
was telling me these people didn't have no
superstitions. Said all this dog-god stuff was just legends they liked to
remember because it was in such nice poetry. Now he's telling them he will keep
the dog-god for them. Smart boy, this K'mith.
He'll never miss a chance to put himself in solid with the voting
citizens!"
Cheers
were going up as K'mith talked. Finally, some of the
more curious came up to examine Shep more closely.
The dog growled, but Don shushed him.
K'mith
watched for a moment and then went over to the dog. Shep
growled again, but relaxed at a word from Don. The Atlantean
reached out carefully and stroked the black head as Don had done. Shep sniffed his hand, and finally decided the smell was
friendly enough to deserve a halfhearted lick on the fingers. At the sight, a
wild cheer went up, and the people began to disperse, as if it had been a sign.
"Yet
I have heard often the expression *mad dog'," K'mith
said.
"That
means a sick dog." Don tried to describe hydrophobia to the Atlantean, along with assurances that the disease was rare
now.
"No
wonder the beast was feared," K'mith decided. "But no matter. Even if your Shep
were wild, the people want him, and I must obey. You will live with me, then,
even as would a child of mine, and you will bring your dog with you to my
house. In this emergency, the people must have what comfort they can find. I
don't believe the legend; but some of them do."
"Take
the offer," Muggins said quickly. "It's the
best chance you'll have. And you'll like the big shot's boy, S'neifa."
Don
hesitated. There were advantages in being on good terms with an important man,
of course. But it would also mean that he was more carefully watched. He
balanced it in his head, uncertainly. Finally, he let it rest on Muggins' words; the old man might or might not be his
genuine friend, but he'd have to act as if he were until it was proved one way
or the other.
"Thank
you," he agreed. "But Shep isn't to be put
in a zoo, or anything like that."
"The
dog is yours. I ask only the honor," K'mith said
formally. "And now, I am finished here. Let's go to your new home."
"What
about the others?" the boy asked, "I saw them.. ."
K'mith
shrugged. "So I heard. They will be comfortable. And I promise, you will see where they are, later. Come, now."
The
city was made up of small streets and houses that looked like blocks of cement,
mostly. In spite of their advanced dome, it was almost primitive in many ways.
In the center, a few buildings were fairly high. But beyond, everything seemed
to be one story high, and no more. With Shep at heel,
Don followed K'mith and Muggins
toward the residential section, studying the business along the way. He could
make no sense of what he saw.
"No money," Muggins
agreed. "The city is everyone's father—Mlayanu
means Big He in their language. Big He has to support everyone, just the way a
father supports his kids. And they have to do what the city— the Council and
such—says."
"That sounds like
socialism."
"It
ain't. It's the family idea, like I said. Because Mlayanu is a real father.
He has privileges. He can be nicer to his good children. He gives them a bigger
allowance. Works out like money. Some get the best, some get what's left. Only
nobody can starve as long as anyone has food. Works pretty good."
Don
wondered if having everyone the child of the city of Mlayanu
made them all brothers and sisters. But from the bickering going on at the
markets, he suspected this wasn't so. "How do they know how much they can
afford?"
"They
figure it in favors. Man sells you a fish for five favors; you mark it down for
him when it reaches a hundred. Then when he has that mark, he goes around to
somebody who's done him a hundred favors. Maybe he can even get two hundred
favors for your hundred, if you're a big man here. Word gets around how you
appreciated the favors, so the new owner won't lose. Works
all right here where they've got only about twenty thousand people. Be
tough on the surface, though."
Probably
it was simple enough in practice. Don gathered that he had a minimum number of
favors automatically, and that as one of K'mith's
"children" they would have a high value.
They were in the best residential section
now, where the Council and other higher-ups lived. The houses still looked like
adobe boxes without windows, but they were larger than the ones Don had seen
from the outside. Also, they had little strips of ground beside them, about
four feet wide and perhaps forty feet long, in which vegetables were growing.
Many of the vegetables resembled the ones Don knew from above enough to show
that they had come from the surface at one time.
There were men and boys outside some of the
houses, who stared in shocked surprise at Shep, and then went quickly inside. Don saw women and girls
peeping around the corners at the rear a few seconds later.
They
were closer to the submarine than he had thought. As they passed down one
narrow little street and turned onto another, he could see the pool ahead, and
the submarine lying in it. But now there were a group of Atlanteans
around the ship, and men were moving into the ship and out of it. Some of them
were carrying instruments.
"They
aren't touching the atomics, are they?" he asked sharply.
"Not
yet," K'mith answered. "Most of what is in
your books and what your men say is pure fantasy. And yet, I have found some
truth in it. I am doubtful of the words of caution given by your uncle, Don
Miller, but I cannot take chances. Later, in a few days, when we have tested,
we shall see."
The
submarine was their only chance for escape, Don knew. And it had to be used
before the Atlanteans could start fooling with the
power plant. They might be able to tackle it without killing everyone, though
any who went inside the shielding would die in a short time. But once they
released the radiation inside the shields, nobody would be able to use the Triton again. It would become a hopeless death trap.
They
turned in at one of the houses. K'mith laid one hand
on Don's head and another on his wrist. "Enter into the household of Mith, Don K'Miller to be. By the
brain that held away the waters, and the hand that
built a house within the community of the sea." He smiled. "A superstition, Don—but a pleasant custom, legally binding,
enough to make you my son."
A
trim-built woman of over forty met them inside the hallway off which the five
rooms led. She stepped back quickly, making sure that she did not touch them,
and dropped to one knee, then bent until her forehead touched the floor. Behind
her, a girl of about twelve did the same.
K'mith ignored the two, and turned to a young man,
somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, who stood waiting. "Don K'Miller to be, this is my only son who was born to my
brother. He is already honored in the middle education, and is S'neifa."
"Hello,
Don," the younger man said. "Don't mind all this. Father and I don't
agree, but I've read all I can about your world. I'm glad to see someone from
it." He stuck out his hand quickly.
Then
he bent over to whisper. "And don't try to understand our family life, any
more than I can understand that in your books. My—uh, my mother and sister—peshna verdon, Mlayanu—they'll act like slaves in your Uncle Tom's Cabin. But we're all equal before Mlayanu. Sometimes
it is my father and I who must be slaves."
From
the look K'mith threw him, the whispering hadn't been
low enough, and the use of the words "mother" and "sister"
must be some kind of a violation of basic rules. But nothing was said. The men
sat at the table, including Muggins. The woman and
girl began to serve the food, always from a kneeling position, and being
careful not to touch the men. But they were laughing happily together back at
their own hidden table a few minutes afterward. And later Don saw K'mith go back and drop to the same kneeling position
while saying something. He heard the woman's voice murmuring, and then saw K'mith come back frowning.
"I
cannot show you what I intended," he said. "I am not permitted to
take more time with you. S'neifa." He broke into
Atlantean words, and S'neifa
nodded. The younger man repeated the same performance, and this time it was the
girl who answered, in English.
"It
is permitted," she said quietly. "I have no fault with you
today."
The
two women had apparently never seen Don or Shep. Yet
the dog came from under their table, licking his chops. Don grinned. The food
had been fish in various forms again, with a few vegetables— but it had been
well cooked. "Lucky dog," he told Shep, and
heard a titter from the girl.
S'neifa blushed, and led Don out quickly. They
went down the street, and slightly back toward
the business section. Then S'neifa stopped and
pointed toward a roof on one of the buildings, surrounded by a low wall.
"Look closely, Don. My father K'mith promised
you would be shown."
Don
strained his eyes, and then made out the faint sign of a separate bubble over
the roof. Under it, there were a number of men—men in the clothing of the
surface.
The
crew of the Triton
had been put into a prison
from which there could be no escape. The only way through the wall of energy
that surrounded them was in one of the bubble suits.
He
swung on his heel suddenly, intending to knock S'neifa
down and head toward the building where his people were. But S'neifa was already heading down the street toward his
home. He waved at Don and was gone.
Chapter 14 The Lost People
on returned to the home of K'mith after a disappointing
visit.
He'd been permitted to go up to where his people were, but had not been led
through the force-screen dome. And standing outside, making motions had proved
an unhappy way to contact them, even when Upjohn had used finger-Morse code.
They were comfortable enough, apparently. Kayne was
stalking about in nervous apger, and Kenney was lying
on a pad, muttering something horrible about bombing the alien spies. The
others were accepting the situation, while trying to find some way to get out
of it. But all they could suggest to Don was that he play
it cautiously, and wait for something to turn up.
He
noticed, however, that the dome's phosphorescence was cut at night—apparently
during the same hours as night on the surface. That might help, if there was
any way to escape. During the next few days, S'neifa
turned out to
be a puzzle. He seemed to want to help. K'mith had decided that the books about the surface were
full of lies, and nothing could be believed; S'neifa
had read them to find on what they agreed, and had checked with Muggins. He had the broad facts about the surface world
fairly straight, and mostly made sense. But repeatedly, the conversation ran
into snags, where neither could understand the other. Don's description of
family life in America left Sneifa slightly ill, and
believing that the worst ideas he had dared to have were true—that men and
women fought each other through their whole lives, and each was trying to get
rid of the other. But Don could only get a vague idea of what went on here,
although he had the constant example of the family before him. Affection was
strong, but never shown. They took pride in their station, whether male or
female, yet spent all their time acting abject. And so far as Don could find
out, the men did all the ruling—but the women were complete masters of the men!
S'neifa's explanation only muddied things. Don
couldn't conceive of a situation where a man could be sent into exile from the
family, even while he had the right to forbid the woman to speak at all—where
the whole family, including the woman, went into such exile with him! It
sounded like nonsense.
He
had a somewhat easier time understanding S'neifa's
education. The man was in the final stages of his "middle" education,
which apparently covered advanced administration and elementary science and
technology. His "third" education would come later, where he learned
all the technical knowledge of the city. So far as Don could learn from
listening, there was no organization or system to it. It was like learning
history while studying arithmetic in a Latin book! But it was tough, without
much question. No wonder they felt the people under eighteen couldn't take it.
Of course, if they hadn't waited until eighteen, it wouldn't have required so
much forcing in order to finish during a man's life. S'neifa
was twenty-seven and had at least seven more years of study—and he was
apparently unusually bright.
Don
had always disliked the tight, dry organization and compartmentation
of his school books; but now he began to see them as marvels of intelligent
presentation of facts. Without them, he might have had to spend the same hard
hours of acute labor that S'neifa went through. At
times he was tempted to tell the older man that he'd already gone at least as
far in school, but this secret was his one ace-in-the-hole, and he hung onto it
carefully.
S'neifa took him around the city, finding time for
it somehow, and even got him a small, hand-drawn map. It was as strange a
mixture as Don had come to expect. They had the marvelous handling of the binding
force energies—and by now he knew that the energy of the dome and the energy used
in cracking open the submarine were types of energy not used on the surface,
but to be found within the nucleus of the atom. Yet, they didn't have atomic
energy, nor even a simple steam engine. The propellers
that drove the sea sleds were run on electric energy, which came from the most
marvelously tiny batteries Don had seen. But they used those motors for nothing
else. The general mode of living was probably closer to medieval Europe—except
for the cleanliness—than to modern standards; yet in many ways, they had gone
far beyond the surface world in science and in government on the local level.
The cumbersome-seeming system of favors and paternalistic Mlayanu
worked smoothly, and nobody suffered.
S'neifa
took it for granted that even a noneducated boy from
the surface would know how to build two discs coupled by three fine wires, so
that whatever was in front of one could be seen perfectly in the other—with no
apparent source of energy. Yet they had never developed television, and the
idea that radio wave lengths as short as a few centimeters could exist, was
obviously ridiculous to him.
One
thing that made an education so difficult was the amount of traditional
nonsense they had to learn. Yet Don couldn't help being impressed when S'neifa sat down and drew him a map of Europe as it had
been twenty-eight thousand years before. Europe was easily recognizable, too,
though Don knew that none of their books showed maps of any sort from the
surface.
"We
wandered around a lot, the stories say," S'neifa
told him, "We were an outcast people—we had split with the totems—is that
the word for tribal symbols?— the totems of our tribe. They were using some
animal, and we took the fish as a totem, because of a whale that was washed up
and saved us in what was a great miracle. And we had die wolf as a totem—the
dog-god in the square is probably from that, because the legends say a wolf ate
of the whale with us and did not growl. The tribe cast us out, and we wandered.
Here, and here—even into the great cold country."
His
finger moved across Greece, down Italy, and lingered near the Pyrenees
Mountains. It moved on up the coast of France, and
around the Baltic to Finland and Sweden. Then he traced it back to France.
"But when we came back, the tribe fought us. And we had found boats then
among people in the cold country, and we followed our women to an island. It is
gone now."
It
was a long, rambling story, filled with all kinds of legendary accounts of
heroes—over half of whom were women, Don noticed. But they had found an island
with a short slope down into the ocean. And as they spread out, they built
further and further out onto that slope, until some of their buildings lay a
mile from shore. They learned to pack air in softened bladders and breathe it
under water, so they could stay down below the surface as much as fifteen minutes.
And they spread still more, while the island slowly sank. There came a time
when it was all under the surface. But they stayed there for some reason Don
could not understand—something about the demons who
used beasts on the mainland. They learned to stand the terrible storms, and
make their living from the ocean. And they developed electricity.
"Why not?" S'neifa asked. "We had some metals, even
then. And around the sea, things react."
With parts of fish left standing in sea water
in the sun, they discovered the first accidental battery. They were quicker to
develop things than the other tribes who might have found them and forgotten
them. They had to be. The land kept sinking, faster now. They built rafts, and
learned to make those rafts mostly from seaweed. From electroplating, they
found ways to take small models and grow large parts of metal.
And
then a marvelous discovery had come—one of the three or four great accidental
discoveries of all history. A crystal was washed up and trimmed by one member
to a special shape for a necklace. He strung it with copper wire, and looped
the wire around to hold it while he located the other ornaments. Then, while
he was gone and it lay there, his child tipped it together with a battery into
the ocean. When he came back, there was the little dome around it—and the dome
would not give. By lifting the wire, he could make or destroy the dome, but
nothing could go through it.
It
had been pure luck. The elements of the device had to be just right, and there
was not one chance in ten billion of it happening. But he drew a picture and
kept the parts. And the next winter before the storm came,
he found other crystals and built them all the same. He even found he could
make the dome grow larger or smaller by adding more batteries or taking some
away. And once up, it took almost no energy to keep the dome going.
By
a process of trial and error, he had found that one dome could go through
another. So he had a
way of getting in and out. And that winter his
family and he rested snug and secure on the shallow bottom, while the storms
raged above. They nearly smothered half the time for the lack of air, but they
managed.
And
from that impossible accident, the tribe of Mlayanu
had developed, passing on their traditions and their pictures, together with
their growing crude sciences. They didn't know why things worked, and sometimes
never learned. But they kept whatever did work, and had learned to experiment
for new things. They found how to charge their batteries from sunlight, by a
special device having two thin films of different metals plated together. They
improved their batteries.
"I've
seen the batteries," Don acknowledged. "We don't have anything like
them."
"We
had fifteen—nearer twenty—thousand years to develop them. We had to have good
batteries," S'neifa said. "Your peoples
have better electric motors, because you developed them earlier than we. Until
thirty years ago, we used only compressed-air motors. We never found magnetism
for all that time. You had to have magnetism to guide your ships, so you saw it
for what it was when you found Iodestone. We had no
need—and only found it recently."
"But
those thermocouples you used to get sun energy turned into electricity—we have
some now, but they're pretty weak."
"We
still use them. Now we get our energy by burying them near the hot part of a
volcano under the sea here and using ocean water on the other side.
They would freeze the ground under them, so
much heat would they take from the sunlight and turn to electricity."
The
volcanic basis of their island had then turned active again, and a great
upheaval had sent the pleasant island and its beach all the way back to its old
level, far below the surface. The domes had been strong enough to stand the
shock, but the people had been afraid of the depth, until they got used to it.
They
had moved on, looking for new sources of their precious crystals and beginning
to get heat from volcanoes under the ocean. This had meant going deeper and
deeper, since some of the best had been in the gorges.
By
the time they had nearly crossed the ocean, the barbarian tribes on the surface
had begun to use metals and build ships. The sea people had deliberately
hidden themselves. They had even tried to pretend that there were no surface
people any more.
It
was a wreck that had first convinced them that they were not alone in
civilization. They found fancy goods on it, and metal tools. By then it was
miles up to the surface, and a dangerous trip, since they knew too little about
the surface life. But as they looked, they discovered other wrecks, and some
were of metal. Among these, they found an early radio set. They knew enough to
guess some of its purpose, and the antenna on the wrecked ship indicated that
it needed a collector of waves above the surface. They had known nothing of
radio before—or magnetism, since this was where they first learned of it—but they
managed at least to get it to work to some extent
for a while.
It
was then that K'mith's elder brother, and the real
father of S'neifa—his father, the brother of his
father, as he put it—had decided to find and bring back a surface dweller. And
they'd learned English from Muggins and the books and
broadcasts that they were beginning to pick up.
"Most
of the people want to stay isolated still," S'neifa
told Don. "I know how you feel about your people being locked up, my
younger brother. But my people are afraid that the upper world knows too much
and is too dangerous. We have heard of your great bombs and your atomic power.
We have even heard that you can defy gravity and float on the air."
"Not
exactly defy gravity," Don told him. "We use big planes, something
like your sea sleds, and go through the air so fast that it doesn't have time to
escape from under the planes before we are gone— or that's one way of
explaining it."
"It's
still a miracle. And we can't trust people who have learned so fast. So the
Council voted that all those from the surface who knew about us and could
report must stay here. We asked them to promise never to try to leave, but
nobody would promise. So we have them where they are safe."
"It
won't work," Don told him. "They'll build more submarines, and even
stronger ones. They'll explore every inch of the ocean floor some day. And when
they find you, they'll be further ahead than now.
S'neifa, there are hundreds of millions of us, and
only thousands of you. A few thousands can't possibly invent and discover as
fast as hundreds of millions. The longer you put it off, the worse it will
be."
S'neifa sighed, and nodded. "I have thought of
that. But the Council and the people—they hope that one of your great wars on
the surface will end all danger from you. Then we can come out slowly and lead
the few who still live to a better life."
"You mean to your kind
of life?"
"They
mean to this kind of life, of course, but both on the surface and here. I—Don,
I don't know. There are things in those books—and . . . Tell me, you have been
educated already, haven't you?"
Don's
breath caught in his throat, and he sputtered. The question had caught him
unprepared. If anyone found that he had a good education and could understand
the things he saw here—then he'd be locked up with the others, and there would
be no chance to escape.
"Don't
answer," S'neifa said slowly. "Education is
not only what you know, but how you think. And you think like one who has a
great deal of education. I knew this long ago. You can read—and much
more."
Reluctantly
and fearfully, Don nodded. "About the same stage for my culture as you are
for yours. I started school when I was six."
"If
I—" S'neifa began, and there was a hungry look
in his eyes.
But he didn't complete the
sentence. A muffled gasp sounded from beyond the door of the room. S'neifa jerked to his feet and went out the door, already
dropping to his knee and beginning to bring his head down. There was a rapid
patter of Atlantean. Then S'neifa
must have gone out, from the sound of his feet. The girl came in and stood
gazing at Don with serious eyes.
He
wanted to ask for her silence—but there was no way in which he knew of making
an appeal. He bent his head in resignation, until her voice reached his ears.
"You are a fool, Don K'Miller to be," she
said. "A silly, silly fool. Now I know a secret.
A secret, a secret. . . ."
She
chanted the last, and suddenly swung and was gone down the room and away. If she were going to tell K mith . . .
A
white-faced S'neifa came into the room, before Don
could make up his mind. He shook his head doubtfully. "I—I don't know,
Don. She listens a lot-even to my lessons—when she
isn't supposed to. She doesn't tell, usually. But sometimes . . ." He
dropped it unhappily, and threw a piece of paper-like material down.
"Since you can read, look at this. Our radio was active yesterday, and we
received the news from the suface."
Don
picked it up, and scanned it quickly. Then he groaned and read it through
again. It was a brief summary, but it showed that his government had entirely
misunderstood the bit of his SOS they had heard. They believed that an enemy
nation had attacked the Triton,
and were demanding
satisfaction.
The nation they were accusing was angry at
being accused. And the strained relations were leading them both straight into
the horror of an atomic war. In a few more days, it would surely start!
The
only hope for peace lay in his finding some means to escape; and if a
twelve-year-old girl told her secret, there was no chance at all!
Chapter 15 Incomplet
e Barrier
on
went out, with Shep trailing behind him. The dog no longer frightened any
of the Atlanteans, now that he had been completely
identified in their minds with the dog-god who was smiling on them. The people
watched, making curious little signs to him. And about the only time they
smiled was when they saw him. There was a cloud of gloom over the city, and
constant references to some emergency. Don had asked about it, but had been
told that it was for adults to worry about, not for children.
He
had guessed that it somehow tied into the coming of the Triton and their fear of the upper world, but it was only a guess. And right
now, he had too many worries of his own to care about it.
He
went past the submarine now, stopping to watch the men who were studying it.
They were still letting the atomic equipment strictly alone, but everything
else was being gone over with a fine-toothed comb. As one of them had told him,
they hoped to learn enough from other things about the science of the
surface to enable them to figure out how the atomic
power plant must work. It was a useless hope, Don knew; the technicians here
were clever at doing trial and error invention, and they knew every discovery
that their race had ever made, including all about the ones that were no longer
of any possible use. But they were too practical. They had never developed a
theoretical science—and handling atomics involved a lot of theory, too
complicated to figure out from the other things aboard the ship.
The
Triton was seaworthy, however, which was what Don
wanted to know. The rocks that had weighed the ship down had now been removed,
and she floated easily. Nothing useful had been taken out. And even the device
that created the bubble around her was still attached. One of the men who spoke
English saw Don studying it, and moved over.
"We
will take it off soon," he said. "After we take out the ship into the
water there, and see ourselves how work the motors. You will come along,
maybe?"
"When?" Don asked.
"The day after
tomorrow, I think."
Don's
heart seemed to come up and stick in his throat, but he tried to nod casually,
as he moved closer to the device. There would be no chance for an escape, he
was sure, with a whole crew of the Atlanteans aboard;
they'd be able to cut off their bubble-making gadget at any time if he tried to
take the ship up—and without that, even the Triton couldn't stand the pressure. But once they had made their test and
removed the gadget, there'd be no chance at all of getting the ship through the
dome and into the ocean. Escape would have to
be made somehow before that date.
Then
the full idea hit. When they took the ship out, they couldn't test it without
cutting off the bubble! Yet the second the bubble was gone, the ship would
almost certainly be destroyed by the pressure of the seal
He
could feel the noose being drawn tighter and tighter about his neck, but he
tried not to show it as he drew up beside the group of crystals connected to
batteries by oddly twisted wires. "How does this work?" he asked.
The
technician shrugged. "You press this lever, and it works. More than that,
I do not know. It is for the technicians of the power dome to explain. And to
them it is a secret, even from us—if they know. Maybe some
day, Don K'Miller to be, when you have been
educated and are no longer the child, you will become a power-dome technician.
Until then . .
He
shrugged again, and pulled the boy away from the device gently. Don had found a
few things, however. The bubble spread over solids, but was stopped by
anything liquid, such as water, tarry materials, or glass—which acted like a
liquid in many ways. The floor of the prison where the Triton crew was kept was of a tarry substance that stopped it. He also knew
that it was a lot less simple than it seemed, and that as long as he was
considered a child, nobody would talk to him about it.
Yet something kept driving him to find out.
With even a small amount of added information, there might be some means of
escape. The dome was mixed up in everything—the prisoners were locked in by
one, the submarine was immobilized unless one could be thrown around it, and
the whole life of the city was wrapped up in it.
He
walked glumly toward the building he had spotted before, where the power came
in from the volcanic heat plant and was used to create the dome. It was a big
round building with a single entrance, and a sign which he knew meant that
nobody was allowed in. He had been by a dozen times already, but either the big
door had been closed or a technician had been on guard.
But
this time, the door seemed to be unlocked, and there was no guard. Don glanced
up and down the street, and tapped Shep lightly on
the shoulder. "Go home, Shep!" he ordered.
The dog whined, but moved away slowly.
No
one was around. Don moved up to the door carefully and found it open the barest
crack. He stuck his eye to the opening and stared inside, to see a huge room
filled with aisles and rows of complicated crystals and a maze of wiring. Far
down at one end there was the mutter of worried voices, and he could see
movement as someone would occasionally pass across an opening. But whatever
was going on was taking up most of their attention.
With
a prayer for luck, he moved inside, sliding along the wall and holding his
breath as he came to a section of open space. He moved from hiding place to
hiding place, studying the big installation as he went. After his years of
studying electronics, he had thought that no complicated device could be
totally meaningless to him. He was wrong—nothing worked at all like anything he
knew.
Then
he came to a section that did make sense— because it had been assembled from
bits of radio equipment and duplicated parts. But it was disconnected now. He
started on, then stopped as he saw a diagram there.
The Atlanteans used symbols entirely different from
the ones he knew, but with the device itself, he could learn what the various
curlicues meant. He tried to photograph it in his mind, before moving on.
Another section of Atlantean work had one of their
diagrams fastened to it, and he studied that. This time it made sense.
One of the technicians came down the aisle
then, barely giving Don warning by the sound of his feet. The man hurried along
as Don pulled himself under a table; in the bundle he carried were scraps of paperlike material, scrawled over. He dumped them into a
box and hurried back. Don let out a sigh of relief and moved forward to pick up
the marked-up diagrams.
The sharp bark of a dog echoed in the big
chamber suddenly, and Shep came bounding along the
aisle, straight toward Don. The boy gasped, realizing what a fool he'd been. Shep hadn't been here long enough to consider K'mith's house home. He'd only been confused by Don's
order. And now he was back.
Don heard a shout collecting from the
technicians and the sound of heavy feet pounding down the aisles. He leaped for
the diagram, scooped it up and pocketed it, and then darted away. Ahead there
was the flicker of movement. He ducked into a side aisle, with Shep leaping along.
"Get
out, Shep!" he whispered. The dog hesitated, then dashed out. Some of the technicians spotted him and
gave chase. Don ducked into another aisle, under a table, and down the main
aisle toward the door. He saw Shep bounce through,
and then was dashing for it himself. He saw someone behind him, but there was
no chance to look back. He hit the door, slammed it after him, and darted
around a corner, zigzagging through the streets. Behind him, he heard a hue and
cry, but for the moment he was safe.
He
was sure they couldn't prove he'd been the one in the dome station—but the
presence of Shep was suspicious enough. It wouldn't
do to go back to K'mith; and the only other place he
could think of was the prison. It would give him an excuse for being out, and Muggins might back up his story.
Muggins grinned when he heard Don's hasty account,
however. "Nope. You're a child, remember. Don't
matter if you do go in there, so long as you don't touch anything. They
probably didn't bother looking at you—just wanted to get your dog out before he
could get into something. Look, I gotta take food
in." He was fastening on the bubble device that permitted him to enter the
little dome, and now he winked broadly. "Don't you touch me before I put
on power, or you'll be in the bubble, too."
A
second later, with Don touching his shoulder and the bubble of force spread out
over both of them, he walked through the dome. He snapped off power, put down
the food, and turned it on again to leave, pretending not to notice that Don
had gotten inside the prison dome.
There
was a wild hubbub then, as Simpson rushed up to him and the others followed.
His uncle looked thin and sick. "Off my feed," he explained quickly.
"The diet here doesn't agree with my ulcers."
It
took Don five minutes to answer their questions and assure them that he was all
right. Then he had to report on the situation, and they sobered. There seemed
to be no way in which they could possibly escape before the submarine was in a
condition where it would be useless to them. Yet they had to get out before
that time.
Kenney
had hovered around, but now he grumbled miserably and stomped back to his cot.
"Had a run-in with K'mith this morning,"
Upjohn explained. "He's still fighting mad. K'mith
probably is, too."
But
this time it was Drake whom Don most wanted to see. He drew the physicist
aside, with his uncle joining them, and spread out the diagram he had found,
explaining what he had decoded from the others. Even the most complicated
electronic device uses only a few different basic parts, and it was easier to
decode than might have been thought. Drake found a sheet of paper in Upjohn's
coat pocket and began retracing the diagram with Don's help.
Part
of it was peculiar, but the basic setup was familiar to Don. "It's like a
signal generator—it simply feeds in several different frequencies to control
something. But what?"
It
was an hour later when Drake finally shrugged. "I still don't know how it
all works, but I think we're right. We know they can control this screen to let
through anything from nothing at all through fight, and finally spread it thin
enough for gas to come through. This is what does it. If they feed in no signal
at all, absolutely nothing at all—no matter what it is or at what pressure—can
get through. With the right frequency, they can pick what they want. They must
have been trying to tune it properly, because I've notice the thing has
flickered a few times lately."
"Anything at all?" Don asked. "Then if the atom bomb were
to hit this . . . ?"
Drake
blinked, and suddenly nodded. "You're right! They could set this so a
million H-bombs wouldn't matter. Great Harry, if we had this . . . We've got to
have it! Put up a screen around every city in the world, and war wouldn't be
possible—or matter. Don, get back out there, and get twice as busy as you can.
We've got to get this back to the surface!"
Don
nodded. He'd been thinking the same. He grabbed his uncle's hand quickly, and
then motioned for Muggins. The old man came through
in a bubble, chuckling. He began muttering false surprise at finding Don
inside the bubble, and made contact. Ten seconds later, Don was heading back to
the street. It had occurred to him that one of the others might be
AHack
from Atlantis
of
more use outside, but he knew it was false. Muggins
wouldn't have released anyone else—he'd have used his weapon first; and Don was
the only one who had a chance to move around freely. For that matter, even if Muggins had been willing to let them out, he wouldn't have
dared.
Shep was waiting for him outside, and he headed
back to the house of K'mith. His newly adopted father
came out to meet him with a sheaf of papers, but there was no anger on the
man's face. If the guards had spotted Don at the plant, they must have let it
go, as Muggins had said.
"You look
excited," K'mith said mildly.
Don
caught himself, but the idea that had been taking shape wouldn't hold back.
"I've been talking to Drake and my uncle. K'mith,
there isn't any reason to be afraid of the surface now! Your screen—it can be
set to protect you from the bomb completely. It can—"
K'mith
smiled faintly. "I know, Don K'Miller to be. We
found what the radiation was from your ship, and the technicians are tuning the
dome to handle it now. But there are new developments."
Don
suddenly felt silly. His triumph couldn't have fallen flatter. And yet, if K'mith knew they were safe . . . He looked at the paper the
older man held out, frowning. It was another bulletin that summarized news
received over their radio listening branch. The United States had given the
foreign nation an ultimatum—five days to return the Triton unharmed or make reparations; and the other country had replied in a
frenzy of angry denial, and given four days
for a complete retraction, or what amounted to full war.
Don
gasped. He. had no idea the
relations were that strained. He tried to imagine a world plunged into the
holocaust of atomic war in another four or live days.
But it seemed impossible.
"Then
you've got to let the Triton
go, sir," he said.
"You wouldn't want to have war up there, would you? And now that you're
completely safe here—"
"Nations
only fight nations because they are filled with fear and hate," K'mith said quietly, but there was pain on his face.
"If they had been friendly, nobody would have thought a missing ship was
attacked by an enemy.
The war is not our responsibility.
I tried to explain this to your Senator Kenney, and he argued as you do, for a
time. And he has convinced me of that hatred. I do not mind being called a
spy, murderer, and other things. But I do mind when a representative of your
government tells me he will have poison dropped to kill all the life in our
waters, on which we eat, and so many H-bombs that no one will ever know there
was a valley here."
"But—" Don began.
K'mith put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me
finish. You are still a child. But believe me, we do
not have a complete barrier. There is one thing which can always come through.
And that is hate! So long as hate exists above, we can only exist here by
secrecy. And because of that, I must keep your friends prisoners. And I must
forbid you ever to see them again, or to go near our dome-control plant.
Tonight, see
your friends and bid them a brief good-by. Then
forget them. And I wonder—is even isolation not an
incomplete barrier to such hatred?"
Don
studied K'mith's face, and then turned to his and S'neifa's room sickly. He couldn't even find a convincing
argument.
Chapter 16 Stranded in Atlantis
on
was lying in darkness when S'neifa came into the room. He had learned that the cold
light from the ceilings could be cut off, and he didn't want to look at
anything while his mind was torn with the impossible need to answer an
impossible riddle. The only hope for the world above was for the Triton to escape with the secret of the dome. And there was nothing he could do
about it. He was in a worse position than before.
S'neifa
turned the light up to a faint twilight and dropped onto the cot beside Don.
His face was strained, as if he had fought a battle within himself. "She
hasn't told," he said. He fidgeted, but Don could think of nothing to say.
Then he dragged out a small bundle and handed it to Don. "I—I don't agree
with my father K'mith, Don. I think we cannot have
separate worlds. Like you, I think we have to learn to live together. Yet it's
hard to disobey, to be a traitor to my city, when I may be wrong. I—oh, take
it! It's a personal shield generator. You can wear it
under
your clothes and take your friends through the prison dome. I'll have the
controls on your submarine set, and I'll turn on the bubble when you turn the
periscope pickup toward the stern. Nobody works on the submarine at night,
anyhow."
He
hid his face as Don stumbled to find words. His voice was mufHed.
"Don't thank me, Don K'Miller who is not to be.
I did it because something within me made me; I spent the whole afternoon at
the temple, trying to be true to the gods of my fathers
in whom I have never believed. And yet—there is the control. With it is a
scroll showing the principles of the dome. What more can you want?"
Don
sat with the package in his hands, staring at the other. He'd been striking up
blind alleys for days—and now S'neifa had given him
everything, without being asked. "I guess more than hate comes through
the barrier," he said at last. "It looks as if something called love
for fellowmen comes through, too. But I'm sorry if it makes you feel like
that."
"Don't be." S'neifa
sat up, and reached for the light control, brightening it. "I'm all right
now, Don. I guess I'm glad I made up my mind." He grinned, wryly.
"You'd better get going. My father K'mith says
you're permitted to see your people tonight, and it's
dark out already. I'll be at the Triton. Remember
the signal!"
He
reached out for Shep and scratched the dog's ears. Shep bobbled his tail happily, and stood up to lick S'neifa's face.
"S'neifa,"
Don said. He caught his breath, and then plunged ahead. Like the other's
action, this was something that hurt, but it would have been worse not to do
it. "S'neifa, you keep Shep.
You can call him sort of a hostage, if you like. But I want you to have
him."
The
Atlantean grinned slowly, and stuck out his hand. Don
took it quickly, picked up the package, and headed out.
There
was a dim twilight on the streets, as there was always at night here. Don was
glad of it, since no one would see his expression before he got control of
himself. He heard S'neifa close the door behind him,
as the other went down toward the Triton to
do his part of the job, and then Don quickened his steps.
Muggins wasn't on duty at night. There was another
guard, and one who apparently didn't speak English. But he had been notified
that Don could come. Don could feel the bulges under his jacket where he had
the generator strapped, but apparently the other didn't notice. He nodded, and
stepped back to let the young man walk up to the screen.
Don
wasted no time. He reached out his hand for the guard, as if handing him
something. The guard automatically lifted his own hand. As they touched, Don
snapped on his screen.
The
man's surprise was just what he'd been counting on. He slapped one hand over
the weapon in the other's holster, and yanked with the other. The guard
stumbled, and they were across the barrier. Don snapped the generator off at
once and let out a yell.
Upjohn
had caught on that something was wrong at once. Now he jumped forward
instantly. One of his fists moved through a short arc, before the guard could
turn. It caught the man on the chin, and dropped him. Don stooped down and
recovered the weapon, then felt to see if the guard were
wearing a bubble-generator. He wasn't.
The blow hadn't knocked him completely unconscious.
He got up quickly, backing away and shouting. But sound didn't spread through
the dome barrier, and no one outside could have heard.
Don
motioned him back toward the opposite side of the dome, and reached for
Upjohn's necktie. The reporter jerked it off and began tying the guard's hands
and feet together. "Spill the news," he suggested, "while I tie
this."
Don
told them about it as quickly as he could, warning about the probability of
guards below, and stressing the signal that would get S'neifa
to turn on the generator for the Triton. They'd
have to turn on the jets briefly to pick up a slight forward motion, then
signal. He'd have just time enough to put on the bubble when they cut the
jets, and they'd go drifting out through the city dome and into the ocean.
There
they would be lighter than the water, now that the rocks were removed, and
would rise rapidly. Someone would have to go out in the bathysuit,
and cling to the hull while he turned off the bubble device, if they wanted to
maneuver. But there would probably be no harm if they left it on until they
surfaced. Then anyone could go out through an escape hatch and cut it off,
where no pressure would bother him.
"I like the scheme," Haller agreed.
"It has the one advantage none of the plans we cooked up here had. It's
simple and direct. And the best tricks always are. Well, we've got one weapon,
at least. But how are we all going to get through this barrier?"
"You'll
just have to join hands. The field around me will cover all of you," Don
said. He'd thought this through on the way from K mith's
house, and he was sure it would work.
Haller
nodded, and reached for his hand. The others fell into line, leaving Kayne and Kenney at the end. The Senator was suddenly
glowing, bubbling with good spirits, while explaining just what he would have
done to the Atlanteans once they got back.
"Better
forget it," Haller advised him curtly. "Don't overlook the fact that
it was an Atlantean who made
this escape possible."
Kenney
blinked, and nearly shut up. He mumbled something to Kayne,
who nodded nervously.
Then
they were all in line, and Don cut on the generator. He couldn't see the bubble
in the dimly lighted air, but he started for the main dome. There was no
resistance. He held hands while the others came through, without trouble.
Finally, when all were out, he let the generator stop, and they released each
other.
"What
about the guard?" his uncle whispered. "He wasn't a bad keeper. He
did his best to treat us well."
"He
won't be hurt," Haller decided. "Muggins
will find him in the morning and let him out. And he'll be better off if we
leave him that way. At least, he can prove he was overcome."
They grouped together at the head of the
stairs.
Don handed the weapon over to Haller, who
took it. There might be guards below, but they couldn't be sure.
Don
started down first, since he would be expected. But now, to confuse the issue,
he turned on the bubble. If a guard had sharp eyes, he'd see it and be
suspicious. And nothing could hurt Don as long as he wore it. If he could draw
their fire, Haller could locate them and take care of the situation.
Don
stumbled on the stairs. The bubble stayed a quarter of an inch from his skin,
as it was set, and made it seem that he was walking on absolutely frictionless
ice. He caught the handrail, but that only helped a little.
He
grumbled to himself, but then realized it would be even better for his
purposes—if he could get down at all, without breaking his neck. Skidding and
fighting for control, he went down the steps. It was a strange sensation to be
expecting fire at any moment, even though he knew he was safe.
But
nothing happened. He reached the bottom and stepped onto the street, turning
off his generator. "All right," he called back softly. "Come
on."
Out
of the darkness behind him a tiny red point glowed for a fraction of a second.
Don dropped on his face, and something spatted over
him. Almost at the same time, there was a faint hiss from the stairs.
Haller
jumped forward and spun toward a doorway, yanking it open. A paralyzed guard
dropped out, his stungun falling from his hands.
"Smart," Haller said. "A good man. He
waited until he saw what you would do next, instead of firing at once. Figured
you must have some plan under your bubble. I'd like to have a lot like him
under me. Well, they'll fix him up when they find him. Take his gun, Sid.
You're next best shot."
"Better
break up," Don suggested. "Mostly at this hour, there are only small
groups of Atlanteans around. We'll be conspicuous
enough in our clothes, without calling attention to ourselves."
"Good
idea. You say this street leads straight to the submarine? Then if we break up
and a few take this street, some the one below, and some the one above, we'll
all get there without needing a guide."
Surprisingly,
Kayne broke away first, drawing Kenney with him. They
went up the street, and turned toward the submarine. Haller broke the others up
into two groups, putting Upjohn at the head of one and taking the other
himself, together with Don.
They
began moving along quietly and without too much speed. Fortunately, almost
nobody seemed to be on the street, and they were apparently attracting no
attention. They moved almost halfway to the submarine before there was a
sudden yell from the next street where Upjohn had gone.
"Come
on!" Haller yelled. They shot around the corner and headed for the other
group. Haller's judgment had been sound. They came out behind the group facing
the men with Sid Upjohn.
There
were only six of them, but two seemed to be guards armed with stunguns. Sid had scattered his group into doorways, and
was shouting for help. As he saw Haller and the others he shut up and began
firing busily.
Haller motioned for the others to take cover,
but began moving forward himself in the open. He was reciting some piece of
nonsense verse in a voice that sounded as if he were giving orders. Both guards
immediately swung around. One of them dropped from a quick shot as Sid Upjohn
darted out of the doorway, and Haller had already pinpointed the other.
The
other four went into a mad scramble for the guns, but the group from the Triton was on them at once. The odds were too uneven. The Atlanteans
never had a chance, and it was over in a few seconds.
"Thanks,
Bob," Upjohn said quietly. "Now let's beat it."
The
doors along the way were beginning to open and citizens were poking reluctant
heads out. It was time to move. Most of die people would be cautious about
coming out in the face of gunfire, but some fool might go charging in, and
touch off the others. Haller nodded, and they began to run down the street. It
was barely in time. Adanteans came boiling around the
corner behind them.
But
there were no guns among them. The men from the Triton went down the street at a steady clip. Then the doors ahead began to pop
open, attracted by the noise. People were moving out all along the little
street, threatening to block the way.
Haller
motioned, and they turned a corner and then ducked into the street where his
group had originally been, on a direct line to the submarine. There were still
a few curious open doors, and he motioned them over to the street where Kayne and Kenney had gone.
It
was clear sailing there, unless someone should be smart enough to guess that
they would head for the submarine. And Don didn't think most of the people would
have any idea of what was going on. He began to breathe easier.
Then
they came to the end of that street, two short blocks up from where the Triton lay. They swung back, losing a few more seconds. There had been no sign
of Kenney or Kayne, who must have gone on ahead,
unless they had been caught while the noise from the first fight was
distracting everyone.
They
swung onto the main street—and ahead lay the Triton. Light was streaming out of the open hatch.
"Come on," Haller
repeated, and doubled his speed.
Don
gasped suddenly. The Triton
was already moving faintly,
and a jet of spray was lancing up from the pool where the smallest power of her
jets was kicking out the water. As he watched, she began drifting straight
toward the edge of the dome.
"Wait!"
The voice was that of Dexter, raised to a roar Don would have thought
impossible to the man. He added his own yells, but the ship went on. Then the
hatch snapped down sharply.
There
was a bobbing of the periscope pickup, and suddenly a dim bubble appeared
around the Triton.
She seemed to rise several
inches, and then touched the barrier of the dome and went drifting through, out
into the ocean.
When part-way through, the lifting of her bow
sent her through more rapidly. She suddenly
leaped upward, and was gone!
Don
saw S'neifa dropping back from the pool and staring
at him in open-mouthed surprise. The Atlan-tean had
been at the bubble control, where he couldn't see what was happening, and where
he'd been safe from the spray. But now he stopped.
"Run!" Don
yelled.
It
was too late. Men were appearing from all sides. S'neifa
was caught before he could move. And behind, Don heard the mob coming toward
his group.
"Throw
down the guns," Haller said. "We're licked."
But
his face was sicker than mere defeat would account for, and Don felt the same. Kayne and Kenney had gone, leaving them hopelessly
stranded.
Chapter 17 The Judgment of tCmith
rom the rooftop where they were all imprisoned
within the dome, they could see the pool where the Triton had been, and could see the men moving out on sea sleds, equipped with
supply bubbles. It was an emergency expedition, and the supplies they carried
would include air for a trip to the surface and back if they needed it. There
seemed to be an endless stream of Atlanteans as they
watched.
S'neifa was one of their own group
now. He sat hunched over, staring at the pool bitterly. He'd blamed himself for
the blunder, though he had actually followed the plan perfectly and couldn't be
condemned. But all his doubts about the idea were now boiling within him. He
was branded a traitor— and a failure as one.
"Maybe
they'll make it," Haller said doubtfully. "They've been gone quite a
while. But I wish they'd at least waited for that book on the dome. That hurts.
All they can do now is to report us. And at this stage, I don't think the
return of the Triton
is enough to
stop
the war that's coming. The dome secret would have done it."
"What
good would the book have done without someone who knew the meaning?" Don
asked.
Haller
smiled bitterly. "You'd be surprised. Knowing it was electronics, they'd
have treated it as a special code, and the boys would have cracked it in hours.
They do things like that every day."
Bitterness
lay too deep in the others for talk. The idea that one of their group would deliberately desert them seemed impossible to
swallow.
Then Haller signaled. "Something happening."
They
crowded against the low ledge around the roof, where the dome had been spread
out to give them a chance to use it. There was feverish excitement around the
edge of the pool, and men were dropping in and swimming off into the ocean
beyond in droves, but now without the supply tanks.
A
man shot through the other way, and began waving excitedly. There was no sound
through the barrier around the roof, but they could see the crowd stand up and
begin to cheer. Haller nodded curtly. A second later, a dim shadow sprang into
view and began sliding down toward the edge of the dome near the pool. It was
the Triton without any question, still encased in the
bubble.
There
were no rocks this time, they saw. The ship was being dragged down by the
numbers who swam along beside her, dragging on the tangle of ropes around her.
Her flotation couldn't overcome the steady pull of the little sleds that were
dragging her down.
As the men on the roof watched, the nose of
the ship came through the big dome, and a second later she was back in the
pool.
Men
went through her bubble at once, and it snapped off. Others brought up
equipment and tackled the hatch, which came open a few minutes later. In almost
no time, the figures of Kenney and Kayne were dragged
out.
"When I get my hands
on them," Walrich began.
Haller
shook his head. "We do nothing. That's an order. We can't have rioting
among ourselves. Our standing in this city is poor enough now. Coventry is good
enough."
It
was half an hour later when the two men were shoved through the dome. Kenney
was screaming. He took one look at the men, clutched his heart, and scrambled
for his pallet. "I'm an old man. I had to get back. My country needs me.
I'm not expendable."
"Save it for your conscience,"
Haller said curtly. "And since I know you still have one, that's enough.
Mr. Kayne, you will consider yourself under arrest.
The charge is deserting in the face of the enemy, mutiny, piracy, and anything
else I can decide on later. But first, I want a report, without an alibi."
The
nervous navigator tried to be defiant, and couldn't make it. "We got to
the surface," he said. "They came right up after us. We couldn't get
rid of the screen before they were there. And there weren't enough of us to
handle the ship." He twisted his hands and again tried to brazen it out.
"What would you have had me do? Did you want to lose what chance there
was, just because you couldn't stay out of brawls?"
"That
will do, Mr. Kayne," Haller ordered. "You
had time to wait. Kindly retire to your bunk and remain there."
Kayne
doubled his fists nervously. Haller took half a step forward, then stopped. But the navigator went to his bunk and
remained there in silence.
The
jail building was surrounded by a group of Atlanteans,
pointing up. Apparently they expected something to happen on the roof, and were
surprised when quiet reigned.
Muggins
came in with food for them. "Trial will be tomorrow," he said.
"I ain't supposed to talk to you. Dratted fools. But with the right kind of men, you'd have
made it, Admiral. Wish I'd had men like you over me in the old days."
"The
plan was Don's," Haller told him. "I only executed it. And I should
have allowed for the men under me. Give him the credit, and I'll take the
blame, if there is any. How are they taking it down there?"
"The
Council's in a real tizzy. All except K'mith.
He's just put on a green suit."
S'neifa let out an anguished wail, and his face
whitened. He doubled up and began crying, without trying to hide it.
"Means
he's mourning the death of his son," Muggins
said. "He's declaring S'neifa publicly dead.
It's kind of tough on the President of the Council having a boy who acts like a
traitor, seems."
Haller frowned. "K'mith's the ruler here?"
"Sort
of.
Thought you knew. The Council can veto him, but otherwise he's practically king
of the city. Guess that makes Don the prince, since he's not been declared dead
yet. K'mith will be sitting on your case tomorrow."
He
went out, taking the nearly full plates with him. No one had been hungry.
Haller and Simpson went over to S'neifa, trying by
silent companionship to help. Don went last, but he had no idea of what to do.
At last he put his hand on the other's shoulder and left it there. S'neifa put his own hand over it. It seemed silly and
sentimental to Don and yet somehow right.
They
sat up through most of the night, saying almost nothing. When the lights in the
city began to brighten, indicating that day had arrived, they were still
sitting in nearly the same positions they had been in hours before.
Muggins
came back with only the bitter herb drink that was their morning wake-me-up.
Then he dumped it quietly down a drain, and pulled out a huge container. "Coffee. I got someone to bring it off the ship. They
figure it's something intoxicating, so you're not supposed to have it. But I
figured you'd need it—you too, S'neifa. No milk, but
. . ."
"You're
a prince, Muggins," Upjohn told him. "How about yourself?"
Muggins poured, and nodded. "Don't mind if I
do. Here's how." He smacked his lips, and his eyes rolled upward. "If
you only knew how many years I useta lie thinking about coffee, dreaming about it. . . ."
S'neifa gagged over the bitter stuff, but he swallowed
it. And since he was unused to it, the stimulus of it hit him quickly. He
brightened a little.
Muggins waited, and then nodded. "Okay, I guess
we might as well get down and into the business of the day. You ready to have K'mith come up and judge you?"
"Here?"
Don asked. He'd expected to be led out into the street under guard and into
some crowded hall where justice was handed out.
"Easier
than taking you down," Muggins said. "They
do things the simple way here. Ready?"
Haller
shrugged and nodded. "As well have it now as any time."
Muggins
went through the dome. A moment later, guards began coming in, their weapons
ready. They lined up along the wall, circling the men.
Finally
K'mith came through, with a scribe behind him, who
would write it all down, and five other men who would apparently act as
witnesses of the trial, making sure that nothing was done improperly. There
were no lawyers.
K'mith was dressed in a bright shade of green, but
there was no expression of sorrow or anything else on his face. He shook nands with Haller. "A very nice try,
Admiral. Naturally, we couldn't let it succeed. But you handled your
men well."
Then
he smiled at Don. "And I must admit, so did you, Don who was to be K'Miller. But it seems you have chosen sides too strongly
for me to influence you. Yet, since there was no disgrace in what you did, it
is a strong pleasure in my old age to know that I still have a son in you. A
man needs at least one son. As K'mith for Mlayami I find you have committed something I cannot
permit. But as K'mith of my household, I am not
displeased with your conduct."
He
did not look at S'neifa. And when Kenney began
threatening what would happen, K'mith nodded to one
of the guards, who moved forward, signaling for silence with his gun. The old
man quieted, terror heavy in his eyes.
"This
court of judgment will now begin," K'mith said
quietly. "Please be seated around me that you may hear my judgment."
He waited while the guards motioned the others into a semicircle, then seated himself at the hub of it. "Our practices
here are not the same as those above the sea, from what litde
I can learn. I have determined the facts already. There will be no trial. As I
know those facts, you broke from your prison and attempted to flee, against my
former judgment on you. This applies to all but my son Don, who freed you and
then joined you—and he who was the son of my brother K'mayo, who betrayed us of the city of Mlayanu.
These are the facts. But out of courtesy, if they are not true as you see them,
I will listen."
"They're
true," Haller agreed. Kenney sprang up with a scream, threshing the air
with his fists.
"I
won't stand for this travesty of a trial. I shall not be a party to such a
gross perpetration of rank injustice. First, I claim diplomatic immunity.
Second I-"
"Silence him," K'mith
said quietly. A guard pushed the old man down gently, and tapped his stungun significantly. Senator Kenney sank back, casting an
appealing glance at Haller, who shrugged.
"Thank
you, Admiral Haller," K'mith said. "As you
know, our rules are different. But you are in
our city, and we have to try you as we know justice. I have been considering
this judgment through the night."
He
paused, and pulled out a scroll, reading down the names of everyone there
except S'neifa and Don. "We find that the safety
of Mlayanu demands a closer guard on these," he
said quietly. "Their imprisonment shall now be officially for life, save
that in the case of such an emergency as we now have grave reason to fear, they
shall be left to the mercy of the sea before others of the city. The submarine,
Triton, upon which they came, shall be permanently
disabled by the removal of all devices to protect it with a field of force, and
by the further removal of all valves to those tanks which hold water, to assure
that this submarine shall sink if rashly moved into the seas around us.
Imprisonment shall be further enforced by cementing the force field on the outside
with rock through which no man may enter, and by leaving only an opening the
size of a small man's head in the flooring, through which sustenance and waste
may be passed. No man of Mlayanu shall converse with
the prisoners at any time.
"To
Don Miller, our son, we forbid our household until such time as he may be
deemed fit to return. And we order that he be placed in a small room and
heavily guarded. He shall be treated as one who may eventually be of service to
Mlayanu, and shall be given consideration for the
possession of one dog, Shep, which has become of
value to the city.
"And
to the former son of K'mayo, my brother, there shall
be this: He shall live in the house of the brother of his father, but shall not
speak to any man from now until the day he shall die, unless he can win
forgiveness of his city by some act which shall make all forget the day of darkness.
He shall be known as Arain Neifa,
and he shall be the servant of the household in which he resides, or of any
other to which he may be sold, being rated as the lowest among the laboring
class. And once each day at noon, he shall walk the length of the city with his
eyes to the ground, that all may see his example."
K'mith stood up. "That is all."
Don
jumped to his feet. "I appreciate your giving me special consideration,
sir," he said—which wasn't true, since it had made him feel like a fool
and a heel among the others. "But I do not deserve it. I'd like to be
locked up with the others."
"You
misunderstood," K'mith said. "I was not
meaning to give you special consideration. As my son, you merit special
punishment. It was my belief that by taking you away from all your friends here
and locking you away by yourself, your punishment would be greater. You confirm
this. Therefore, the judgment stands."
He
shook hands with Haller again, and rubbed his hand affectionately over Don's
head. Then he snapped on his bubble and went through the screen, with the
guards following him. One guard took S'neifa by the arm. The young man staggered as he walked,
but he shook off the guard and moved stolidly forward.
Don
turned to his uncle, trying to smile. There were tears in Simpson's eyes. Their
hands met very briefly, but neither could think of anything to say.
Then
he went out with the guards, trying not to cry.
Chapter /& Emergency Plans
mprisonment wasn't too drastic. Don found that he was
simply locked in a large room in the building where he had first come to, and that there were double doors, between which a guard
stayed with a stungun. Muggins
was still his keeper, along with the guard whom he had tricked. The latter
didn't exactly regard him with great favor, but didn't show any signs of taking
a bad feeling out on him.
He
was given games to play—most of them much too simple—and the best of food. But
after one day of that, time hung heavy on his hands. He had enough to think
about, but none of it was pleasant. He'd been responsible for the plans the
others followed. They had come from S'neifa
originally, and been executed by Haller. But he was still responsible.
And
meanwhile, the situation above wasn't improving any. He was indirectly
responsible for that. It wasn't good to think about.
He
woke the second day with the determination that he was going to escape. He had
no idea of how
at first, beyond a faint notion that there must
be a way to use Shep to get out of this. But
somewhere during the night, he'd stopped worrying about things and fretting
through self-recrimination. It was his duty to get them all out, and he meant
to do it.
He
grinned at himself bitterly as he realized he had somehow adopted the attitude
that must be normal for Haller, without all of Haller's experience. Yet there
must have been some time when Haller had been forced to take the same line
without experience. It gave him a measure of confidence to know that it could
be done.
"I'm
bored," he told Muggins. "Can you get me a
small tube of metal, a pair of pliers, and a file—just a small file. I've been
thinking of making tin whistles."
"You've
been plotting," Muggins said grimly. He
scratched his gray head and thought it over. "I don't like the look in
your eyes now, youngster. But still, I'm durned if I
can see how you can cause any trouble with that. Unless you want to make a
bean-shooter, and that won't hurt many too much. All right, I'll get 'em."
When
the tools came, he went to work. He'd had a supersonic whistle for Shep, which gave out sounds too high for a human ear to
hear. The dog, however, could hear them over a great distance. He tried to
remember how the whistle had been made. He finally had to sit down and figure
it out from the theory of resonant circuits he'd had in training. It might be
the wrong approach, but it might work.
The first one turned out to be a fairly good
whistle, except that it sounded something like a screech owl howling at night.
He threw it aside and began bending and filing another, this time with the idea
of filing it down until he could barely hear the faintest high sound, and then
modifying that again to be a trifle higher.
K'mith came by once and looked in without a word
while he was in the middle of work. But he didn't question Muggins*
having given the materials to him. Muggins watched
from the peephole outside with considerable fascination. "Too bad we don*t
have willows, youngster," he remarked. "I used to be pretty good at
making willow whistles and flutes. Could even play something
like a tune on 'em. Get a nice octave jump,
too, by blowing hard."
"Thanks,
Muggins," Don said. He'd been missing the fact
that a whistle will give two notes. One comes from gentle blowing, while hard
breathing will produce a note just twice as high in frequency. If he tuned his whistle for about ten or eleven thousand cycles a
second—maybe a little higher—and then jumped the octave, it should work
perfectly.
He
went back to the one he had been trying to modify and tested it with low
breathing. He filed a little more from it. This time when he tried, it seemed
to be about right. With a long intake of breath, he forced in wind as hard as
he could. There was a faint whine at first, and then it was silent.
He
tried again, without results. But the fifth time, there was a loud bark below,
and he laughed quietly to himself. "Better let Shep
in," he told Muggins.
"Can't," the man said. But he
frowned. "You're doing that, though I'll be switched if I know how. Well,
it's between you and the dog."
Don
heard Shep's feet scratching at the door and the
voice of the guard trying to chase him away. It went on for a while, until half
an hour later K'mith showed up and took the
protesting dog away. An hour later, Don was packed up and moved to new
quarters.
He
began on the whistle again, and this time it was the other guard who watched.
"What's going on?" he asked in Atlantean.
Don
shrugged. "God talk," he said, in a few words of Atlantean
he had learned. "Hear god come."
Shep was wilder this time. There was a peephole
with bars lower down, and the dog jumped up to it. Around his throat was a
chain that clanked on the floor.
K'mith didn't look happy when he came the second
time. He held a long conversation with the guard and finally came in for the
whistle. Don gave him the first one that hadn't worked. As he went out, the boy
blew on the supersonic one. There was a surprised cry, and Shep
was back.
K'mith
looked more perturbed. And again Don was moved, with the same results. This
time, Don waited an hour after K'mith had collected
the dog. He'd heard the babble of voices below—voices that were considerably
perturbed. To the superstitious part of the population, such behavior on the
part of their dog-god must be disturbing, to say the least.
When Don finally began whistling again, Shep didn't come. But after a few minutes, a low, mournful
wailing began to keen through the air. Don could just hear it by listening
carefully. Shep had given up trying to break free of
whatever held him, and was using the ghostly wail he sometimes had used at the moon
on lonely nights on the island. He had a bay that would have made a hound-dog
jealous.
Muggins came in about half an hour later, and spoke
to the guard. Then he unlocked the door, and motioned Don out. "All right,
youngster. K'mith is a stubborn man, but half the
people are claiming the emergency is here, and the dog is warning them. They're
scared sick, and K'mith says to come back at once and
keep that quiet."
Don
got up and followed Muggins. He'd been right about
one thing at least. Instead of using his own strength,
the trick was to use the weakness of the others. Atlantis had a superstitious
people, and that was one weakness. There were others.
"What's
all this emergency stuff, Muggins?" he asked.
"I've been hearing about it all the time, but nobody will tell me. Is it
the fear that our ships will come down and bomb them?"
Muggins'
face had darkened with worry. "Older than that.
It's what happened to all the other domes. When I first came here, there were
twelve domes in this part of the world. But they couldn't keep the domes up to
full size. There's that crystal they need —it won't work forever, and they've
about exhausted all the supplies. That's why they had to move all across the
ocean. It occurs near volcanic sites. I've been telling them that up above
people could make 'em all they wanted, but they won't
believe me, and they're no chemists.
"The domes just get weaker and the people sort of give up. Some migrate to other domes. Most of them
decide to have smaller families. And the first thing you know, the dome isn't
big enough to hold a decent population, and there's so little work everybody
practically starves. So far, we've been lucky. But the last crystal hunters
almost didn't find the crystals."
Don
looked up at the dome and shivered. He could see now why they were worried.
With an emergency like that facing them, there was no room left for any serious
consideration of such minor things as atom-bombing.
The
trouble was that Atlantis had no chemistry to speak of, and had to depend on
some natural crystal. And since its science was trial and error instead of
organized, it had probably overlooked a great many possible substitutes which
theory would have shown to be as good or better. He remembered the huge
crystals used in the tuning section; his signal generator, which could be
carried in his pocket, would do the same job.
He
grinned and stored it away as another weakness. But it wasn't a comfortable
grin when Muggins went on. The crystals had a habit
of failing suddenly; the ones they had were already old. It was entirely
possible that the dome might start collapsing beyond their ability to find
substitutes within a few days.
Don remembered that in the emergency, his
friends were to be "turned over to the sea" first. The sentence
suddenly had bitter new meaning.
K'mith was waiting when they arrived at his house.
And outside, a huge crowd was waiting with him. It was an angry crowd, and a
worried crowd. The dog let out another wail, and faces paled at the sound.
"Bring
Shep out," Don said quietly. K'mith
nodded, and a minute later Shep came bounding out,
jumping up and down and beating his tail into a frenzy.
Finally, the dog sat down and stared up at Don happily panting, with his tongue
hanging out.
A
sigh went up from the crowd, and they began breaking up. "The dog-god
smiles," they were muttering, according to Muggins'
quick translation. "The prophecy is coming true."
It
did look like a smile, Don realized. He picked the dog up and cradled him over
one shoulder, while he turned to face K'mith.
"Shall I take him back to the prison with me, my father?" he asked.
K'mith leaned back against the wall of the building
and mopped his forehead with his arm. "A few more minutes, and I'd have
been in prison," he said. Then he laughed. "I'd like to know how you
did that, Don K'Miller to be."
Don
smiled slowly. The name was enough. He picked up the dog and went into the
house. S'neifa's bed was gone, but his own still
stood there. "I think I'll have more freedom if you don't know, sir,"
he said.
Again
K'mith laughed, nodding. "As
you wish. But if I find out by myself, you'll return to prison. Will you
take my word that you are free for the prevention of a major crisis, and tell
me?"
Don
showed him the whistle, and nodded. He explained it quickly. The older man
shook his head. "Sounds higher than sound," he said slowly.
"That was one of the fantasies I didn't believe. When a people have such
small secrets, what must their big ones be? I—I wish I could trust your people,
my son. With the emergency . . ."
"They
could solve it," Don told him. He was sure of it. It would probably take
only a small modification of their power handling methods to reduce the need
for all the crystal to some small key kernel, with the rest handled
electronically in the usual ways. The basic function of parts in the diagram he
had seen might be different—but most of the parts had similar working methods
among the equipment he knew.
"Then
it would have to be soon," K'mith answered.
"We have just two of the large spare crystals. And the men whom I sent out
a year ago with great supply bubbles have returned to report that they could
find no more."
The
dome over his head seemed suddenly close and dangerous to Don. He looked up at
it, and shivered. The emergency wasn't something for the future now. It was
already on them.
He
slept fitfully that night, feeling cheap and mean. He'd been using a dirty
trick to get out of prison, while K'mith had been
faced with the end of his world. And his trick had sent the people who had a
real thing to fear into a panic over an imagined one. It seemed like a pretty
horrible thing to deny them what comfort they could have while they were living
under the dark shadow of death.
He
tried again to persuade K'mith that the remedy could
be found on the surface world. But when he admitted that he knew of no crystals
exactly like the ones they used, the older man signaled him to drop it. Nor would assurances that there were men up there who might know of
such crystals change his mind.
"It
isn't entirely up to me," he said at last. "I am only the voice of
the Council in this. Sometimes I think . . ."
Then
he sighed. "But why should I believe you, when the world above is going to
its death as quickly as we? How can they help us when they won't help
themselves? And today, over our radio, we had word that men on the border of a
territory the two nations have divided were engaged in battle."
Don
looked at him sickly. War was coming, then. A few such border skirmishes could
be passed over, he knew from his history books, but not unless some major
change in relations came. And it now looked as if atomic doom were inevitable.
If
they could get to the surface with proof of the usefulness of the dome, there
still might be time, but it was a matter of hours now, not of days. And there
was no transmitter here that he could use, even though Atlantis had a receiver.
He caught himself sharply. The transmitter on
the Triton! Then he shook his head. Even if Atlantis
would let him use it—which they would not—the message would only stay things,
until he could prove it was genuine by surfacing. Otherwise, it would be put
down to a fake.
K'mith went to the door slowly. "The last
spares are now in the dome station," he announced wearily. "If one
breaks down . . . well, we can keep the dome up for a few weeks on the smaller
crystals in the suits and on the supply bubbles. Or if we cut down to one
quarter size, we can keep going until we all starve. Tomorrow ..."
He
stopped, and Don looked up to see his face harden. A cold chill ran through the
boy's heart. "Tomorrow?" he asked.
K'mith shook his head. "It's better that you
shouldn't know, my son," he said.
But
Don knew. Tomorrow, the order for the "mercy of the sea" treatment
would go through for his friends.
He had only a few hours
left.
Chapter 19 Mad Dog!
on squatted down on the bunk, digging his fist into his forehead. Shep whined
unhappily, but he disregarded the dog. His original idea had been right. He had
succeeded, as long as he looked for the other side's weakness to use. But he'd
abandoned that to go back to arguing, trying to use the strength of his
people's science. It had failed miserably. Now he had to go back to what had
worked.
Find the weakness . . . find the weakness . .
. find . . .
It
was so obvious, when he realized it, that he kicked himself. Their weakness lay
in the very trouble that was driving him to this frantic worry. Out there in
the dome power station was a weakness that spelled death for all of them. And
there were other weaknesses—the superstition that had been encouraged over Shep, for instance. Or the aloofness of
the technicians from the people.
The ideal way to gain freedom would be to
save
Atlantis from its danger, but that was
impossible without surface help. Still, if the people thought they were saved,
it might work as well. He collected his idea carefully, examined it quickly,
and nodded. It wasn't perfect, and would need a lot of changes as he went
along. But it was the best he could hope for.
"Come
on, Shep," he said. The dog was the most
doubtful part of his plan. He'd been trained for perfect obedience, but with
all the changes in his life, he might get nervous and balk. Like the other weak
links in the plan, though, Don had to risk that.
He
went out onto the street, noticing the low temper of the people. Most of them
couldn't know, but they sensed the danger from those who did. There was nothing
they could do. Now they watched the dog in fascination, making their peculiar
sign of worship. For a few moments, they seemed to cheer up. But Don knew that
even superstition couldn't prop up their lagging hopes forever. It wasn't so
much that they believed, as that they didn't dare not to believe, in the ancient prophecy of the smiling dog-god.
"The
dog-god demands a shrine," he announced to the crowd. "He asks for a
place to restore the fortune of Mlayanu. He needs a
shrine, and he has chosen one. We go there to save Mlayanu."
Those
in the crowd who knew English picked it up. Some translated it with amused
contempt, but the crowd missed such subtleties. They began to mutter and
collect others.
"Strut!" Don ordered Shep. The dog went up on his hind feet and walked along for
a few yards. The crowd gasped again. Don turned to them. "The dog-god
finds his godhood rising and goes to make a temple. But there are those who
have no faith. They will resist."
He
was already sick of the mummery of it, though nobody would be hurt. It had
really been K'mith and all the technicians who had
encouraged the superstition. Let them see it operate, and maybe they'd be less
likely to play on it in the future—if there was a future.
They
came to the dome station. "Strut—speak!" he told Shep.
The dog obeyed, barking loudly as he danced about.
The
technicians came to the front of the station to stare at the scene, but he
ignored them. "The dog-god has chosen his shrine," he announced to
the crowd which now numbered nearly a thousand. "He must go within to
bring strength to the power crystals. He needs only a few minutes. Tell the
keepers of the crystals to come out!"
They
didn't wait to tell the men inside. They saw Shep
start toward the station, barking loudly. Then one man shouted and ran into the
forbidden station. Don saw with a shock that it was S'neifa.
But the crowd didn't look to see who it was; they had been triggered, and now streamed
in behind him.
The
technicians weren't having any of the crowd. They shrugged elaborately and came
out before they could be removed. One of them turned to Don, glowering.
"Be not long," he said in thick English.
"If you must be a false priest, be quick.
In there we are needed. Ten minutes, not more."
Don
nodded quickly. "It's a bargain. Now close the doors."
The
crowd streamed out and he went inside. Shep dropped
down and followed quietly, unaware of his importance. Don ignored most of the
setup and went looking for the main crystals. If he could find something to
indicate what they were, he might still get honest help for Atlantis.
He
found them, and he could see why the technicians were worried. The big
crystals had burned spots that were visible to his eyes, and there were small
cracks here and there that had been crudely patched. There was nothing to
indicate what type they were.
He
traced the diagrams quickly. It did no good. He could guess what the parts
were, but the operation of the whole was beyond his knowledge, even in theory.
Things were done to a basic electrical signal which could almost certainly be
done by vacuum tubes, but he couldn't understand what the results were. It
would take a staff of experts to guess. He was sure it could be done. A
substitute for the crystals could be found even before the operation was fully
understood. But he wasn't well enough trained to do it.
He
gave up, and turned to the control section, which he had figured out before. He
knew that it depended on a controlling frequency being fed in, to cut the main
power off and on, in time with that frequency. The shorter the "off"
periods, the less could get through the dome. It was now operating on a
frequency of about fifty million a second—which kept the "off" periods
down to a fiftieth of a millionth of a second, of course. He found the place
where the huge device creating the control signal fed it into the main power
section, just as the door burst open.
K'mith
led a group of guards, and there was no smile on his face. "This is too
much. You have abused our trust for the last time, Don Miller. Play your games
elsewhere. You are under arrest." He turned to the guards. "Put him
with the others. He's to be the first to be given to the sea in the emergency!"
Don
knew better than to argue now. He had known that something like this must
happen. He turned to the guards, glancing down at the dog. "Guard the
place, Shep!" he ordered softly. The dog dropped
back at once and sank to the floor, while the group escorted Don out.
"Hydrophobia!"
he cried suddenly. "Don't let him bite you."
"Silence!" K'mith ordered.
It
was a long way up the street this time, through the muttering, confused crowd
and toward the building that was to be his jail. K'mith
walked beside him in stony silence, and the guards seemed eager to use their
weapons. Don waited, and still there was no sign from behind. If Shep had failed now . . .
Then
the sound of angry barking came to them. Don sighed as it continued. There was
a scream of pain, protesting yells, and then mixed shouting of the crowd.
In
less than a minute, a group of technicians came raging up the street, followed
by a crowd armed with sticks and stones. One of the technicians broke ahead,
while the others delayed the mob. His waving arm was gashed and bleeding. Shep had followed orders; nobody was coming into the plant
until his master gave him the command to relax his guard.
"Get
him out!" The technician screamed to Don. "Get him out! We've got to
get in before the dome fails. He's mad!"
Some
of the guards dropped back to hold the crowd that was boiling in fury. Their stunguns were effective against the poorly aimed rain of
stones, but they looked worried.
Don
turned to K'mith. "I told you about hydrophobia,"
he said, mixing his truth with the smallest amount of outright lying he could
use. "It's rare, but it still happens. I guess the high frequency
radiation in the station didn't cure him. I don't know whether I can get a mad
dog out of there."
"Use your stunguns on him," K'mith
ordered.
The
technician shook his head violently. "We started to. But the crowd—they
would kill us before we hurt him."
K'mith's
eyes were suspicious as he turned to Don, but the fear bubbling in the eyes of
the technician must have convinced him. "Get him out, then."
"I'll
need some equipment from the ship. The antitoxin . .
*
"Then get it." K'mith
motioned some of the guards to follow Don, and turned back to the station.
They
weren't far from the submarine. Don went up the ramp at a full run and dived
into the sonar room. The little signal generator lay there, and he pocketed it
quickly. He was sweating, but not from exertion. He had no idea of how long the
dome could hold without the technicians, or whether it could stand the added
strain he was about to put on it.
The
guards rushed him through the crowd. At his orders, K'mith
reluctantly let them shut the door before he turned to the dog. "All
right, Shep," he said. "Take it easy."
He'd
need some way of delaying the effect until he got out with Shep.
He began looking for a switch to use with some of the twine lying about. A
sound behind him swung him around, to face S'neifa
crawling out of a pile of boxes. There was some terrific strain going on
inside the man, but he came over and began dropping on one knee.
"Thanks,"
Don told him quickly. S'neifa smiled tightly, still
obeying the order not to speak.
Don
coupled the signal generator into the circuit, wiring one of the cumbersome
switches in ahead of it. With that, the original control equipment would go on
working until the switch was thrown. Then the signal generator would take over.
Don set it to produce the four hundred cycle "audio" signal he had
used for testing. "Wait until I'm outside, S'neifa, and then throw that switch. And I hope I'm
right!"
He carried Shep in
his arms as he went out, casting a last glance back at the setup. The signal
generator and switch would be well hidden. He stepped out—and the trouble
began.
Suddenly,
from the whole dome around a great roaring note like an organ pipe tuned to G
began to sound. The tiny signal of the generator was being amplified and used
to turn the great screen off and on four hundred times a second, instead of at
the frequency used before. And at that frequency, even liquids should be able
to come through during the "off" periods. It was the pressure of the
ocean striking the air during those off periods that produced the great
humming sound.
He
glanced up as a drop of moisture hit him. For the first time in Atlantis, it
was raining! Great drops of salt water of the ocean were shooting through the
dome and raining down from the top and out from the sides.
The
crowd screamed, and began tearing away, milling over each other. The
technicians let out their own roars and went tearing into the station. Don
jerked his eyes back, but S'neifa had hidden again.
The
technicians were going over their controls frantically, changing the setting, and running about like chickens under the attack of
a hawk. They were too frantic. The tiny generator with its thin wires hidden
away escaped their notice completely. The rain began to puddle on the streets
and drizzle on the faces of the sick and frenzied crowd.
Then
the technicians broke. One of them rushed up to K'mith,
flailing his arms. He shouted out a long string of Atlantean
that was almost lost in the cries of the crowd. K'mith
turned to Don.
"Are
you responsible for this oscillation he's getting?"
Don
shrugged. "They would
have me remove the dog-god
too soon. Did you see me carry in anything that could do this? Or do you think
that an uneducated child could learn your station at once better than all your
experts? But if you want, the dog-god and I will try to fix it."
K'mith looked at him for a long moment, then drew him back into the station away from the crowd
threatening to overcome the guards. "Fix it! You're educated in your own
sciences—I've known that for a long time. But you can't know all of ours, and
all the weaknesses of this station. Fix it, before it wrecks the city with
fear. And if you can't undo your damages, I shall tear you to bits with my
hands before the dome fails!"
Don
moved to the big controlling device the Atlan-teans
had used. He unfastened it completely and shoved it aside—or tried to; even on
wheels, it weighed more than he could move. K'mith
lent his shoulder unquestioningly, and the bulky machine wheeled reluctantly
out of the way. Then Don drew out the tiny signal generator and cut off the
"audio" beat. Outside, the hum disappeared, and a cry came up from
the crowd, but he paid no attention to it. He switched to the regular radio
frequencies, and turned the indicator until a signal of fifty megacycles would
be produced.
Now,
with the great dome being turned off and on fifty million times each second,
everything was normal again.
"You
forced me into this, sir," he told K'mith.
"You wouldn't listen to reason. And don't forget now, that to the crowd
out there, the dog-god and I have just saved Atlantis from the end you have
been expecting. I think I could even persuade them to force you to let me take
my friends and go back."
He
nodded toward the sounds that were now changing to a wild, joyful singing in
which their word for the dog-god was loudest of all. "I never intended to
hurt them. I like your people, K'mith, enough to want
to save them as much as I want to save my own world. I never tried to do
anything that wasn't for their good, too."
K'mith had the signal generator in his hands, turning
it over and over. He held it out to the awed technician. "This—or
this," he said, pointing first to the tiny device and then to the
cumbersome bank of crystals. Then he grimaced, and nodded toward Don. "Go
and see what your experiment has done to our crystals."
Don
ran back quickly, sudden worry cutting through his triumph. He knew, that
having the signal operate four hundred times a second meant that it was on for
single periods a hundred thousand times as long as for a signal of fifty
million cycles a second. He had hoped that it would cancel out, since it was on
only a hundred thousandth as many times during a second, too.
But apparently he had been wrong. The great
crystals were sicker-looking than before. The burned spots were now glaring
wounds, and the cracks had deepened. The technicians were working at them in a
frenzied haste.
But it was obvious that they couldn't keep
the dome operating much longer.
Chapter 2Ü Operation Contact
'mith was not apparently worrying about the crystals when Don went back to
him. Seven older men were grouped around him, and two more came dashing up. He
held up the signal generator and broke into a slow-paced speech in Atlantean. Their faces had been washed numb by a succession
of emotions, but now sudden excitement crept into them.
K'mith handed the tiny generator to Don. "Can
it be opened to show the parts?"
Don
nodded. He pulled out his pocketknife and found the small screwdriver blade.
With it, he removed the screws from the back, and held out the instrument,
trying to point out the similar parts in it and in the huge device that was now
disconnected. The little transistors, looking like beads of glass, drew the
loudest gasps, though they were closest of all to the crystals the Atlanteans used.
K'mith
went back to his speech. Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them.
"The Council
will meet in an hour," he said in English.
"You are with me, I believe?"
The
nine men who must be Councilors nodded, though some did it with reluctance. K'mith waited for them to leave, and then smiled grimly to
himself. He motioned to the head technician, who had been standing impatiently.
"How long will the
crystals last?"
"Perhaps
ten minutes—no more," the man said. "Shall I put in the good crystals
now?"
K'mith's smile deepened, and he nodded. At once, a
crew of the men began digging into the boxes lying around, at the orders of the
head technician. Their amazement was as genuine as that of Don as they began to
remove new crystals in perfect condition.
"You
were playing your game, Don K'Miller," K'mith said. "And I was playing my own desperate one.
For twenty years, I have tried to approach the surface world, as my brother did
before me. But the Council has always vetoed me by a slim majority. When the
emergency began to creep up on us, I built up a false crisis ahead of time, in
order to scare them into action in time—just as you created one for your
purposes. Now that they have seen how a handful of material from the surface
can do more than all their massive equipment and ancient knowledge permits—and
now that they have felt the horror of an emergency upon them—yes, I think they
are convinced."
He
held out his hand. "We come from different worlds, my son who is now K'Miller—but in our own ways, we seem to think much the
same. And when men think alike, how can they be of different worlds? They are only of separated
worlds."
"But—"
Don took his foster father's hand slowly, still trying to catch his mental
breath. "But then-there was no emergency."
"There
would have been in less than another year. Those ten good crystals have been
hoarded for a long time. The expedition that could find no more crystals was an
honest one. I've fooled you in some ways; I've even had my—my daughter secretly
educated, to find whether the surface world could start education at such an
early age. I've pretended that I believed none of what I heard and read in the
books, in order to keep from being removed from the Council. But the emergency
was real—so real and so close that I had to do many things to meet it."
Don
felt better, in a way. He'd been guilty of pretending a few things himself,
because he had to. But it would have hurt to think that his efforts had been
all wasted on a danger which had never existed.
"And
what about my people and the submarine?" he asked.
K'mith
smiled. "I've already sent guards to release your friends, and the
submarine is being prepared for the trip back. We will even install a permanent
bubble-of-force generator and control on it. With heavy glass tips to the
outlets and inlets of your jets to keep the bubble from touching there, we can
arrange it so you will find the bubble no hindrance to navigation, even. You'll
also find that our antenna has been connected to your transmitter, if you want
to contact the surface. And K'Miller, my son—work as
hard now to save us as you have in the past. The dome-control secret is yours.
Get us the help of your sciencel"
"You'll
get it," Don promised, and he was sure of it. With the margin of the new
crystals, there would be time enough for the best brains of earth to find the
answers. "But there's one thing more."
"And
that?"
"S'neifa." Don moved back toward the packing boxes from
which the last of the crystals was being removed, and
motioned for his friend. "Come on out."
"You!" K'mith said bitterly as the young man stood
up awkwardly, but with a strange pride to his humbleness. Then, slowly, the older
man's face melted. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, there is my
son, S'neifa. Let us wipe out all the bitterness of
this affair."
He
held out his arms, and S'neifa jumped forward with a
low cry, his face beaming as he cast a single glance at Don. Then his legs
faltered. His voice was an effort as he cleared his throat. "I can't ask
forgiveness, my Father. I did what I had to do. I'd do it again."
"You stubborn fool!" K'mith said hoarsely. "Do you think I'd take you back
any other way? Come here!"
Don
moved off, trying to adjust to the reaction inside himself
and to realize that it was all over now, except for the message back to the
surface. That would be difficult, until he could wear away their suspicions and
convince them. But there could be no war now, with the secret of the dome given
to all the world. Other separated worlds would have a
chance to learn that they were not different, after all, and to relax and build
for the future in safety.
He
moved toward the submarine with Shep trotting along
behind him. From the jail building, he saw the rest of his people coming out
and stopped to wave at them, before going on. But there was time to get
together, after his message. They'd soon all be together, going home.
In
that, he was wrong. As he stood outside the Triton four days later, he was patting Shep good-by.
He looked up at K'mith's daughter, as he handed over
the dog's leash. "For keeping a secret," he said. "And because Shep likes you."
She
dropped into the automatic deep curtsy of Mlayanu
girls, but her eyes were dancing with pleasure. "You'll be back,"
she said. "I'll keep him for vou, Don!"
Then she blushed and hurried off, her
training conflicting with her knowledge that there was nothing wrong to him in
what she had said. He grinned after her, knowing she was right. He'd be back.
But for the time, Shep was needed here, until the
people could feel fresh hope without the need of superstition.
Don
moved up the ramp to watch the others come on board. Drake and his uncle were
still admiring the changes the Atlanteans had made in
the jets to enable the Triton
to work while the bubble of
force protected her. He heard Simpson's voice. ". . . the
last of her type, as well as the first. They'll build them light now, since
they have the force field."
Don
hadn't thought of that. He ran his hand affectionately over the ship. But
progress had to go on, and he knew the two men would soon be busy with new
designs.
The
little cook came up, grinning. "Coffee in the wardroom, sir," he
said, and ducked back down again.
The
crewmen were already aboard, still stowing the last of the material they were
taking up from Atlantis. Haller came up for a last look, just as Kayne began mounting the ramp. The navigator hesitated nervously,
and then came on.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Kayne," Haller said quietly.
The
navigator stumbled, and tears came into his eyes. "I—I—" he said. Then he ducked down into the ship.
Haller
shrugged. "The end of the bitterness. I'll have
to have him released. He isn't fit for service. But there are ways of doing it
painlessly. Come on, Don."
They went down into the wardroom for the
coffee. K'mith was there ahead of them, tasting the
beverage doubtfully as S'neifa urged it on him. Walrich and Cavanaugh were finishing theirs, and they went
out to their posts as Haller left. In a corner, Upjohn was already busy on a
typewriter, getting the story ready that was to make history. He waved a lazy
arm, and went back to his machine, while S'neifa came
over to stare at it again in fascination.
The
young Atlantean would be the first from the sea world
to attend the universities of the surface, once the final red tape was
straightened out.
Then the sound of the hatches being closed
reached
Don's ears, and he
headed back toward the sonar room. Even with the bubble on, the instruments
would work now, since they had also been mounted on glass, and removed from the
hull enough to make sure they were beyond the bubble of force.
They
would head nearly straight up, cruising slowly in a spiral to give a full test
to the Tritons new devices. At the surface, the ships that
were to escort them back to the mainland were already waiting-ships of both
nations, already celebrating the end of the short but terrifying threat of war.
"Sharp,
now," Haller said to Don. "I want to surface exactly in the center
of our escort, Mr. Miller. We can't be sloppy about things now."
"Sharp it is,
sir," Don answered.
Dexter came into the sonar room then, with K'mith
and Kenney waiting behind him. "Too late to send another message to the President?" the man
asked. He'd been busy with communications since the first message had gone up,
and had been largely instrumental in getting the surface convinced of the
truth of Don's first broadcast.
"Afraid so, sir,"
Don told him.
Dexter
shrugged goodnaturedly. "All
right. No matter. I merely wanted to report that his suggestion had
been accepted by President K'mith and Senator Kenney.
But it can wait."
Don glanced up at Kenney, wondering at the
smile on the man's face as he faced K'mith. He cocked
an ear and listened.
"Yes,
sir," he heard Kenney saying. "I knew it was right the minute you
agreed. Be glad to retire from
the Senate, now that Dexter here tells me he's
sure the President will go along with your idea of having me for ambassador.
You won't regret it. No, sir. I may be an old man, but
I'm not finished yet."
K'mith
winked at Don as they went back toward the wardroom. An end to bitterness, he
had said. Don wondered if that wasn't carrying things a bit too far. But he had
an idea K'mith usually knew what he was doing.
Haller
issued a final order, and the Triton began
to slip smoothly from the pool, while one of the pickups showed the cheering
crowd fading behind them. Then there was a lurch as they were through the dome
and moving upward.
Don
swung back to the sonar screen, slipping into the work for which he'd prepared
himself. Dexter had told him he'd get a medal; it was flattering enough, but
he'd had enough of playing the half-baked hero to last for the rest of his
life.
He
settled down to his work as the Triton headed
up for the calm seas and bright skies awaiting on the
surface.