Journey of the Oceanauts
(1968)*
Louis Wolfe

Contents

1 – A Summons to the White House
2 – A Drastic Change in Plan
3 — A Question Is Asked
4 – Preparations for the Journey
5 – Drop-Off
6 – Down to the Bottom
7 – The Journey Begins
8 – On Their Way
9 – A Narrow Escape
10 – The Oceanauts Adopt a Mascot—to Their Regret
11 – Down the Steep Continental Slope
12 – The Oceanauts Perform a Good Deed
13 – Avalanche! Avalanche!
14 – Dead or Alive
15 – A Welcoming Committee of Sharks
16 – A Walk Across the Bottom of the Bottom
17 – Lost in an Undersea Cave
18 – To the Top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge
19 – Descending the Mountain
20 – Tsunami!
21 – Three Beacons of Light
22 – Journey's End
Book information

1 – A Summons to the White House

	Josh lay strapped to the wheeled stretcher as the hospital orderly pushed him down the corridor toward Operating Room B. Though groggy from sedation, he was sufficiently alert to know what was happening. "Strange," he chuckled to himself, "I've been looking forward to this for two years, but now ..."

	Upon entering the room, he gazed about and saw the green-tiled walls, the huge nonshadow light in the center of the ceiling above the specially designed operating table. He also noticed the monitor which, after the transducers had been attached to him, would provide a constant indication of his temperature, pulse rate, respiratory rate, and blood pressure. Here and there he saw weird-looking machines equipped with tubes and bags and dials and other odd-shaped paraphernalia. Beside the operating table stood three surgeons, two nurses, and an anesthetist, all in white and wearing caps and masks, all ready and waiting.

	While being wheeled toward the table, Josh turned his head from side to side and finally spotted what he was looking for: the glass cabinet in which hung a black oceanaut's suit. Scrutinizing it, he slowly ran his eyes from the boots up to the helmet. "When this operation is over," he thought, "I'll be in that suit; and it will be as much a part of me as my skin. Then I'll be a manfish ... a creature capable of living at the bottom of the sea... I'll be an oceanaut."

	The very thought made all this seem eerie, as if part of a dream. Chills crept up his spine.

	The instant the orderly maneuvered the stretcher alongside the table, the nurses and anesthetist lifted Josh, deftly removed his gown, and positioned him for surgery. Losing no time, the anesthetist wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, started the intravenous, slipped the gas rube down Josh's throat, and connected it to a machine.

	By now Josh's eyelids were growing heavier and heavier, and he could barely keep them open; but he could still make out the blurred faces hovering over him and speaking in muffled voices. He thought of his father, Doctor Homer Sparke, and of Wayne Mark-ham. At that moment they were just down the corridor in rooms A and C, undergoing the same procedure, the same operation. Soon they too would be in their suits; soon they too would be transformed into oceanauts.

	The anesthetist bent down and said, "Relax ... relax."

	Josh took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought, "Well, this is it. ..." as he slowly sank into unconsciousness, his mind drifting back to that fateful day when all this began.

	Early on that crisp winter morning of January 10, 1978, the large clapboard house standing back of the sprawling lawn in Silver Spring, Maryland, was a picture of quiet and calm. Inside, however, it shook with shouts and stamping about, "Hang it all!" bellowed irascible Doctor Sparke, barging from one room into another, opening and slamming doors. "Where the devil is my hat? Josh! Marian! Find my hat! Can't I depend on anybody around here?"

	Josh, still in his pajamas and robe and knowing how his father hated to be kept waiting, bolted from room to room, frantically searching in the hallway, living room, and study. Marian, the faithful gray-haired housekeeper, scurried in and out of the dining room, the kitchen, and the hallway, rummaging here, there, and everywhere. If peace were to return to this house, that hat had to be found and soon. Only a short while ago Doctor Sparke had received an urgent message from Willard J. Halloway, President of the United States, informing him that a limousine was being dispatched to pick him up for a secret meeting at the White House. Excited and in a dither, the famous oceanographer hurriedly dressed, gulped down his breakfast, and, without stopping to glance in the mirror at his jet black hair that bristled like porcupine quills, looked for his hat.

	Fortunately for everyone concerned, Josh found the crumpled fedora in the study on the desk under some magazines and papers. "I found it," he called out. "I found it. Here it is, Father."

	Doctor Sparke snatched the hat from his hand, barged into the hallway, grabbed his overcoat, and burst out the front door—with Josh close on his heels. At that moment a long black limousine pulled into the driveway and came to a stop, its motor still running. While the chauffeur remained at the wheel, a Secret Service agent stepped out, ran around, and opened the rear door. Doctor Sparke hurried down the steps and entered.

	Curious, Josh stuck his head inside the limousine window. "Father, have you any idea at all what..

	"Joshua," Doctor Sparke interrupted, jamming his arm into his coat sleeve. "I know what you're going to ask. Why have I been summoned to the White House by the President? Well, I don't know myself yet. When I return, I'll tell you ... perhaps." Turning to the chauffeur, he snapped, "Well?"

	As Josh stepped back, the Secret Service agent shut the door, ran around, and took his place up front. An instant later the limousine rolled out of the driveway and headed south toward Washington, D.C.

	Still standing in the driveway, Josh placed his hands on his hips, watched the limousine until it disappeared from sight, then shook his head. "Whew!" he muttered, feeling as though a cyclone had suddenly struck and just as suddenly vanished. "What on earth can this be about?" he asked himself, scratching his blond hair. "Must be something important, something very important."

	Shoving his brawny hands into his robe pockets, he walked slowly across the lawn and up the porch, brow furrowed and mind lost in thought. This was unlike Josh; he was a rather easygoing fellow who ordinarily was quick to shake off anything that bothered him. But this was different. His father had been invited to the nation's capital many a time for special conferences held by the National Academy of Sciences, the National Science Foundation, Congressional committees, and members of the President's cabinet. But this time he had been summoned by the President himself.

	That morning Josh had planned to drive to town to buy some new diving equipment, but the summons to the White House changed all that. He just had to know what it was all about. So he decided to stay home and wait until his father returned; it would be no longer than an hour or two at the most. He entered the house, walked through the hallway and into Doctor Sparke's study where he slumped all six-feet-two of himself down into a big brown leather chair.

	The study, the most important room in this old house, actually was a combination museum, library, laboratory, workshop, and whatnot room. Spacious and with a bay window jutting out over the lawn, it was in Marian's words "always in a mess." One of its papered walls was lined from floor to railing with shelves jammed with reference books, science journals, monographs, and abstracts. Against another wall stood several fish tanks, fully equipped with lights, thermometers, air pumps, and other paraphernalia, each tank swarming with what Doctor Sparke called his "pets"—butterfly fish, Siamese fighting fish, sticklebacks and, the most prized of all, a marbled hatchet fish. Just above the tanks hung a stuffed coelacanth, a throwback that was supposed to have been extinct 75,000,000 years ago but is still found off the southeast coast of Africa.

	A third wall was covered with maps of different sizes—maps of the world's great oceans, maps indicating the habitats of various species of fishes, the great currents, the topography of the sea floor with its shelves and slopes and mountains, and maps indicating the temperatures at various depths of the oceans. In one comer was an antique grandfather's clock and an old yellow globe resting on a pedestal while beside them lay a heap of underwater diving equipment, suits, spear guns, air tanks, and deep-sea cameras. In the opposite corner stood a massive mahogany desk littered with papers and books, microscopes and jars of sediment gathered from various parts of the sea floor, silt, sand, ooze and mud; and still more jars filled with alcohol and containing plankton, algae, small fishes, and other specimens of sea life. Behind the desk stood an old swivel chair and to one side the leather chair in which Josh now slumped.

	Just then Marian appeared at the door, arms folded and scowling. As housekeeper for Doctor Sparke and his son for years, she was accustomed to meals ordered on the spur of the moment, then left to turn cold or unfinished or not eaten at all. "Well," she asked curtly, "don't you think it's time you finished your breakfast?"

	Lost in thought, Josh glanced up at the clock. It was 7:45. Stretching his long legs out across the threadbare rug, he picked up a copy of the magazine Exploring Undersea Caves in an effort to make time pass quickly by reading.

	Throwing up her hands, Marian shrugged. "Oh, what's the use?" and flounced back into the kitchen.

	No matter how hard Josh tried to read, however, he could not concentrate. Finally, in disgust, he threw the magazine aside, strode over to the diving equipment, tinkered a while with an air tank, then started making a minor repair on his undersea camera. But he soon lost interest in that too. Restless, he went into the kitchen, absentmindedly finished his breakfast, then returned to the study. Again he picked up the same magazine, but still he found himself reading the same sentence over and over. Glancing up at the clock, he sighed, "Hm, only 8:45."

	This was not the first time Josh had waited for Doctor Sparke. He had grown accustomed to it ever since that grim summer of 1965 when his father was serving as chief oceanographer on General William Westmoreland's staff during the war in Vietnam. One night, after a terrorist raid in Saigon, Doctor Sparke found the seven-year-old boy alone amid the rubble of a bombed-out mission. The boy was the son of American missionaries who had been killed in the raid.

	After carrying the boy to his quarters, Doctor Sparke hired a Vietnamese woman to care for him until he could be handed over to the proper agency. But in those hectic days the oceanographer was so swamped with his rnilitary duties that he never got around to sending the boy away; and, as the weeks and months rolled by, he grew extremely fond of him. So much so, in fact, that at war's end, after trying in vain to find the boy's kinfolk, Doctor Sparke adopted him and brought him home to the United States.

	Although Josh lived in Silver Spring with his father, during his childhood years he was brought up by a governess. Only now and then did he see the busy oceanographer who was always on the go, traveling back and forth to Washington, going to sea on research expeditions, taking part in science projects, or lecturing as visiting professor at one university or another. After graduating from high school, however, Josh accompanied his father on some expeditions; and, whenever the oceanographer lectured at a university for a term or two, Josh enrolled there. Before receiving his Bachelor of Science degree, he had studied at six different universities.

	Josh again glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. His father had been away more than two hours.

	A tall lanky lad gifted with a sharp mind, a zest for life, and an insatiable curiosity, Josh's favorite pastimes were mountain climbing, deep-sea exploration, and especially spelunking. He loved to explore caves, particularly those at the bottom of the sea. In any part of the world, if an interesting or unexplored cave was in the vicinity, he would be off to explore it. Several times he was lost, once given up for dead.

	Nature had also endowed Josh with a rare sense of wonder. Indeed, his father called him a "wonderer," meaning one who never ceases to wonder, no matter his age, at the marvels of the world about him. Josh stood in awe at his first sight of the Grand Canyon, the towering redwood trees in California, Niagara Falls, the Painted Desert, and other masterpieces of Nature. Exploring for the first time a cave studded with multicolored stalactites and stalagmites, he avidly drank in the weird beauty; watching a cyclone roar across the Kansas plain, he gasped at the irresistible power of Nature. With fascination he would watch an ant working diligently to build a home, a bee unceasingly gathering nectar, a bird patiently building a nest twig by twig, or a sea anemone gently waving its tentacles to lure an unwary fish to its death.

	Over the years much of Doctor Sparke's knowledge and interest in oceanography had rubbed off on Josh. Indeed, he himself had become something of an oceanographer in his own right. But to him the strongest appeal of the science was its promise of excitement and adventure. The thrill of exploring the unknown, of trying to unravel the mysteries of Nature, also of discovering regions where man had never before set foot, gave life zest and meaning. Too often, however, in his eagerness and enthusiasm to explore, he took hair-raising risks. Once, after Josh had dived to a dangerous depth to bring up a particular hydroid, his father raged, "Son, do you see those gray hairs on my temples? Well, you made them gray."

	Still unable to read, Josh stood up, stretched, walked over to the window, and gazed out at the bare trees and low cumulus clouds slowly drifting by. Almost 10:30 now. Still no signs of his father. Fidgety, he paced back and forth across the study, often pausing before the window to gaze out.

	If Josh had any vice, it was his ravenous appetite. He could devour steak by the pound, lobsters by the half dozen, and ice cream, his favorite, by the quart. "I don't know which would be cheaper," his father once chided, "feeding you or fitting out an expedition."

	The only person other than his father to whom Josh felt a close attachment was Louise, a pretty, hazel-eyed brunette who taught science at nearby North-side High School. He had met her one night at Georgetown University during a lecture on ocean flora and fauna. The slender girl of shy manner and gentle ways lived only a few blocks away, and of late Josh had been seeing her more and more often. Having much in common, they enjoyed taking long walks, going swimming and scuba diving, and once in a while seeing a neighborhood movie. After the show the two would saunter hand-in-hand through the park and stop at their favorite bench near the lake. Returning home, Josh usually suggested the longer route to spend more time with Louise and also because it took them past their favorite ice cream parlor. Louise always giggled as Josh, in an offhand manner, would ask, "Would you care for some ice cream?"

	Weary of pacing back and forth, Josh stopped beside the globe, gave it a slow spin, and smiled. Tonight he had a date with Louise—that is, unless Doctor Sparke, upon returning from Washington, D.C, had other plans.

-

2 – A Drastic Change in Plan

	From the moment the limousine roared out of his driveway, Doctor Sparke, his bartered hat askew on his head, sat in the back seat, bewildered. Brow furrowed, he too was trying to fathom the mystery of this urgent summons to the White House. And, as the chauffeur drove down Highway 29 and later threaded his way through traffic on 16th Street, the oceanographer recalled the other times he had been invited to the nation's capital. On each of these occasions, however, he knew in advance the purpose of the meeting. But now he could only guess, for at the time he was working on several different projects. Then suddenly a thought struck him: Could it possibly be about the top secret Homeostat?

	Looking younger than his forty years, the short wiry oceanographer, with an imposing head that made him look taller than he was, stared out the window at the Washingtonians bound for work on foot-in buses and cars and taxis. His coal-black hair, piercing dark eyes under bushy eyebrows, jutting jaw, and nose resembling an eagle's beak portrayed a man of boundless energy and drive. Gifted with a brilliant mind and a strong desire to probe the mysteries of Nature, he had more than a smattering of physics and chemistry, but he was a giant in his first love, oceanography, that comparatively new science which offered him the greatest challenge. In Doctor Sparke's ceaseless search for knowledge, his genius was matched by his imagination and boldness of thought.

	If a project might increase man's knowledge or contribute to man's progress, no distance was too great, no undertaking too difficult, no journey too dangerous. He repeatedly admonished his colleagues: "We scientists must not only acquire knowledge, we must also put it to use with imagination and daring."

	The limousine continued around Scott Circle, rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue, and on to the White House gate. After being checked by the guard, it rolled up the curved driveway to the North Portico where it came to a stop. Immediately an usher stepped forward, helped Doctor Sparke out, and escorted him to the Entrance Hall. There an aide took his coat and hat and conducted him across the red-carpeted Main Hall, up the stairs, and into the Treaty Room.

	Doctor Sparke had always admired the Treaty Room with its quiet Victorian decor, deep-green wallpaper, and white fireplace, over which hung an elegant mirror with gesso-and-gilt scroll. Between the two large windows with maroon velvet drapes stood an antique desk and against the wall a graceful sofa. From the center of the ceiling a huge chandelier hung above the oblong table around which stood eight heart-back chairs.

	After being greeted warmly by the President and four other men, Doctor Sparke took his seat at one end of the table on which were papers, pamphlets, a pitcher of water, and five glasses. Directly opposite sat the President, while at his right sat Doctor Moss Avakian, Director of the National Society of Sciences, and Matthew Roggar, Chairman of the National Science Foundation; and at his left, Doctor William Bernhardt, the President's Science Advisor, and Lloyd Chamberlain, Director of the National Inner Space Administration.

	In 1970, the National Inner Space Administration, or NISA as it was commonly called, had launched an ambitious ten-year program for the extensive study and exploration of "inner space"—the oceans. The program had several goals: to train more oceanographers, double the basic research in oceanography, make an intensive study of the chemistry and physics of the sea, and carry out world-wide surveys of all the great oceans. Another, but not the least important, goal was to educate the American people on the vital importance of the oceans in their lives. The entire program was to culminate in 1980 with a three-man crew who would travel in a bathyscaph from the United States to Europe across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

	The President, his face as square and craggy as a chunk of granite, wasted no time getting down to the business at hand. Leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table, he began. "Doctor Sparke, ten years ago at the convention of the International Society of Oceanographers in London you gave a talk in which you made a startling proposal. Do you recall what that was?"

	Doctor Sparke rubbed his cleft chin and stared up at the chandelier, trying hard to recall which "startling proposal." He then shook his head. Ten years ago was a long time, especially in the life of a famous scientist and one accustomed to making many proposals. Indeed, he had a reputation among his colleagues for making them, some practical, others impractical, and a few downright wild. He proposed, for example, that the water shortage in California be relieved by hauling a fresh-water iceberg from the Antarctic, anchoring it outside Los Angeles harbor, and running a pipeline to the city. At one symposium he flabbergasted his colleagues by stating that now that man had the great potential of nuclear fuels at his disposal it was theoretically possible to shove the planets in the solar system from one position to another! Venus, for example, he explained, may have an atmosphere of steam. If this is so, it might be shoved a little farther away from the sun, causing its enveloping clouds to cool, condense, and turn into oceans. Venus might then become a planet on which man could live.

	Doctor Sparke, however, was not always serious. Occasionally, with tongue in cheek, he would make fantastic proposals for no other reason than to jar his colleagues out of their smug self-satisfaction and light a fire under their imaginations. Some of his colleagues, on hearing of his "wild" ideas, would scoff, "That young man is a hundred years ahead of his time," or more stingingly, "He's out of his mind!"

	In reply to the President, Doctor Sparke shook his head. "Sorry. I just can't recall which proposal you are referring to."

	"Well, let me remind you," the President said, holding up an old yellowing pamphlet. "At that symposium you spoke at length of the science of oceanography, decrying the fact that man knew more about the surface of the moon 240,000 miles away than about the bottom of the ocean only three or four miles down. You also spoke of oceanography as a young science that had to take giant steps forward if it were to catch up with other sciences. Finally, you startled your colleagues by proposing that scientists devise a means of putting a man on the ocean floor, a man unencumbered and free to explore—on foot!"

	Eyes sparkling with mischief, Doctor Sparke chuckled, "Oh, yes, yes, now I remember. But Mr. President, on that occasion I wasn't exactly serious; moreover, I recall that my colleagues were, to put it mildly, less than enthusiastic about my proposal."

	Doctor Avakian, his long melancholy face wrinkled, leaned forward and said in his gravelly voice, "I remember that proposal very well, and I too thought it was fantastic. But at the time, Doctor Sparke, you sowed a seed in my mind and in the minds of other scientists around the world; and today we recognize that your proposal is not only not fantastic, but practical."

	A faint smile on his face, Doctor Sparke leaned back in his chair, slowly turning his head from side to side, staring at each man seated around the table. Now he knew what this meeting was about—the Homeostat—an amazing nuclear-powered electronic and biochemical device that modified man and transformed him into a self-sustaining creature capable of moving about and living at the bottom of the ocean. Through Doctor Sparke's mind flashed the exciting story of its development.

	The Homeostat had cost the United States $100,000,000 and was the result of intensive efforts on the part of American scientists all over the country in research foundations, industrial laboratories, and the Navy. When NISA first launched its ten-year program, an attempt was made to develop a nuclear-powered submersible capable of descending to the ocean abyss and enabling oceanographers to travel long distances and do research over long periods of time. Good headway was being made, but in 1976 a directive from President Halloway resulted in a drastic change in plan. All work on the submersible was brought to a stop; and from then on NISA was to devote all its money and energy and brains to enabling man, alone and unencumbered, to explore the depths of the ocean on foot. Time being short, the NISA scientists worked around the clock, striving to develop an undersea life-supporting system. But they met with failure after failure after failure. Finally, they were forced to face the fact that their greatest obstacle to achieving their goal was man, man himself. He was unsatisfactory; he was obsolete; he had to be modified.

	Removing his black horn-rimmed glasses, Roggar spoke up for the first time. "Doctor Sparke, you are aware of the fact that we are not the only ones working on this project. According to the latest information from our Central Intelligence Agency two other nations have also launched crash programs to modify man and to enable him to live at the bottom of the sea.

	Doctor Sparke nodded. "Yes, I am aware of that."

	Stroking his beard, Doctor Bernhardt slapped the table and said, "But we will be the first to place a man on foot on the ocean floor because, I am happy to say, we now have that capability."

	The words we now have that capability struck Doctor Sparke like a blow. What did Doctor Bernhardt mean? Bursting with curiosity, he nervously tapped his fingers on the table, stared at Chamberlain, and waited for an explanation.

	Smiling broadly, the director of NISA picked up a leather-bound report and explained. "Doctor Sparke, we have good news, and we want you to be the first to know. As you know for the past few years we have been trying to develop a Homeostat but with little success; and you also know that we did not expect a breakthrough for at least another year or two. But the results of the latest exhaustive tests of the most recent improvements have just come in. Here's the report. Look it over."

	Doctor Sparke picked up the report and skimmed through it; and as he read, an electrifying thrill surged through him. This was an historic document. In essence it was an announcement of one of the greatest scientific developments of the twentieth century. His face glowing with pride, he exulted, "Remarkable! Most remarkable! Gentlemen, let me be the first to congratulate you."

	"Thank you," Doctor Avaldan said smiling, "but don't forget to include yourself in those congratulations because you, directly and indirectly, contributed much to the development of the Homeostat."

	Doctor Sparke, indeed, had contributed much to its development. During the past few years he had often flown to the Scripps Institution of Oceanography in California, the Institute of Marine Science in Florida, the Lamont Geological Observatory in New York, and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts,  assisting in studies  of ocean pressures, currents, temperature, salinity, and other related phenomena. He also spent much time assisting biochemists experimenting on feeding human beings plankton taken from the sea; and as a consultant to physiologists performing experiments aimed at conditioning man to breathe and live under water.

	President Halloway cleared his throat then said, "Doctor Sparke, we knew you would be delighted by our success with the Homeostat. That, however, is not the reason we asked you to attend this meeting. There's another reason, a more important reason. Since the Homeostat has exceeded our greatest expectations, we have decided to take what you often refer to as a 'giant step' forward, and we are calling that step 'Project Oceanaut.' "

	Doctor Sparke leaned forward, eyes wide open as he listened attentively.

	"We believe," the President continued, "that Project Oceanaut is comparable to Project Apollo; we also believe it is one of the most daring expeditions ever undertaken by man. In Project Oceanaut we plan to culminate our ten-year NISA program with an expedition of three men—who will travel from the United States to Europe across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on foot!"

	Doctor Sparke gasped and sat as motionless as a statue. This was the kind of thinking he admired; this was the human mind unchained, the imagination free and soaring to great heights. He was so excited, he feared he might forget himself before this august body and let out a yell. But, controlling himself, he murmured, 'Wonderful, wonderful."

	The President poured some water into a glass, took a sip, and went on. "Although inner space lacks the glamour of outer space, we believe that Project Oceanaut will prove of greater value than Project Apollo to Americans and all mankind. And for several reasons. In the first place you may recall that President John F. Kennedy once said, 'Knowledge of the oceans is more than a matter of curiosity. Our very survival may hinge on it.' To be sure, we already have adequate defenses to protect us from attack by sea, but there is no doubt that a walk across the floor of the Atlantic will yield information that will further strengthen those defenses. Second, as you well know, the oceans and the ocean floors are man's last and virtually untapped source of metals, oils, gas, and other raw materials. Third, the oceans contain more plant and animal life than is found on the surface of the entire earth. Needless to say, this plant and animal life is man's greatest remaining source of food. These three reasons in themselves, Doctor Sparke, would justify Project Oceanaut. But there are overriding reasons, indeed, why NISA, under my direction, drastically changed its plans four years ago."

	Doctor Sparke smiled and nodded. At the time the change was made he had surmised as much, and he believed he knew the reasons.

	"Before going on," the President said, "allow me to make one point, a most important point. Unfortunately, today most Americans and peoples all over the world still think of the oceans merely as large bodies of water inhabited by fishes, and the ocean floors as far-off, unknown, and mysterious regions. This attitude must be changed, and we are certain that a dramatic journey such as Project Oceanaut will not only capture the imagination and interest of all peoples but will also go a long way toward making them realize that the oceans are as much a part of the earth as the very ground they walk on. Indeed, as Marco Polo's journey in the thirteenth century awakened Europeans to the wonders of China and India, so we believe that a journey across the bottom of the Atlantic in the twentieth century will awaken the peoples of the world to the wonders of the oceans that he so near."

	The President paused, wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and continued. "Now to get back to the overriding reasons for changing our plans. Today it is a well-known and grim fact that the number of people living on this small earth is increasing at a frightening rate. In fact, the population of the world today is approaching five billion; by the end of this century it is estimated that it will approach seven billion. Obviously, the day is not far off when there will be no more space on earth and all humans, including Americans, will be living like ants in an anthill. Now the harsh fact that we face is: Where will all those unborn millions of tomorrow live? ... There apparently is only one answer—at the bottom of the world's oceans, the only remaining unsettled region on earth.

	"Every child knows the simple historical fact that after Columbus and others discovered and explored the New World, Europeans by the millions migrated to North and South America. Consequently, we believe that if Project Oceanaut is successful, people will regard the oceans as regions with terrain similar to that on earth, as nearby regions where men can work and live. And when the day comes that people are forced to leave the surface of the earth for lack of space, they will know that the sea floors are there, waiting to be colonized."

	Doctor Sparke kept his eyes glued on the President, who took a deep breath and shifted about in his chair. "Lastly," he said, "today we stand face to face with another and more immediate grim fact: the know-how of manufacturing and delivering the hydrogen bomb has proliferated until it is now in the possession of twenty-one nations, any one of which might set off a nuclear holocaust that could destroy what man has built over the centuries. I hope and pray that day never comes, but if a nuclear holocaust ever devastates this earth, the many millions who survive the blasts will have only one place to find refuge from the deadly effects of radio-active fallout—the bottom of the sea."

	The President paused once more, set his jaw hard, and, speaking slowly, came to the point. "Doctor Sparke, I don't have to tell you that Project Oceanaut involves many known and unknown dangers, indeed greater dangers than any other American has been asked to face. After much consideration, NISA and I have decided that, because of your vast knowledge of the oceans and your years of research and exploration of the oceans, you would be the best man to lead such an expedition. Now I am about to ask you a question, and I want you to be absolutely frank in your answer. If your answer is yes, we will be most pleased. If you would like to have time to consider the matter, we will wait—but not for long. If, however, your answer is no, we will understand. Assuming of course that you pass the rigid qualifying tests each candidate will be required to take, would you volunteer to lead such an expedition?"

	Having asked the question, the President leaned back and waited, giving Doctor Sparke time to ponder the weighty question. The four other men around the table sat silently, their eyes riveted on the oceanographer as they too waited in suspense. For a moment the room was so quiet the men could hear one another breathe.

	The suspense, however, was short-lived. Doctor Sparke, heart pounding and eyes dancing, did not think long. In a clear decisive voice, he replied, "Yes, yes, of course, I will make the journey. It's a great, a very great, opportunity. Indeed, it is also a great honor."

-

3 — A Question Is Asked

	Back in Silver Spring, at about 12:30, Josh was suddenly jarred out of his reverie by an imperious ring of the doorbell. He jumped out of the armchair, hurried through the hallway, and opened the door. Doctor Sparke barged in, threw his hat and coat across the bannister, and without a word strode into the study and plopped himself down into the armchair.

	Noticing that his father was absorbed in thought, Josh casually walked over to the desk, pushed back a microscope and a few jars, and sat down. Though bursting with curiosity, he asked no questions. Not now. But one glance told him that whatever had happened at the White House was of extraordinary importance, for his father's leathery skin glowed, his eyes sparkled, and there was a triumphant smile on his face as if he had just seen a long-cherished dream come true.

	After what seemed an interminable time, the oceanographer fixed his eyes on his son and said, "My dear young man," as was his wont when demanding the undivided attention of one of his students while explaining something of scientific importance, "this morning the President asked me to undertake a great scientific journey—indeed, the greatest journey of my entire life."

	Josh raised his eyebrows. "Your greatest journey?"

	Upon returning from a conference related to an expedition, Doctor Sparke usually explained in a few words what had taken place; and now and then asked Josh if he wanted to take part. But this was an exceptional occasion and, having decided on the way home to ask his son to volunteer, the oceanographer realized he could not explain Project Oceanaut as just another expedition. It was a stupendous undertaking fraught with the greatest danger; and without a detailed preliminary explanation it would sound, especially to an experienced diver like Josh, like a harebrained science fiction scheme. Therefore, before asking the question, Doctor Sparke prudently decided upon an indirect approach to prepare his son for what was coming.

	Just then Marian, having heard the oceanographer's booming voice, opened the door to the study. Well, are you two ready for lunch?"

	Without looking up, Doctor Sparke waved her away, telling her to shut the door and not to interrupt. Marian stalked back into the kitchen, mumbling something about not caring if they both starved.

	Leaning back and crossing his legs, Doctor Sparke began. "Son, man as we know him has been on this earth for roughly 50,000 years, and in that time he has multiplied and spread himself all over the globe. Now at long last he finds himself with no virgin territory left, and today his only remaining frontier is the ocean floor."

	"Yes, yes," Josh nodded, anticipating his father. "I know that. I also know that someday people will have to live at the bottom of the sea. But that is in the future, the distant future."

	Doctor Sparke shook his head vigorously. "Not at all. Not as far in the future as you think, my boy. You know that recently Captain Eric Henderson, using a bathyscaph as his base, lived at the bottom of the sea for six months. And upon returning to the surface he predicted that before long millions of people, using nuclear energy to derive oxygen from the water, would make their homes on the ocean floor. He also predicted that new nations would be founded, cities and vast industrial complexes would be built, and people would occupy prefab houses and have theaters and hospitals and schools equipped with refrigerators, air conditioners, telephones, and television."

	Doctor Sparke paused and, ignoring the look of skepticism on his son's face, went on. "Joshua, you were too young to remember, but ten years ago I made a proposal for which I was held up to ridicule by my colleagues."

	"Father, you've made so many 'wild' proposals. Which one was that?"

	"I suggested that scientists devise a way of putting a man on the bottom of the ocean, a man alone and without mechanical protection, a man free to explore on foot."

	Out of loyalty, Josh invariably supported his father's proposals, even the wild ones. But he had done too much diving, had gone down too many times in bathyscaphs, not to think that such an idea was nonsense, a sheer impossibility.

	"I'm sorry, Father," he said, "but that proposal belongs in science fiction."

	Flushed with anger, Doctor Sparke spluttered, "That, my son, is the land of thinking that slows the progress of science to a snail's pace." He then got up, walked over to a large map titled The North Atlantic Ocean Floor, stood up close to it, and ran his finger from Cape Cod down to the Continental Shelf and on to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Turning to his son, he said, "Ever since man has come upon this earth he has been a prisoner of his environment, an environment consisting of the air he breathes, the food he eats, and the water he drinks. And since he depends on this environment for life itself, man does not dare venture out of it, that is, without elaborate mechanical protection. Today it is commonplace to send astronauts to the moon, but to do it requires huge spaceships jam-packed with tons and tons of equipment. Without all that equipment, man would still be chained to the earth. Obviously, much of science's time, energy, and money is devoted to protecting frail man against an alien and hostile environment. It is clear, therefore, that man has been the retarding factor, that man has prevented science from advancing in giant steps."

	"Well," chuckled Josh with a shrug, "man has been that way in the past, is that way today, and will be that way for years to come. So I'm afraid science is stuck with him."

	"Not so, not so at all," Doctor Sparke snapped, waving his hand from side to side as he went over to the bookshelf and pulled out a monograph titled Modifying Man. "As you know, science already has modified plants and animals, and today science can modify man and transform him into a creature capable of living in an alien environment—and without elaborate mechanical protection."

	A look of bewilderment on his face, Josh scratched his head. Whatever was his father leading up to?

	"Don't look so befuddled, son," his father went on. "You know very well that already man has adapted himself to hostile environments."

	Josh nodded. To be sure, he knew of many instances: such as Peruvians toiling at high altitudes; Tibetan lamas maintaining a normal skin temperature in zero weather; and Eskimos living on a fat diet that would give most men a fatal heart attack.

	"All right, I'll grant that," Josh conceded, "but it took years and years for man to adapt himself to environments only slightly, mind you, only slightly different from his natural environment. Can you imagine how long it would take an air-breathing man to adapt himself to an extremely different environment, one as alien and hostile as the sea?"

	Doctor Sparke leaned forward and smiled. "Contrary to what most people think the sea is not alien to man. Over 500,000,000 years ago man's ancestors started out in the sea as single microscopic cells; later those same cells evolved into tiny creatures that crawled up on shore in search of food. Some of them remained on land and later evolved into higher forms of life and eventually into man. In fact, before you were born, you, like all humans, existed as a fertilized fetus in a 'sea' of amniotic fluid; and later, as you developed, for a while, you had gill clefts resembling those of a fish. And right now about 70 per cent of your body consists of water; which is exactly the same percentage of water found on the earth's surface. Indeed, some of the ancient seas still flow in your veins, for the salt in your blood is similar to that of the sea.

	So the environment of the sea is not so alien to man after all."

	"Very interesting," Josh said, though still not convinced, "but what you're talking about took time—in fact, millions of years for those cells to evolve into the simplest forms of life that could survive on land. I'll grant that the sea is not so alien to man, but you can't deny that it is still mighty hostile."

	"Fine, fine," said Doctor Sparke, taking advantage of the opening provided by his son. "But suppose a fish—let's say a very intelligent fish—knew enough about physiology and biochemistry and was a crack engineer, could it transform itself into a creature capable of surviving on land?"

	"Well, well, well." Josh laughed, slapping his thigh. "All I can say is that that's an academic question because there is no fish, and there never will be fish, with a high enough, shall I say I.Q., Father?"

	Doctor Sparke gave his son ample time to enjoy his little joke, then grinned, arched his thick eyebrows, and in just above a whisper asked slyly, "And what about man? Is he intelligent enough to transform himself into a creature capable of surviving in the sea? Tell me, son, is he?"

	Josh stared at his father. What on earth was he driving at?

	Having aroused his sons curiosity, Doctor Sparke wisely followed up his advantage. "Of late, science has had remarkable success in giving Nature a push and has, yes, has modified animals and man. For years surgeons have been transplanting livers, lungs, kidneys, hearts, and other organs from one person to another. Before long, it is predicted, man will change vital organs every so many years the same as he changes tires on his car every so many miles. In fact, today scientists are on the verge of developing a bio-hand with interchangeable fingers and operated by one's own nerves and muscles."

	"Wonderful! Wonderful!" Josh said with a touch of sarcasm. "So science has modified man and achieved miracles. Again granted. But I still say that today, tomorrow, and for years to come man will have to live on the surface of the earth; and should he want to five in an environment as murderous as the bottom of the ocean he'd better take along air and mechanical protection ... and plenty of both!

	Having successfully steered the conversation to this point, the oceanographer glanced up at the clock. A few minutes past one. He walked over to the window and stood there for a moment, gazing out over the lawn. Then, facing his son, he spoke in deep earnestness. "Joshua, my boy, what I am about to tell you is for the time being a closely guarded secret. You must not divulge it to anyone. And I'm telling you only because it may concern you directly."

	Josh pushed himself farther back on the desk and grinned. This was just fine. Whatever the grand plan worked out at the White House, he might be a part of it.

	"As you know," Doctor Sparke continued, "for several years the National Inner Space Administration has been working on a ten-year program to advance our knowledge of the oceans. You also know that the program was to culminate with a journey of a bathyscaph across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean."

	"Yes, yes, I know," said Josh excitedly, "and ever since the program started I've been hoping and praying I would be in that bathyscaph and ..."

	"But there's something you do not know. A few years ago that plan was scrapped and replaced by one in which a man, alone and unencumbered, would walk and explore the ocean floor on foot."

	"On foot!" Josh gasped. "On foot!"

	"Yes, and to achieve this," Doctor Sparke pressed without giving his son a chance to catch his breath, "they have created precisely what we have been talking about, a life-support system called a Homeostat, which, when attached to a man, enables him to survive in the sea at great depths for months without mechanical protection."

	"Unbelievable!" Josh blurted. "What! Do you mean to tell me that already we have created an optiman ... a homo aquaticus ... a manfish!"

	"Call him a manfish or whatever," Doctor Sparke said, "as for me I prefer the name 'oceanaut.' But in either case we have succeeded in doing just that."

	"Fantastic! Fantastic!" Josh blurted, shaking his head in disbelief, then riveting his eyes on his father as if demanding an explanation.

	Pacing back and forth across the study, the oceanographer explained briefly the origin of Project Oceanaut, its goals, its progress over the past few years, the many obstacles that had to be overcome, and finally the big breakthrough with the perfection of the Homeostat.

	Josh, still finding it all too difficult to comprehend, said, "That Homeostat sounds fantastic. Tell me about it.

	"The Homeostat," Doctor Sparke explained, "is about the size of a thin pound box of candy, is enclosed in a titanium case, and is powered by a well-shielded store of nuclear material. Built chest-high into the oceanaut's suit, it is crammed with hundreds of miniature parts much too complicated for me to describe. The Homeostat becomes the vital 'organs' of the oceanaut by means of a plastic tube that extends from the top and is inserted into and coupled to an opening made in the throat just below the Adam's apple. An open system through which water constantly flows, the Homeostat provides the oceanaut with food manufactured from plankton, and oxygen and fresh water derived from the sea. At the same time it eliminates CO2 and other wastes as it maintains a steady flow of vitamins, of coco de mono, a South American drug which checks the growth of hair, and also a psychic energizer that enables the oceanaut to function eighteen hours without tiring."

	Josh had great faith in his father, but he still had misgivings about all this. This talk about modified man ... surgery ... oceanauts walking the depths without protection, it ... it was not science. It was science fiction. His mind in a whirl, Josh stared down at the floor, slowly shaking his head as he thought of the many dangers of the sea, especially the murderous pressures, pressures that increased nearly fifteen pounds to a square inch with every thirty-three feet of descent. At a depth of only one mile the pressure on an average man would be about 16,000,000 pounds, enough to crush him into an unrecognizable blob of flesh and bone.

	Sensing what was troubling his son, Doctor Sparke reassured him. "Son, if you're concerned about the problem of pressure, dismiss it from your mind. I forgot to mention it, but the Homeostat works on the same principle that prevents fishes at various depths from being crushed to death. It automatically adjusts and maintains the pressure within the oceanaut's body as he ascends or descends."

	"It still sounds unreal to me, very unreal," said Josh, scratching his head. "Incidentally, you mentioned something about a suit. That must be something special too."

	'It certainly is," replied his father proudly, "but it gave our engineers, physiologists, and biochemists plenty of trouble. And, only after years of intensive research and experimentation, did they finally succeed in making a suit that provides the oceanaut with habitability, mobility, and comfort in the hostile sea."

	"Incredible," said Josh, leaning forward. "What's it like?"

	Still pacing back and forth, Doctor Sparke took a deep breath and began. "Josh, the suit is an engineering masterpiece. Made in one piece of rubberized nylon and coated with an antifouling paint to ward off barnacles, it covers the entire body, fits skin-tight, and is wired to maintain body temperature. After the oceanaut is inserted into the suit, it is permanently closed with a heat-sealed zipper. The boots, especially designed, are made of a tough plastic and weighted with two sets of detachable lead plates, Set A and Set B. Together, both sets provide the oceanaut with a negative buoyancy that holds him down to the bottom. When Set A is detached, he assumes a condition of neutral buoyancy; and, should an emergency arise, he treads water and slowly ascends to whatever height he desires. Should he want to rise all the way to the surface, he releases both sets. This of course can be quite dangerous because an oceanaut, like a fish, cannot survive on the surface. Behind the heels of the boots are three levers which, when pushed, expand the soles and heels, making them suitable for walking on different types of terrain. Lever 1 sets the heels and soles in normal position for walking on sand, gravel shells, and rock. Lever 2 expands them to a shape similar to a snowshoe for walking on soft mud, silt, or ooze. Lever 3 releases crampons or spikes for use in mountain climbing and ..."

	"But if the oceanaut," Josh interrupted, "is to walk on the ocean floor for long distances, he will need more than the Homeostat and suit. He will need instruments—and extra special ones too."

	"Right you are, son," agreed Doctor Sparke, "and they are amply provided. Waterproof and pressure-proof instruments with luminous dials are built into the sleeves of the suit. On the right sleeve the oceanaut wears a thermometer, a manometer for measuring water pressure, and a newly invented lat-long compass that not only indicates north, south, east, and west, but also enables the oceanaut at any depth to determine his latitude and longitude. On the left sleeve he wears a fathometer for measuring depth and a chronometer. Since there is no light in the depths and therefore no morning, noon, or night, a special chronometer had to be devised. This one is marked off in twenty-four-hour periods called 'units.' Each unit is divided into two parts: part one consists of eighteen hours, during which time the oceanaut will be awake and walking; part two, six hours, during which time the oceanaut will sleep. An alarm buzzes at 0400 hours and 2200 hours to indicate the time to awake and sleep, respectively. On the face of the chronometer is a "calendar" showing the number of units, ranging from zero to 360. At the ends of the sleeves are gloves, five-fingered gloves equipped with 'fingernails,' hinged inch-long steel grippers that can be flipped open or closed. They will be helpful in climbing mountains."

	"Wow!" Josh chuckled. "What a suit! It is an engineering masterpiece. I'll trade my scuba outfit for it anytime."

	Doctor Sparke walked over to the leather chair, sat down, and continued. "That's not all. The suit has a helmet that fits snugly over the head and is both comfortable and practical. It has a built-in quartz faceplate laminated with lenses accommodated to each oceanaut's vision; through these lenses he can see without distortion up and down and to either side. In the center of the forehead, the helmet is equipped with a powerful deactivated laser fight the size of a lead pencil eraser that projects a harmless grayish beam about 1,000 yards through the murkiest water. The laser can be switched on and off by merely pushing a small nipple switch directly below. The helmet also contains a two-way human voice-communication system called an aquaphone, recently developed by the Navy and consisting of a transmitter, hydrophones, and a microphone. The transmitter is so constructed that it matches the human voice electronically to sea water, enabling one oceanaut to communicate with another or with ships on the surface almost four miles above."

	"What about weapons or tools of some sort?" Josh asked. "The oceanaut can't travel empty-handed."

	"Since the oceanaut necessarily has to travel fight, he is allowed to carry one piece of equipment, one that serves as both a weapon and a tool. Cleverly designed, it is called a 'dagstock'; when closed it can be used as a dagger, and when opened it can be used as an alpenstock^ the walking stick used by Swiss mountain climbers. Well, that's about all... oh, no, there is one more thing. During the journey an American flag will be planted at the top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. That flag, made of corrosion-resistant plastic and attached to a collapsible staff, will be furled tightly and heat-sealed into the thigh part of one oceanaut's suit in such a way that it will not hamper his movements and at the same time can easily be removed."

	Having sat tense and heard so much, Josh said nothing for a moment, trying to absorb it all. Finally, he asked, "Father, what happens when the oceanaut is taken out of the sea?"

	"He undergoes surgery called the "Reversal Process,' in which the Homeostat is uncoupled and he is removed from the suit, transforming him again into a normal human being."

	Though much impressed, Josh still remained skeptical. "No doubt the Homeostat, the suit, the instruments, and equipment have been thoroughly tested."

	The oceanographer expected his son, who was quite familiar with scientific procedures, to ask this question; and in all fairness to him the results of the tests, including the grim facts, had to be told.

	"Yes, they have been tested. Indeed, they have undergone two different series of tests. In the first series the Homeostat alone was tried on scores of monkeys and chimpanzees, the Homeostat and suit on twelve Navy frogmen."

	"And ..."

	"The first results were disappointing. A good number of animals died during surgery while the Homeostat was being coupled to the throat. Others died after being dropped into the sea or while descending to the bottom. Most of the animals that did reach the bottom lived for a short time but died either after being brought to the surface or immediately following the Reversal Process operation."

	"And the twelve frogmen," Josh persisted, "what happened to them?"

	Doctor Sparke gazed at his son, hesitated, then replied, "As you well know, Josh, in the beginning of some scientific ventures tragedy occurs. After one of the oceanauts had remained at a depth of five hundred feet for three days, his Homeostat malfunctioned and he died. A second died on the operating table during the Reversal Process. All the others, however, successfully descended to different depths and lived for periods ranging from twenty to sixty days—and without any ill effects. What's more, after they had returned to the surface and undergone the Reversal Process, they once more breathed and ate and lived normal fives. Incidentally, you'll be interested to know that one of those oceanauts, who also had been an astronaut, said he found inner space much more hostile and dangerous than outer space."

	"I wouldn't doubt that," said Josh. "But tell me, what happened after those tests were completed?"

	"NISA, of course, was far from pleased with the results. So the physiologists, biochemists, and engineers knuckled down to work in an effort to improve the suit and Homeostat; and months later they came up with a new model that was subjected to a second series of tests, much more rigorous than the first. Again the Homeostat was first tried on monkeys and chimpanzees but this time with excellent results. Not one animal died. Again twelve Navy frogmen were transformed into oceanauts but this time dropped to depths of 500,1,000, and 1,500 feet, where they remained for periods ranging from twenty to eighty days. While living on the sea floor they checked their instruments and boots. They also checked their lasers, aquaphones, and transmitters under various conditions. Everything worked to perfection, with one exception; one oceanaut drowned when his Homeostat clogged and malfunctioned."

	"Obviously then," Josh grunted, "the Homeostat has not been perfected."

	"Well, not quite, but we do consider it reasonably safe and a calculated risk."

	"Reasonably safe, a calculated risk," Josh repeated. "Very interesting. Now what?"

	Doctor Sparke took a deep breath, then replied, slowly and deliberately. "President Halloway and the National Inner Space Administration have decided to culminate the ten-year oceanographic program with an expedition of three oceanauts who will travel from the United States to Europe across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on foot."

	Josh's mind reeled. Disbelieving, he repeated the words over and over as if to make sure he had heard correctly. "Across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on foot ... across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on foot!"

	Doctor Sparke said no more, wisely giving his son time, first, to believe that his ears were not deceiving him, second, to digest what he had heard, and, third, to accept the idea itself. He then got up, walked over and stood directly in front of Josh, gazing into his eyes, not as an irascible and impetuous scientist, but as a father filled with tenderness and affection. "Josh," he said softly, "this morning the President asked me if I would volunteer to take the journey. I did. The President also said I might take two other volunteers. My son, there is no one I would rather have at my side than you.... Will you volunteer to go with me?"

	By now Josh had accepted the idea wholeheartedly and, the instant his father asked him to be a part of it, he tingled all over. Project Oceanaut promised more excitement and adventure than all the other previous expeditions combined. His father's request flustered him so, however, that he had difficulty finding the right words to reply. Finally, he blurted, "Will I go? ... Wow! I'll say I will. Of course, of course. When do we start?"

	"Not so fast, son, not so fast. Perhaps I should have told you that all the volunteers, and I, too, will have to undergo a series of rigid tests, including a short trial walk across the ocean floor. The three who score the highest will be named by NISA to make the journey. You may not qualify. Indeed, I, too, may not qualify."

	Not the least bit discouraged, his enthusiasm un-dampened, Josh said, "I understand, I understand. Tell me, has the date of the journey been set?"

	"No, not yet. The date has not been set definitely. But after the qualifying tests and the extensive program of preparations have been completed, it will be set as soon as possible. The President and NISA are extremely eager that Americans be the first to make the crossing; and if all goes according to plan, the expedition will be on its way in two years."

	Josh leaned back, a faraway look in his eyes and a smile on his face. "Wow! What a journey! What a journey!"

	Doctor Sparke glanced up at the clock. "Well, that's that. My, my, how time does fly! It's almost two o'clock. Marian! Marian! How about some lunch? Why do you always keep us waiting? We're starved."

-

4 – Preparations for the Journey

	Josh had lived through many a hectic preparation for expeditions, but never had he experienced anything like preparing for Project Oceanaut. And it was understandable. This was not just another expedition in search of specimens, or to solve a scientific problem, or to gather data to prove a theory. This was the most encompassing and daring oceanographic expedition ever undertaken by man. Scientifically, what Project Apollo had been to the conquest of space, Project Oceanaut would be to the conquest of inner space.

	For Doctor Sparke the two years that followed the historic White House conference were crowded with hustle and bustle. There was so little time, so much to be done, and so many problems to be solved. Early each morning he would gulp down his breakfast, leave a list of things for Josh to do, then rush off. Of the score of problems presented by Project Oceanaut, one of the most difficult was the route to be taken across the dark, trackless, and forbidding wastes of the Atlantic sea floor.

	In attempting to plot a route that would be the most direct and least difficult and dangerous, Doctor Sparke conferred repeatedly with oceanographers, geologists, members of the National Society of Sciences, and members of the National Inner Space Administration. He and they spent countless hours poring over photographs, maps, charts, and profiles of the sea floor. Route after route was tentatively decided upon, then for one reason or another rejected. Finally, after weeks of study and discussion and not a few heated arguments, they agreed upon a route.

	The oceanauts would begin their journey at a point off Chatham on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and finish off the coastal town of Sagres in southern Portugal. After descending to the bottom, they would walk east across the Continental Shelf, descend the Continental Slope, then traverse the vast Sohm Abyssal Plain until they arrived at the foothills of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. From there they would climb the foothills, ascend the western slope of the Ridge, then descend the eastern slope and the foothills. Finally, they would carry on across the Madeira Abyssal Plain, up the European Continental Slope, across the Continental Shelf, and on to their destination at Sagres.

	The route—roughly 3,900 miles—was not the shortest across the bottom of the Atlantic. But it did present the least obstacles and dangers. More important, it avoided the necessity of crossing the wider mountain regions of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. This would have taken months longer and forced cancellation of the journey altogether, for the bioengineers, in spite of the years of effort, had succeeded in storing only enough nuclear material to power the Homeostat for 360 units. Doctor Sparke calculated that if he and his companions averaged eleven miles per unit, they would reach Sagres with some power to spare, assuming of course that they met with no setbacks and all went according to schedule.

	The route laid out, Doctor Sparke and his Navy advisors set up a system of maintaining contact with the oceanauts at regular intervals during the entire journey. The system consisted of three especially constructed ships called tracking stations, each a weird-looking craft that resembled a combination freighter, barge, and floating laboratory. Crammed with all sorts of machinery, each tracking station was equipped with the most sophisticated electronic devices, including a two-way human voice-communication system, a bathyscaph, and three huge glass water tanks resembling king-size aquariums.

	Each tracking station would follow the prescribed route and communicate with the oceanauts at designated rendezvous points fifty miles apart. One, for example, would put out to sea, make contact at the first five rendezvous points-50, 100, 150, 200, and 250 miles from shore respectively—then return to base at Cape Cod. The second would make contact at the next five rendezvous points, the third at the next five, after which the first and second would take their regular turns. Steaming in a zigzag fashion from one rendezvous point to the next, they would remain as close as possible and follow the oceanauts all the way across the Atlantic. After the oceanauts had passed the midway point, the tracking stations, instead of returning to base at Cape Cod, would shuttle back and forth between rendezvous points and Sagres.

	The captains of the tracking stations would be briefed thoroughly and given specific orders, three of which were especially important: one, if the oceanauts should not arrive at a rendezvous point on schedule, they were to cruise around in the vicinity and wait; two, if an emergency should arise and the oceanauts were forced to rise from the bottom and request help, the bathyscaph on board ship was to be dropped immediately; three, the oceanauts, after being plucked from the water, were to be placed in the water tanks and rushed full speed to Cape Cod or Sagres, whichever was nearer.

	While Doctor Sparke and NISA were busy making preparations, Josh and forty-seven other volunteers were taking part in a crash program that kept them on the go from morning till night. They attended lectures given by the nation's leading oceanographers, ichthyologists, and geologists, cramming in as much knowledge as possible about the Atlantic Ocean—its shelves, slopes, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, its flora and fauna, currents, sediments, salinity, temperatures, pressures, and so on. They attended seminars conducted by the nation's outstanding oceanographers and Navy submariners, learning as much as possible from those who already had studied and explored the dangerous depths.

	Later all the candidates, including Doctor Sparke, took a series of comprehensive written examinations in oceanography, ichthyology, and geology which lasted one week and covered the sciences so thoroughly that almost all of the candidates were certain they had failed. Indeed, only eighteen passed. These included Josh, Doctor Sparke, six other oceanographers, six ichthyologists, and four geologists. From these eighteen, by means of a series of bio-oceanic tests, NISA was to pick the best three—the three finest specimens of manhood, the three healthiest and toughest physically, sharpest mentally, and steadiest emotionally.

	In the physical-condition tests, the candidates were given a G.I. series, after which their hearts, lungs, kidneys, and other vital organs were X-rayed and checked. Next their reflexes and five senses were tested. Finally, they were put through strenuous exercises, exercises comprehensive enough to reveal the slightest weakness or ailment and grueling enough to try the stamina and endurance of an Olympic athlete.

	Constantly supervised by doctors, the candidates performed the exercises under normal conditions, with and without injections of psychic energizers. Later, in sealed chambers, they performed the same exercises in varying levels of oxygen and nitrogen, again with and without injections of psychic energizers. The candidates also sprinted short distances and trotted long distances. They chinned, did pushups, jumped rope, lifted weights, did head- and handstands, and swung on parallel bars. To strengthen their fingers, hands, arm and leg muscles, they squeezed golf balls and grip machines, punched the heavy bag, climbed rope, and pulled the oars of a rowing machine. The two most important exercises, however, were squatting and pedaling a bicycle. Bending forward in the water was awkward and difficult, so they practiced squatting, down and up, down and up, again and again. Of all the exercises, the most important was pedaling a bicycle against a strong wind. While the wind simulated the resistance of the water, the pedaling movement simulated the method of walking found most effective on the sea floor. At first the candidates pedaled only for a few hours, then for longer and longer periods until they could keep it up for twenty-four hours at a stretch without collapsing from exhaustion.

	As a result of the physical examinations, three more candidates were eliminated. The remaining fifteen were then given oral and written examinations by a team of psychiatrists who looked for, among other things, certain special qualities: coolness under stress and danger; determination to see a thing through, regardless of obstacles; the ability to think quickly and make intelligent decisions on the spur of the moment; and, finally, the ability to grasp new ideas and adjust quickly to new situations.

	Three candidates failed to measure up to the requirements, and the remaining twelve underwent a final series of tests, grueling tests that lasted a month and were designed to measure their emotional stability—in other words, their ability to "stand the gaff" of living away from the world of people and in the harsh environment of inky darkness and icy cold. Those who scored the highest in these tests would take the short trial walk across the bottom of the ocean.

	First, each candidate, with electrodes taped to his chest, back, and arms to measure physical reactions, and four thin wires implanted under his shaved scalp to measure alertness and sleep patterns, was placed in a steel tube-shaped chamber about forty feet long and ten feet in diameter. The chamber was divided into a galley and bunkroom with two viewing portholes and was fully equipped with lights, air conditioning, intercom communication system, and closed-circuit television. Stocked with food, drinking water, books, playing cards, and other items the candidates might need, the chamber was connected by an umbilical cable to a Central Control ship on the surface directly above.

	All twelve men were placed in separate chambers and dropped to a depth of 5,000 feet at different points along the Atlantic coast. Above each chamber hovered a Central Control ship where a team of doctors and psychiatrists observed each candidate twenty-four hours a day through television equipped with infrared fight. During the first fifteen days the men lived a somewhat normal life, eating hot meals, sleeping regular hours, reading, listening to music over the intercom, watching television, playing solitaire, or talking to Central Control.

	Meanwhile, the doctors and psychiatrists topside kept a continual record of the candidate's pulse rate, heartbeat, respiration, and blood pressure. They also observed and recorded brainwave rhythms, conversations, activities, and emotional reactions. Did he feel trapped below? Did he miss his family and friends? Was he lonely, bored, irritable, or depressed? Did the fact that he never saw the sun or sky or people upset him? How about his appetite? His sleeping habits? His dreams?

	During the second fifteen days each candidate was put through the most nerve-racking ordeal of all. The fights were turned off, making the chamber so dark that one could almost feel the blackness weighing down on him. All sounds were silenced, making it so quiet that one could hear his heart thumping. In this tomb-like confinement each candidate no longer lived a normal life. Instead of eating hot meals, he swallowed pills; instead of sleeping regular hours, he remained awake eighteen hours and slept six; instead of sleeping on a soft bed, he slept on a hard steel floor.

	Once more the doctors and psychiatrists in Central Control observed and recorded the physical, mental, and emotional reactions. From the first day on, the candidates showed changes in pulse rate, heartbeat, respiration, or blood pressure. Nothing serious, however. After the second day the effects of the darkness and silence became more and more pronounced. Signs of loneliness, crankiness, and even anger cropped up.

	By the fifth day the darkness became unbearable for one candidate who screamed and demanded that the lights be turned on. Another imagined he saw hundreds of fights flickering on and off. On the eleventh day another candidate, unable to withstand the hour after hour of total silence, started talking to himself, then sang, shouted at the top of his voice and kicked violently against the chamber walls just to hear sounds. On the thirteenth day still another had hallucinations in which he saw cats and dogs floating about in the air. As for Doctor Sparke, during the test he was so absorbed in planning for the journey that time passed quickly. Easygoing Josh experienced no discomfort and was bothered neither by the darkness nor silence. As a matter of fact, he took advantage of both and slept much of the time.

	As a result of these exhaustive tests, four more candidates were eliminated. The remaining eight—following a short rest period—underwent surgery, had the Homeostats attached, were inserted into their suits, and prepared for the trial walk. On January 2, 1980, they were dropped into the Atlantic Ocean off the town of Chatham on Cape Cod, Massachusetts; and, after descending to the bottom, headed for Nantucket Island. Upon completing the short journey and being taken from the sea, they underwent the Reversal Process, were examined thoroughly, and sent home. Within a matter of weeks they would learn which three of them would take the journey, and which three would be named as standbys.

	All the tests completed, the mass of data was sent to Washington, D.C. to be evaluated.

	Late in the afternoon of June 12, Doctor Sparke returned to Silver Spring and burst into the house. "Joshua! Joshua!" he cried out, his voice filled with elation. "Come here ... quick, quick!"

	Josh, who had been relaxing on a beach chair on the back lawn, finishing off a quart of ice cream, jumped up and dashed inside. One look and he knew it was good news, for his father's eyes were sparkling and his hair was standing up on end.

	"NISA," Doctor Sparke blurted, "has made its selections ... Both you and I have been chosen to make the journey!"

	"Wonderful! Marvelous! I'm thrilled!" Josh exulted, rushing up to his father. Forgetting the ice cream in his hand, he embraced and hugged him. Then he stepped back and asked, "And the third man. Who is he? Do you know?"

	"Oh, yes, yes, and NISA could not have made a better choice. He's Wayne Markham, one of the nation's leading ichthyologists. He did extremely well in all the tests, except the one on tolerance to darkness. I know him. He's rather on the quiet side, but a fine fellow to work with and above all a brilliant scholar."

	Wayne Markham, the thirty-two-year-old ichthyologist professor from the University of Maine, was a man of medium height, slight of build but wiry, with brown hair and a faraway look in his deepset eyes. His sharply chiseled chin and nose and black tortoise-shell glasses gave him the appearance of a scholar, which he was. He lived with his wife and two children in Bar Harbor on the coast of Maine, where he was born.

	Coming from a family of scholars—his grandfather had been an oceanographer, his father an ichthyologist—Markham was fascinated by the sea and the life in it. "I find fishes much more interesting than animals," he once explained, "for they live in an entirely different world from ours—the world of water."

	The author of several volumes on fishes, Markham had two rare qualities that helped tremendously in his work: a photographic memory and an ability to sketch what he observed. Occasionally, upon spotting a rare species of fish or other form of sea life, he would scrutinize it, then say, "I'll make a mental note of it." And weeks and even months later he would recall it in detail and sketch an excellent likeness of it.

	A shy man, dedicated to his work, Markham seldom became excited or raised his voice, but on the day he was notified that he had been selected to make the journey, he could hardly control himself. The very thought of descending to the ocean floor and remaining there for almost a year and observing fishes in their natural habitat was just too good to be true ... an ichthyologist's dream.

	"The date?" Josh demanded. "The date when we start? Has it been set?"

	"Oh, yes," his father replied, "in all the excitement I forgot to tell you. Of course we will have to undergo further tests with the Homeostats attached and wearing the suits. These will last about ten days or two weeks, and if all goes well President Halloway and NISA will approve the Drop-Off date, which tentatively has been set for July 4. That day was purposely chosen because the President is eager to have all Americans watch the history-making event which will be broadcast via radio and television all over the world."

	"When do we leave for Cape Cod?"

	'That also hasn't been decided definitely. First, there are some loose ends to be taken care of in Washington. And, by the way, there are some things I want you to take care of. I'm leaving you in charge of closing up the house. I want you to get everything in order so we can leave on a day's notice."

	During the days that followed Josh was on the go from morning till night. And he found that closing up a house was no mean chore, especially this big one filled with furniture and things and boxes of correspondence, piles and piles of records and notes, hundreds of science books and periodicals, loads of jars and bottles filled with specimens, much laboratory equipment, and other paraphernalia that had accumulated over the years. With Marian's help, he packed and stored things in the cellar, attic, and closets. The rare specimens of stuffed fishes and most important of all the fish tanks, Josh himself brought over to an ichthyologist friend who promised to take good care of them. Of course there were dozens of other chores to be done, such as paying his father's long overdue bills, instructing the gardener to take care of the grounds, arranging for a caretaker to look into the house now and then, having the telephone disconnected, paying and dismissing Marian, and so on. Josh had just about finished when, on the morning of June 22, his father telephoned from Washington, D.C. "Everything in order? Good. We leave for Cape Cod early tomorrow morning."

	Josh was thrilled. "Wow! Wow!" he shouted. "At last, at long last!"

	During the hectic months of preparation, Josh seldom had a chance to see Louise, and when he did it was only for a short time. He had already told her that he and his father were going on a long journey-but that was all. He could not tell her when or where, but he did say they would depart on short notice. And so it happened.

	That night Josh met Louise, who immediately noticed that he was not his usual cheerful self. And she understood. As they walked hand-in-hand under the starry summer sky through streets lined with elms and birches, neither uttered a word. Finally Louise, sadness in her voice, asked, "You're leaving soon, aren't you?"

	"Yes, tomorrow morning."

	Louise, eyes moist, bit her hp and turned her head.

	On and on they ambled until they arrived at their favorite bench in the park overlooking a lake. Overhead the Milky Way sprayed a wide pale swath across the soft night sky, while below the crickets chirped and gentle breezes soughed in the trees. For a while Josh and Louise just sat, silently gazing at the rippling water and beyond at the low-lying hills silhouetted in the distance.

	"You still won't tell me where you're going," Louise said.

	Ill at ease, Josh stretched his legs out on the grass, gazed up at the stars, and shook his head. "It's not that I won't, Louise. I can't. Please try to understand."

	"Will you write?"

	At a loss for words, Josh did not answer. "Will you?" Louise persisted.

	Josh shifted about on the bench and replied in almost a whisper, "I'm sorry, no."

	Louise lowered her head, a tear trickling down her cheek.

	Deeply touched, Josh pleaded, "Louise, please, please don't ask why. In a couple of weeks you'll know and then you'll understand."

	Moments passed as neither spoke. Finally Louise broke the silence. "Will you think of me?"

	Josh took her hand, squeezed it gently, then kissed her on the cheek. "Yes, yes, of course I will. ... I'll think of you often."

	Holding hands, they sat side by side, each with his own thoughts and saying not a word. Shortly after midnight they started homeward, again by the longer route, but this time only to stretch out their last few minutes together. And when they arrived at the foot of the porch of Louise's home, they gazed into each other's eyes and kissed.

	"Goodbye," whispered Louise.

	"Goodbye," said Josh.

	Walking home alone, Josh found it hard to believe he would not see Louise for a whole year or more.

-

5 – Drop-Off

	At dawn the following morning a limousine, escorted by six motorcycle policemen, pulled into Doctor Sparke's driveway; and a few minutes later Doctor Sparke and Josh were speeding toward Dulles Airport on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. Upon their arrival they were joined by Chamberlain, Roggar, Doctor Avakian, Doctor Bernhardt, and the three stand-bys. All nine men boarded a Navy rocket-jet and, as soon as they had fastened their seat belts, the plane roared down the runway and zoomed into the sky. At Logan International Airport in Boston they picked up Markham, then boarded a helicopter that whisked them to Chatham. There, without delay, they were escorted to POS, short for Project Oceanaut Surgery, an especially constructed long one-story brick hospital secretly built at the edge of a secluded inlet. Its counterpart had been built on the outskirts of Sagres, Portugal.

	At the far end of POS and tied up to a wharf lay a weird-looking craft named Neptune, measuring two hundred feet from stem to stern, eighty feet in the beam, and every inch of her deck jampacked with bizarre equipment and machinery. Most bizarre of all, on deck stood three huge round glass tanks filled with sea water, one next to the other, each about forty feet high and twenty feet in diameter, and with a trap door at the bottom. Through each human "aquarium" circulated sea water thick with plankton, and rigged directly above was a television camera pointed downward. A frogman was assigned to each tank to assist the oceanauts when they arrived from the operating room. From all three tanks wires and communication tubes ran back to the Control Room at the stern, where Chamberlain, other members of NISA, and their aides were stationed.

	The tightest security was maintained around POS by barbed wire and Navy shore patrol under strict orders to admit no one but authorized personnel. To discourage fishermen and vacationers from snooping around, a large sign-CAPE COD EXPERIMENTAL STATION—was set up at the entrance of the dirt road leading to POS. One fisherman, riding by and reading the sign, jerked his thumb and sneered prophetically, "If them scientists learn any more about fishes, they'll turn into fishes."

	Early the next morning Josh, Doctor Sparke, and Markham, their bodies shaved and other pre-surgery preparations completed, were wheeled into Operating Rooms A, B, and C. Hours later, the operations completed, they were slipped into water-filled capsules, transported to the deck of the Neptune, and dropped into the tanks. Josh, in the middle tank, sank to the bottom like a half-dead fish, apparently lifeless. Within a matter of minutes, however, he came to little by little, slowly moving his body, then his arms and, finally, with the support of frogmen, getting up on wobbly legs. Glancing around, he saw Markham in the tank to one side of him and his father in the other nearer the Control Room. They too were supported by frogmen.

	Minutes later when all three oceanauts were strong enough to stand on their feet and start pedaling around the tanks, Chamberlain's voice came over the intercom. "Are you comfortable?"

	The three oceanauts nodded and continued pedaling briskly round and round.

	"Feel any discomfort at all?"

	"I feel fine, just fine," Doctor Sparke replied, matter-of-factly.

	"A little shaky in the legs," said Markham, "but that will pass, I'm sure."

	"I'm okay," said Josh.

	"Frogmen out," Chamberlain ordered.

	Kicking their flippered feet, the frogmen rose to the surface, climbed up and out of the tanks, and descended ladders to the deck, remaining nearby in case of an emergency.

	By now Josh's head had cleared entirely, and once more he was his curious self. The first thing he was aware of was that he had stopped breathing but had hardly noticed it; then for a while he experienced a slight heaviness in his chest, but that soon left him. His sense of smell was entirely gone, and his sense of taste, almost, except that he had a slight taste of fish, which was to be expected since the solution passing through his digestive system consisted mostly of sea water and plankton. Soon, however, he felt no unusual sensations other than the pressure of the water around him; and now he gazed around, smiling and accepting and even enjoying the fact that he no longer was a man, but a manfish ... an oceanaut.

	To check the functioning of the Homeostats and suits under various conditions, Chamberlain ran the oceanauts through a group of special movements. He ordered them to pedal around the tank several times, first slowly, then as fast as possible; to extend arms upward, forward, and sideward; to bend forward and backward; to make sudden and complete turns to the right and to the left; to squat several times; to kneel and he flat on the tank floor. The Homeostats functioned perfectly.

	"Gentlemen," Chamberlain said, "now please check your instruments with ours. Chronometer reading, 1024 hours; fathometer, 40 feet; manometer, 33 pounds pressure per square inch; thermometer, 66 degrees; lat-long compass reading, 41° 41' 7" North Latitude and 69° 55' 2" West Longitude."

	All instruments corresponded precisely.

	"Switch lasers on and off," Chamberlain ordered.

	The lights were in order.

	"Check boot levers 1, 2, and 3."

	The levers worked perfectly.

	"Open 'fingernail' grippers ... close grippers."

	The grippers were in order.

	"Remove dagstocks from sheaths ... open as alpenstocks ... close and replace in sheaths."

	Everything working perfectly, Chamberlain concluded, "Josh, please note that the flag has been sealed in your suit. We did that because your thighs are the longest."

	Josh looked down. So it was. The flag had been furled so tightly and sealed so well that he was not even aware of it. Turning his head from side to side, he saw the frogmen and a few members of the crew standing outside the tanks, watching every move he and his companions made. "Now," he chuckled into his microphone, "I know exactly how fishes in an aquarium feel."

	"Since everything checks," snapped Doctor Sparke, "what are we waiting for? Let's get on with it."

	Now came the most punishing ordeal of all, the test to find out how the suits and Homeostats functioned under the most adverse conditions—in turbulent water. The oceanauts were instructed to form their bodies into the shape of a ball with knees drawn close to the chin, head down and hands clasped around knees. Air at great pressure was then blown up through valves at the bottom of the tanks, agitating and churning the water. At first it churned slowly, then faster and faster until the tank looked like a huge cauldron of water boiling furiously with the "human balls" rising and falling, spinning and tumbling, somersaulting and whirling around the tank at a dizzy pace.

	The instant the air was turned off, the three oceanauts sank to the bottom like rocks, battered and dazed, but none the worse for their wild ride. Gasping, Josh groaned, "The next ... time I drop an egg into an egg beater, I'll extend my sympathy."

	The tests were repeated day after day until July 3, when Chamberlain, Roggar, Doctor Avakian, and Doctor Bernhardt compiled the results and came to a decision. Since all systems functioned perfectly, the oceanauts were ready to go. Drop-Off would take place as originally scheduled—July 4, at 12 noon.

	Upon hearing the decision, Doctor Sparke blurted, "Wonderful! Wonderful! At last the journey is about to begin."

	The next morning a blazing sun rose in an almost cloudless sky as a gentle breeze rolled across an ocean swell that gave the appearance of an immense green carpet slowly rising and falling, rising and falling. Screeching seagulls glided over the Navy tugboat that strained at the dripping cable towing the Neptune several miles out to the spot selected for Drop-Off. Aft in the Control Room all was quiet and strictly business as Chamberlain and his aides kept a sharp watch on the instrument panels.

	Josh was thinking that soon he and his companions would leave the air world. And somehow now that world seemed more wonderful than ever as he realized that for almost a year he would no longer feel the soothing warmth of the sun, smell the tang of salt air, hear human voices, music, and other man-made sounds, and enjoy the comfort and hospitality of home. Not for a year would he again relish the taste of steak, lobster, or ice cream. No longer would he enjoy the companionship of people other than his father and Markham. Soon he would be living in an alien and hostile environment, the water world, a world inhabited by fishes and plankton and thousands of other forms of sea life, a harsh, cold, and black world floored with enormous shelves, slopes, canyons, and mountains, all carpeted with sand, ooze, silt, gravel, shells, and rocks over which mighty currents flow endlessly.

	Josh was jarred out of his musing as his father pointed toward the horizon and said, "Look! Look! Take a look out there."

	Josh peered ahead. Out on the horizon he spotted a flotilla of water craft of all sizes; steamboats, schooners, yachts, launches, sailboats, and even tugboats, all perilously close to one another and converging toward the Drop-Off spot, a restricted area marked off by buoys connected with ropes. Inside the area maneuvered two Coast Guard vessels, one with its deck crowded with senators, representatives, scientists, and other VIFs who had been invited to witness the historic event.

	The other vessel was as busy as a traffic cop at a city street intersection as it tried to keep the unofficial boats at a safe distance from the ropes and create order out of chaos. But it seemed to be waging a losing battle. Boats swarmed in from all directions, bumping, reversing, honking horns as captains shouted orders and desperately tried to squeeze in close to the Drop-Off area without colliding with other boats. The deck of each boat was crammed with reporters assigned to cover the story for newspapers, magazines, radio and television stations. Every reporter was not only eager to witness the Drop-Off but also determined to be the first to tell the world about it.

	"Well," Josh said, looking around, "now at last the world knows about Project Oceanaut."

	"Yes indeed, yes indeed," Doctor Sparke said, "two days ago NISA notified all the mass media. It sent out releases with the background story of Project Oceanaut, its aims, route, and hitherto classified information on the suits and Homeostats. It also included profiles of each of us and mentioned the time and place of Drop-Off."

	"I can just imagine," Markham said, "the look of surprise on the faces of those newsmen when they first saw us in these suits and standing in these tanks filled with water and as much at home as fishes in an aquarium."

	Watching the boats shoving closer and closer, the oceanauts now could make out reporters on deck leaning over railings and furiously scribbling notes, photographers standing on toes and focusing cameras, television cameramen moving about to get better angle shots, commentators speaking into microphones. Directly overhead they saw two helicopters, both manned by television cameramen busily shooting the unusual scene below.

	Josh thought of the millions of Americans and other peoples around the world listening on radio and watching television at home, on the streets, in cars, on the beaches, at mountain resorts, and elsewhere. He was sure that a certain high school teacher in Silver Spring was glued to her set. And now she would know. He was also sure that soon oceanographers and other scientists would be interviewed on radio and television, explaining in detail the aims, route, and other aspects of the journey. He wondered if the American people were as thrilled and proud as on the day they had witnessed the blast-off to the moon.

	At 11:45 hours Chamberlain and his aides carefully checked the instruments on the control panels, among other things, making certain that the solution running through the Homeostats matched the ocean water at this point in temperature, pressure, and density of plankton. Finally, they ordered the oceanauts to make one last check of their instruments and equipment.

	"Everything in order?" Chamberlain asked.

	"All okay here," answered Josh, glancing down to make sure he was standing directly over the trap door.

	"All in order," said Markham.

	"Ready, ready," said Doctor Sparke, impatient and eager. His face grim, Chamberlain turned to an aide. "Push Button 1."

	Seconds later, three pairs of grooved steel girders slowly emerged from the Neptune's starboard side, jutting out over the water like huge table forks.

	"Button 2."

	The three water tanks bearing the oceanauts slowly slid over the girders, farther and farther out all the way to the end, there remaining poised only a few feet above the surface.

	Strangely, whereas a few minutes ago the area seethed with boats that bumped and bucked to the cacophony of helicopters roaring, horns honking, captains shouting, and seagulls screeching, it suddenly simmered down to a state of little movement and comparative quiet. Now the boats seemed to have found their niches and no longer tooted and rammed into one another; the helicopters seemed to give forth a muffled roar; reporters spoke in hushed tones or not at all; cameramen and photographers stood motionless on deck and waited. Even the seagulls, though continuing to glide round and round, ceased their complaining. For a moment the Neptune itself, with its three tanks still jutting grotesquely out above the sea, rose and fell gently to a rhythm with the swell. The scene now appeared to be a tableau in which everything and everybody in it, gripped by the drama of the unfolding event, remained as quiet and motionless as possible.

	In the Neptune's Control Room the air was now charged with tension and suspense as Chamberlain and his aides pushed buttons, turned on switches, and kept an anxious eye on the different colored lights that flickered on and off as computers clicked and clacked in the stillness. At 11:15 hours Chamberlain spoke. "Gentlemen, in a few minutes you will start off on your journey. Let me make it clear, quite clear, that if at any time or for any reason you need help, you are to contact the nearest tracking station and, if advisable or necessary, return to the surface immediately. Take no unnecessary risks. This is man's first venture, and if we fail we will try again." He paused, then added, "One last word. Roggar, Doctor Avakian, Doctor Bernhardt, and I wish you Godspeed."

	At 11:57 hours he spoke again, this time over the public address system so that not only the oceanauts but also all those around the Drop-Off area could hear. "Oceanauts, the President of the United States sends you the following message: Doctor Sparke, Joshua Sparke, and Wayne Markham, in the name of 250,000,000 Americans I salute you and wish you Godspeed.' "

	Chamberlain paused, then announced, "Zero minus one minute."

	Josh, his heart thumping so hard he was sure it could be heard over the intercom, nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

	"Ready, Doctor Sparke?" asked Chamberlain.

	"Yes, yes, of course."

	"Ready, Markham?"

	"Ready," Markham replied, glancing down at the trapdoor.

	"Ready, Joshua?" "Yes, sir."

	"Twenty seconds ... ten seconds ... nine ... eight."

	Josh threw a quick glance at his father and Mark-ham and waved. "Seven ... six ... five."

	His voice growing more and more tense, Chamberlain reached for the trapdoor switch. "Four." "Three." "Two." "One." "Drop-off."

	The trapdoors opened and, to the rousing cheers of thousands of onlookers, the three oceanauts, bodies stiff and arms held close to sides, quietly and with barely a splash plunged into the sea and out of sight.

-

6 – Down to the Bottom

	Precisely at 1200 hours on July 4,1980, the oceanauts plunged into the water, thus beginning their journey across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on foot. About twenty feet apart and with arms still close to sides and bodies stiff, they descended slowly, foot by foot. Now they were no longer creatures of the air world; they were as much a part of this water world as the fishes swimming about. And, barring unforeseen developments, they would remain so for 360 units.

	The instant they pierced the surface, Markham lost no time peering in all directions. Of course he was quite familiar with the many fishes he saw; indeed, he had written the authoritative book Fishes Of the New England Coast. Nonetheless, he still enjoyed observing them, classifying them, and noting their color and behavior. Josh never stopped turning his head this way and that, gazing through the water transformed by the bright penetrating rays of the sun into a rainbow of colors. Above he saw the hulls of scores of boats slicing through the surface and leaving wakes of foam behind as they raced pell-mell toward shore, bearing the newsmen who were in a hurry to tell the story to the world. Above he also saw the yellow hulls of the Neptune and the Navy tug, bobbing up and down, both under orders to remain in the area until the oceanauts touched bottom and were on their way.

	From the moment the descent began, Doctor Sparke was busy, glancing at his instruments and checking on his fellow oceanauts. At the depth of twenty-five feet he communicated for the first time with Chamberlain on board the Neptune. Increasing the volume on his aquaphone, he said, "Calling Control, calling Control. This is Project Oceanaut. Do you read me? Over?"

	"Come in," Chamberlain replied. "We read you loud and clear. Over."

	"We are descending at a speed of one foot every two seconds. Depth, 25 feet; water temperature, 66 degrees; pressure, 30 pounds per square inch or psi; visibility, 125 feet. We are in excellent condition. Homeostats and other equipment functioning perfectly. Will communicate with you again on touching bottom."

	"Message received," replied Chamberlain. "Will stand by."

	"Thank you," said Doctor Sparke, decreasing the volume.

	Josh continued to gaze upward and was entranced by the surface, which now was the "ceiling" of his water world. In one direction it resembled a vast gray dome that rose and fell like a billowing sail; in another, an immense mercury mirror, cracked here and there by ripples of foam; in another, an exquisite Oriental rug speckled with gold and silver and gems; and in still another, a huge sheet of cellophane, crinkled and tinged with delicate pinks and yellows.

	In deeper water, the oceanauts found themselves amid dazzling colors that alternately glowed and faded, glowed and faded. Still deeper the shades of red vanished, only to be replaced by vivid oranges and yellows, while to either side the water took on a delicate green and, farther beyond, a light blue that grew fainter and fainter and gradually faded to a pale gray.

	Admiring the gorgeous colors enveloping him and his companions, Doctor Sparke gasped, "Magnificent, simply magnificent."

	"Breathtaking," said Markham.

	At a loss for words, Josh recalled the day he had visited a Roman cathedral noted for its stained-glass windows. The scene here was just as beautiful and in a way identical. The dust particles that danced in the sunbeams streaming through the cathedral windows had their counterparts here in the microscopic plankton that drifted amid the carnival of colors.

	Although Markham also admired the beauty of the water, he was far more fascinated by the sea fife that abounded on all sides. This was the paradise he had dreamed of. Totally absorbed, he watched tufts of seaweed slowly rise to the surface, schools of sea robins and olive-green cunners swimming feverishly about; shrimps drifting in clouds, pinching their claws and making sounds similar to frying eggs. He observed swarms of jellyfish, their umbrellas throbbing rhythmically and orange tentacles hanging down and probing the water in search of prey to sting and paralyze; and hosts of sea horses with monkey-like tails, moving their dorsal fins like screw propellers.

	"Very interesting" Josh remarked, "here we are, three large and totally strange creatures from another world descending among all these fishes, and they don't seem the least bit afraid. In fact, they seem to be as curious about us as we are about them."

	"Very likely," said Doctor Sparke, "they're wondering who we are, where we came from, and what we're doing down here." Glancing at his fathometer, he added, "Depth, 60 feet."

	Just then a school of steel blue mackerel passed by, very businesslike, not swerving to either side, not so much as acknowledging the oceanauts' presence as they hurried toward their destination as if to keep an urgent appointment. A moment later hundreds of greenish herring, each about a foot long, swam close by in unison like well-trained soldiers, row upon row in almost perfect military formation, twisting, diving this way and that; but in their own mysterious way never bumping into one another and remaining in rank.

	Curious, Josh jabbed his arm straight out and knocked a few out of formation, but within seconds they were right back in rank. "Amazing," he said. "They stay in rank like West Point cadets. Wayne, how do they do it?"

	"We are not quite sure," Markham replied, "perhaps by the sounds or vibrations caused by the fish ahead."

	"In any event," Doctor Sparke said, staring straight down as they continued to descend, "very likely they won't remain in rank long. Soon they'll swim into some fisherman's net and end up on dinner plates in Boston, Philadelphia, or New York."

	"Or even in Silver Spring," chuckled Josh.

	At eighty feet the yellows and oranges gave way to pale greens as millions of tiny plankton drifted in the water, appearing like snow "falling" upward. Amid the "snow" hundreds of inky black menhaden swam straight at the oceanauts as if to engulf them, then ' suddenly veered off in another direction. A moment later a swarm of glass prawns, kicking wildly and resembling bees in a frenzy, actually engulfed the oceanauts as if to escort them down to the bottom. As many of them bumped into Josh's faceplate, he enjoyed watching them open and close their gills, sucking in water and expelling it to obtain oxygen.

	"Josh, Wayne," Doctor Sparke called out, "it's time to check our instruments. Ready?"

	Josh and Wayne bent their arms and watched their instruments as Doctor Sparke called out. "Time, 1204 hours; depth, 115 feet; temperature, 64 degrees; pressure, 65 pounds psi; 41° 40' 7" North Latitude and 69° 5W 2" West Longitude."

	"Everything checks with me," said Josh.

	"With me too," said Wayne.

	Arms held close to sides again, they continued dropping down, down, down. All was going along smoothly and according to plan until they found themselves descending slower and slower, one foot every three seconds ... one foot every four seconds ... then they came to a dead stop—as if they had touched bottom. But under their boots there was nothing but water. And soon they rose up and down, bouncing like rubber balls. Josh laughed, "I haven't had so much fun since I did tricks on the trampoline."

	Doctor Sparke walked several steps in one direction, then another, but still did not sink.

	Enjoying the experience, Josh said, "Moses had nothing on us. He crossed the Red Sea only after it divided and opened a path. But we're walking on the water."

	Checking his fathometer, Doctor Sparke shook his head from side to side. "Hang it all! Just what I feared. We've reached the thermocline."

	Doctor Sparke, impatience in his voice, again spoke into the aquaphone. "Project Oceanaut calling Control. Over."

	"Come in, Project Oceanaut. Over."

	"Descent halted. Have reached the thermocline at 130 feet. Will remain here only as long as necessary."

	"Thank you," replied Chamberlain. "It's what we expected. Let us know as soon as the descent is continued."

	"Will do," Doctor Sparke replied. "Over and out."

	The ocean is not one solid mass of water of the same temperature, density, and salinity. Like an enormous layer cake, it consists of several layers, one above the other with each sealed off from the other by an invisible boundary. The boundary between the top layer and the colder, denser, and saltier layer beneath is found at depths ranging from one hundred to eight hundred feet. This boundary is called the thermocline. Oceanographers who explore in bathyscaphs and commanders of submarines are quite familiar with it. They often sink to a certain depth, suddenly come to a stop, then bounce up and down like steel balls on a sheet of rubber. Not until they trim ballast and give their craft time to cool off a few degrees do they pierce the thermocline and continue the descent.

	As the oceanauts waited, they observed that at this depth the tints of yellow in the water had given way to delicate blues and greens; and now scores of jellyfish swarmed above, under and on all sides, making the water almost opaque. Josh tried to shoo them away, but the transparent creatures stubbornly remained long enough to satisfy their curiosity, then drifted on their way. A moment later a school of blue-fish, ranging in size from two to four feet long, swam by in a big hurry. Watching them, Markham commented, "They're probably on the trail of those mackerel and menhaden we saw a short while ago. Blue-fish are some of the blood-thirstiest creatures in the sea."

	As he spoke, a bluefish caught sight of a mackerel. Like a streak of lightning, it zipped through the water, gobbled up its victim, and swam on to hunt for more prey. Eyes opened wide, Josh said, "Wow! What speed! That bluefish moved so fast I could hardly follow it."

	From time to time Doctor Sparke glanced at his companions, observing their behavior. And he saw what he expected to see. Markham, living his dream of observing fishes in their natural habitat, gazed here, there and everywhere, totally absorbed. Josh, excited and filled with his curiosity and wonder, gaped above at the boats, to the sides at the changing colors of the water and the fishes cavorting about.

	Doctor Sparke was pleased with what he saw; he could not, he thought, have picked more satisfactory companions. But in the inner recesses of his mind there lurked a shadow of a doubt. To himself and Markham, this journey was a dangerous one whose primary purpose was to increase man's knowledge of the oceans. But to Josh, it was primarily a journey filled with the great promise of adventure in exploring the unexplored. Doctor Sparke was confident that his son was sufficiently disciplined not to deliberately do anything rash that might jeopardize the success of the journey. But what troubled him was that during the long journey that lay ahead, there might be times when Josh's insatiable curiosity and craving for excitement might overcome his better judgment. Would his son be able to keep himself in check? He thought so; he hoped so.

	Growing impatient, Josh asked, "Isn't it about time we started to sink again?"

	No less eager, Doctor Sparke replied, "It shouldn't be long. I think ..."

	At that instant the oceanauts felt themselves sinking again, faster and faster until once more they were descending at a normal speed. "Arms close to sides and bodies stiff," Doctor Sparke ordered, glancing at his thermometer. "Just as I expected. The water temperature at this depth is 58 degrees, six degrees colder." Then he contacted topside. "Calling Control. Do you read me? Over."

	"This is Control. Come in."

	"Have penetrated thermocline. Descending once more. Over."

	Tine. We were afraid you might be delayed longer. Let us know when you touch bottom. Over and out."

	"Will do. Over and out."

	At 145 feet scores of gray codfish, each about three feet long, swam overhead with not so much as a glance at the oceanauts. Markham watched them as they glided through the water with ease and grace. "There's a fish that lays a tremendous number of eggs," he said, "and it's a good thing they don't all hatch and grow to maturity."

	"What do you mean?" asked Josh.

	"Each codfish lays as many as 9,000,000 eggs annually; and if all their eggs hatched and grew to maturity, the Atlantic Ocean would be one solid mass of codfish."

	Deeper and deeper, foot by foot, the oceanauts sank in water which, at this depth, gradually changed from green to a pale blue. And, minutes later, when they looked down they saw an expanse of gray gravel —the sea floor.

	"Look," said Josh excitedly, his eyes dancing behind his faceplate, "I see bottom. It seems to be rising toward us."

	"I see it too," said Markham, smiling.

	"Yes, so it is," said Doctor Sparke. "We are about to touch bottom, and it's about time."

	Now as all three oceanauts gazed down at the sea floor, they saw patches of seaweed and eelgrass waving to and fro in the current. They saw animal life, some still, some moving, oysters, clams, lobsters, sea anemones, hydroids, sea urchins, and scores of herring, mackerel, and haddock. They also saw signs of man scattered about: beer cans, tires, a fishing rod and reel, a piece of fishing net, newspapers, and magazines.

	The instant their boots touched bottom, the three oceanauts—hands no longer close to sides and bodies relaxed—stared at one another for a moment, beaming.

	"At last," sighed Josh, "we're here." Then feigning a boast, he added, "Who can tell? Some day they may place a marker on this very spot to indicate where the first journey across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean started from. And on that marker will be engraved the names of none other than Doctor Homer Sparke, Wayne Markham, and Joshua Sparke."

	Markham said nothing. He was watching a sea anemone near the toe of his right boot waving its purple tentacles and trying to lure a small snail to its death.

	Josh's remark did not go unheeded by his father, however. Straddling a clump of seaweed, he said acidly, "Son, before you make any predictions, I suggest you wait until we make the crossing first. That, as you know, will be no mean task."

	Then he adjusted his aquaphone and once more communicated with topside. "Calling Control. Calling Control. Over."

	"Come in, Project Oceanaut," Chamberlain said. "Come in. Over."

	"Have reached the bottom."

	"Well done and congratulations!" Chamberlain said, his voice filled with pride.

	"Depth, 185 feet; temperature, 54 degrees; pressure, 100 psi; visibility, approximately 100 yards."

	"Thank you."

	"We are about to start our journey. Barring delays, we will not contact topside again until we arrive at the first rendezvous point. That is all. Farewell. Over and out."

	"Tracking Station 1 will be waiting for you at that point. Once more we wish you the best of luck and a successful journey. Godspeed."

-

7 – The Journey Begins

	Before taking the first step, Doctor Sparke faced his companions and said in deep earnestness, "Josh, Wayne, before we set out, a few words. This is the first leg of our journey. It will take us across the Continental Shelf to the Continental Slope, roughly a distance of about three hundred miles." Pausing to shake off a big lobster that was biting the toe of his boot, he went on. "Let me remind you—no, warn you—that this is Unit 1, and we have only enough fuel to last 360 units. I don't have to tell you that the success of the journey depends on getting to Sagres within that time. Therefore, I cannot emphasize too strongly that we must not waste any of our fuel supply. Now and then I will permit stops—infrequent stops of short duration —to make necessary observations. But no other. Of course there will be unavoidable delays caused by the terrain, dangerous fishes, and even accidents. In such cases we will do all we can to make up for lost time."

	Then, staring straight at his son, he concluded, "And let me make one thing clear, quite clear: that under no circumstances will I tolerate any unnecessary delays. Is that understood?"

	Josh and Markham nodded.

	"Come, then, let us be on our way."

	Raising and lowering their legs in the well-practiced pedaling motion, the oceanauts started out in single file with Doctor Sparke in the lead, Markham a few feet behind, and Josh taking up the rear. They pushed ahead through pale blue water, walking across the gravel bottom patched with growths of seaweed and eelgrass and alive with fishes and other animal life. On they pressed over level stretches, up and down mounds and slopes, around the rims of deep hollows and through gullies. Not a word was spoken as Doctor Sparke, setting a fast pace, now gazed straight ahead, now checked his compass, now glanced behind to make certain his companions were not lagging. But he need not have been concerned. Josh and Markham, thrilled to be on the way, were no less eager to make headway.

	Josh, as curious as ever, kept turning his head this way and that, and, although he was no stranger to the sea floor, he was struck by the ruggedness of the terrain here. "Very interesting," he commented as he brushed off a few shrimp clinging to his fingers, "how many people think the sea floor is like a desert, vast stretches of rolling sand. Yet, except for the lack of trees and bushes, the 'seafloorscape'—if I may call it that—is as irregular as the landscape."

	"A sound observation, son," said Doctor Sparke, "a very sound observation. And the reason the sea floor here is irregular is because it is part of the Continental Shelf, an extension of the land we just left. In other words, we are still on the North American continent, but the part under water."

	"True," interjected Markham quickly, "but although this so-called seafloorscape is part of the land we just left, the plant and animal life are quite different and to me much more fascinating. Added to that, they are much more prolific. Whereas the number of species of animals on land number no more than 20,000, those living in the sea number more than 40,000."

	Josh smiled. "Leave it to Wayne to think about fishes."

	Walking through water that now gradually changed to a darker blue, the oceanauts descended a smooth stretch for several hundred yards until Doctor Sparke checked his compass and swung east-northeast. From there they traversed a vast oyster bed that led to a ravine carving a zigzag path across the sea floor. One by one the oceanauts glided to the bottom and followed the ravine's meanderings to a series of sloping terraces dotted with odd-shaped rocks jutting up like so many tombstones in a cemetery. For miles the oceanauts threaded their way through the "cemetery," steering clear of pits, sidestepping thick clusters of hydroids and sea anemones, gliding down steps, and forging their way through dense growths of seaweed that slowed their progress. Doctor Sparke's feet often got caught in the long entangling fronds and, each time he jerked a foot free, he fumed, "Blasted seaweeds! They cling to your feet like leeches!"

	At this slow pace the oceanauts were able to observe the teeming animal life on all sides, animal life wriggling, sliding, crawling, darting, scurrying in the never-ending struggle for survival. Predators hunting prey, prey fleeing predators. Gray sea bass gracefully and effortlessly swam through the water, snapping up squid and small fishes; voracious bluefish prowled about, hunting for herring and other fishes unfortunate enough to cross their path; codfish hovered over the bottom, their snouts pointed down to gobble up crabs, lobsters, and other crustaceans; gray haddock also scoured the bottom, devouring starfish, crabs, and worms; a school of brown-green pollock zigzagged this way and that, snatching any shrimp within reach; one big blue tuna darted from side to side, pursuing herring and mackerel.

	Pulling off a small squid that had wrapped itself around his arm, Markham said, "Down here, as on land, it's the law of the jungle, and the fight for survival never ceases. Indeed, it's even fiercer. Of the infinite number of eggs laid by all fishes, only one in 10,000,000 survives and grows to full size."

	"Yes, yes, of course," Doctor Sparke said, "and it's quite understandable. In the vastnesses of the sea, most fishes pursued by predators have no place to hide, so all they can do is swim like mad and hope to avoid being swallowed up."

	On the sea floor also the struggle for survival was as constant and fierce. Purplish sea cucumbers crept across the bottom, slowly waving their tentacles and gulping down mud from which they extracted tiny organisms; sea slugs slid gracefully over rocks, searching for algae and sea anemones; lobsters lumbered awkwardly, clawing the bottom for crustaceans; clams and oysters held their shells open, waiting for fish eggs and algae spore to drift in; orange sea anemones looked as innocent and timid as chrysanthemums and waved tinted tentacles, hoping to lure small fishes to their death; sea urchins crawled about, waving spiny needles from side to side in hopes of finding snails among the weeds; crabs darted sideways like toe dancers from frond to frond, searching for clams and oysters to pounce upon, pry open, and devour; octopuses with baleful eyes tiptoed from place to place, hunting for crabs.

	With a steady unremitting gait, Doctor Sparke led the way for hour after hour, always descending to greater depths, always remaining on course. As the sun set in the air world above, the sea continued to grow darker and darker until it became a blue-black, much too dark to see through with the naked eye.

	"Lights on," Doctor Sparke ordered, switching on his laser.

	Josh and Markham followed instructions and now from each helmet poured a cone of fight, beginning at the forehead as a small point, expanding larger and larger and penetrating the water to a distance of 1,000 yards. In the cones of light again could be seen tufts of seaweed slowly rising to the surface and scores of fishes, some asleep and hanging as if suspended in the water, some casually swimming about, others thrown into a frenzy by the sudden glare. Still advancing at a steady pace and trying to cover as much distance as possible, the oceanauts—in spite of the seaweed and eelgrass and soft sand and mud—managed to stay on schedule. At a depth of 245 feet their chronometers buzzed for the first time: 2200 hours. Time to stop and sleep.

	"Well," chuckled Josh, placing his hands on his hips and slowly casting his laser cone through the black water. "We made it this far."

	"Yes, we did," said Markham, "and it was every bit as exciting as I expected it to be. I can hardly wait to go on."

	"Three hundred and sixty units more of this," said Josh, "won't be too much for me."

	Doctor Sparke looked at his companions and shook his head. "I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm, but let me remind you that this is only the first unit, and it's far from typical of what's ahead of us. Moreover, descending this Shelf is the easiest part of the journey." He checked his compass, then went on. "In half a unit we traveled a little over eight miles. That's good—in fact, excellent. Of course, we won't be able to travel at that same speed all the way, but we'll do what we can. Now it's time to rest, and we do need rest. We've been on the go ever since dawn."

	"Indeed, we have," commented Markham, yawning, "I'm more than a little tired."

	The oceanauts scouted around, looking for a place to lie down and sleep. Finally, they found a small area almost clear of moving creatures and topped with countless shells worn smooth by undersea currents.

	Kicking aside several crabs, Doctor Sparke said, "This should do."

	The three oceanauts squatted, then lay down and stretched out, each eager to rest his weary body.

	Since this was their first sleep at the bottom of the ocean, Doctor Sparke allowed himself and his companions the luxury of keeping their lights on for several minutes to observe the water above. Eyes wide open and gazing upward, the three oceanauts lay side by side, each with his own thoughts.

	Doctor Sparke was content. So far everything had gone perfectly. The Drop-Off had been successful; the suits, instruments, and Homeostats were functioning well, and Unit 1 could not have gone off more smoothly. He and his companions were in fine condition physically and in high spirits. He hoped Unit 1 was an omen of what lay ahead. But Doctor Sparke was too much of a scientist and too much of a realist to expect the entire journey to go along smoothly, without incident. He knew too well the cruel and murderous depths of the abyss. He was confident, however, that he and his companions were equipped mentally, physically, and emotionally to cope with any eventuality.

	Hands clasped under his head, Markham gazed from side to side, thinking of his wife and children and wishing they could only know how comfortable and safe he was at this moment. Then he watched the fishes in his cone of light and thrilled at the thought that at long last his lifetime ambition was being realized. He could hardly believe that for almost a year he could travel among, five among, and observe in their natural habitat the creatures of the sea he had studied for so many years. He would no doubt see a few rare species; and if he were lucky, he might even come across a few species yet unknown to ichthyology.

	As for Josh, he had never been so content in his entire life. During the long arduous months of studying and training, he had been looking forward to all this with burning anticipation; and now here he was down at the bottom of the sea resting as comfortably and naturally as any fish. It was too good to be true. Yet it was true. Suddenly, a feeling of exhilaration surged through him and a smile crossed his face as he thought of exploring the never-before-penetrated depths of the Atlantic Ocean. And in this mood even the thought of sleeping on the hard sea floor for almost a year did not disturb him. Indeed, it had its advantages. Not for a year would he have to undress, get into pajamas, put on bedroom slippers, brush his teeth, wash up, and climb into bed. Time to sleep? Simply pick a spot and stretch out. Yes, sir, all was well, very well, in this water world.

	At that moment several fishes drifted by a few feet above the oceanauts' heads. "Look at them," Josh said, turning to Markham. "Don't they ever sleep?"

	Markham smiled. "Yes, they do sleep. Unfortunately, however, we know little about the sleeping habits of fishes. They have no eyelids, you see, and when they do rest or sleep, they do it with their eyes open. Some nocturnal fishes seem to get along without any sleep, while others do rest at night. There is much research yet to be done on the subject and..."

	"That's enough chattering," interrupted Doctor Sparke, who at the moment was mulling over plans for the next unit. "Oceanauts do sleep, so sleep."

	With the blanket of black water above them, Doctor Sparke and Markham soon fell into a deep slumber. Josh, however, still feeling exhilarated, lay awake staring up into the blackness and thinking: In the air world above, it was a little after ten o'clock. Stars might be out, or perhaps it was cloudy. Fishing boats might be plowing over the surface. High in the sky a rocket jet might be winging its way to Europe. But down here in the water world, not even a hundred yards down, all was inky black and motionless and silent. To Josh, it seemed that the earth itself had ceased spinning on its axis and revolving around the sun. What an eerie sensation!

-

8 – On Their Way

	At 0400 hours of Unit 2 the chronometers buzzed and, for the first time in their lives as oceanauts, they awoke from a sleep at the bottom of the sea. Upon opening their eyes, they again saw nothing but blackness, an inky blackness enveloping them on all sides. As in a trance, Doctor Sparke and Josh stared upward, from side to side, blinked once, twice, and a third time, then shook their heads as if to make certain it was all real. Markham closed his eyes, opened them again, and shuddered. "This awful darkness ..." he mumbled.

	"Lasers on," ordered Doctor Sparke, sitting up.

	His companions switched on their lights, and now all three sat up and gazed around. Their first glimpse of the water world with its plants and animals, its wild and rugged floor, and its weird primeval appearance startled them—and for a moment no one uttered a word. Finally, Doctor Sparke shook his head and said, "Just think, it has been like this for thousands and thousands of years."

	"Yes," nodded Markham, "so it has, including the perpetual struggle to eat and avoid being eaten."

	Josh chuckled. "You may not know it, but just now we too are a part of that perpetual struggle."

	And so they were. A few frightened crabs snuggled under Doctor Sparke's knees, seeking refuge from a codfish that lurked nearby; a lobster calmly sat on Markham's boot munching a prawn held between its claws; while two porgies busily pecked away at several worms wriggling across Josh's faceplate. Watching the goings on before his very eyes, Josh laughed, "Well, porgies, after you enjoy a hearty breakfast, let me say, 'A jolly good morning to you.'"

	Getting to his feet, Doctor Sparke said, "On this second unit on the sea floor, let me say good morning to you, son, and to you too, Wayne." Checking his compass, he added, "And now that we have taken care of the amenities, let's be off."

	Josh, once more in the rear and stepping with the pedaling motion, could not help but think that for an oceanaut it was as easy to arise as it was to go to sleep. The chronometer buzzes, he wakes up, and off he goes about his business. No shower, no brushing of teeth, no shaving, no dressing. As simple as all that. In addition, he sleeps only six hours, eats nothing but plankton, yet feels as peppy and vigorous as if he had eaten a breakfast of pancakes, ham and eggs, cereal, coffee, and toast. Remarkable! Simply remarkable! Science really had succeeded in modifying man. Science had succeeded in transforming man into a "manfish."

	At 0830 hours they reached a depth of 315 feet where the water was an electric blue, light enough to see through with the naked eye. "Must be a bright sun shining above," Doctor Sparke commented. "There's no sense in wasting fuel. Lasers out."

	Staying as close to the predetermined route as possible, Doctor Sparke continued to lead the way down the rugged Continental Shelf, which from place to place was topped with sand, gravel, or seaweed. The going was seldom smooth and easy. As he pedaled along at a steady pace, Josh commented, "One thing about the Shelf here, it's anything but monotonous."

	"Not monotonous at all," said Markham, unable to decide what to observe next. "I wouldn't have missed this journey for anything. But I do wish we could stop now and then, even for a minute or two to make a few studies."

	Ignoring Markham's hint, Doctor Sparke said, "Josh, you're right, but the Continental Shelf, besides being rugged, is one of the most important regions of the ocean floor; and to science it is a great source of information about the origin of the earth and the seas."

	The Continental Shelf stretches all the way from the Atlantic coast of the United States to the Continental Slope. Parts of the Shelf are as smooth as the New Jersey flatlands, but much of it is as rugged as the New England hills. Oceanographers believe that thousands of years ago the Shelf, like other continental lands, was exposed to the atmosphere; and during the Ice Age enormous glaciers slowly crunched their way over it and eventually out to sea, carving deep gashes in the earth and leaving in their wake hills and mounds and gullies and valleys and countless boulders.

	All the world's continents are fringed with shelves that range in width from a few hundred feet to eight hundred miles with a combined area of about 10,000,000 square miles—almost equal to the area of Africa. Some are as smooth as a desert, others as steep as mountains, but all are extremely rich in natural resources capable of providing man with nearly inexhaustible quantities of food, minerals, fresh water, and other necessities of twentieth century living.

	Today the Grand Bank off Newfoundland and the Dogger Bank off England, both parts of shelves, supply much of the fish eaten by man. Some day, thanks to the yet-to-be-developed industry called "aquaculture," man will fertilize and cultivate the oceans as he does the lands. "Ranchers" will raise and undersea "cowboys" will round up as much as 500 billion tons of fish a year. Today man already is "mining" the shelves in many parts of the world and deriving vast quantities of oil, natural gas, sulphur, diamonds, manganese, bromine, and magnesium. And this is only the beginning. Beneath those shelves he immense lakes of fresh water, sufficient to supply man's needs for years to come. In the near future man may also discover methods of "mining" the ocean waters which contain untold riches just waiting to be tapped: gold, silver, uranium, iron, copper, cobalt, titanium, and thorium. Scientists also believe that the oceans hold the secrets of whole families of antibiotics, which may cure many of the diseases still afflicting man. No one can predict the inconceivable riches and wonders the oceans may yet yield to man's never-ending efforts to probe the mysteries of Nature.

	For miles the oceanauts moved eastward and were making good time until they came to an area where the bottom teemed with life, countless writhing and squirming and wriggling animals. Doctor Sparke was forced to thread his way through clusters of hydroids, sea cucumbers, and sea urchins. Josh virtually had to hopscotch over lobsters, crabs, and thick beds of mussels, oysters, slipper shells, quahogs, and razor clams. Markham was watching the sea anemones, particularly those clinging to rocks and gently waving different colored tentacles as innocently as a field of violets swaying in the breeze. He pointed to and identified a large Cerianthus borealis with a bluish body and orange-yellow tentacles about a foot long. It had lured a crab into its tentacles and was slowly devouring it.

	Just then Josh stumbled over a big lobster that weighed perhaps fifty pounds and lumbered in his path, waving its antennae from side to side. "Oops, excuse me," he said. Then, looking back, he drooled, "Oh, how I'd like to dip some of your white meat into melted butter and wash it down with a glass of beer."

	On hearing the remark, Doctor Sparke said, "Son, you'd better dismiss such thoughts from your mind.

	Just now plankton is your diet and plankton it will be for a year to come."

	Even though he was not allowed to stop, Markham was enjoying himself immensely. His eyes glued to the bottom, he walked slower and slower until Josh found it difficult to avoid stepping on his heels. Up ahead, Doctor Sparke had a feeling his companion might be engrossed in the abundant life underfoot. He glanced back over his shoulder. Sure enough, Markham had stopped, squatted, and was examining some hydroids. "Wayne," he called, "move on."

	So absorbed was the ichthyologist that he did not hear his name called. Doctor Sparke stopped, placed his hands on his hips, and snapped, "Wayne! Wayne! Stop your dawdling!"

	Markham jerked his head up in surprise. "Oh, oh, I'm sorry, so sorry. I just couldn't resist examining those hydroids."

	Farther along Josh spotted a big starfish, one measuring about fourteen inches from tip to tip. In a mood for some fun, he picked it up and walked on until he came upon a dense colony of scallops lying in the sand, shells wide open. Leaning forward, he held the starfish close to them. Suddenly, pandemonium broke loose! Like terrified chickens fleeing in panic at the sight of a fox, the scallops shut their shells, making audible clacks, jet-propelling themselves in all directions, then landing on the bottom and stirring up tiny clouds of sand. And they did not stop there. Still in a frenzy, they repeatedly opened and closed their shells, clacking and zigzagging and kicking up clouds, and never stopped until they felt a safe distance from their arch enemy, the starfish.

	"Wow!" laughed Josh, throwing the starfish aside. "Look at them go. Never thought scallops could move so fast."

	"You'd move fast too," said Markham, "if you knew that some creature was going to pry you open and eat your insides."

	"We'll have no more hijinks of that sort ..." Doctor Sparke started to say, but he stopped abruptly and pointed up ahead. "Wayne, look at that monster! The size of it!"

	Wayne gasped, "It's a Dasysatis centroura, commonly called a sting ray. It's the biggest I've ever seen."

	Resembling a vulture in flight, the sting ray had wings measuring seven feet from tip to tip and weighed around 350 pounds. Its whip-like tail was equipped with razor-sharp spines capable of inflicting a nasty wound. Silently, ominously, it fluttered a few feet above the bottom, ready to pounce upon any squid, crab, or other prey it might chance to find.

	Later on the oceanauts came to the brink of a sharp drop, momentarily looked down, then one by one, with hands close to sides and bodies stiff, stepped off and glided down to the bottom, landing amid heaps of black mussels. At this depth of 370 feet all trace of fight again vanished. Doctor Sparke ordered the lasers switched on. Instantly, the water burst into life as the cones fell on plankton drifting like dust particles, tiny pink, blue, and yellow snails floating like bubbles, and countless fishes swimming singly, in groups, or in schools.

	At first glance the bottom appeared smooth and black and devoid of all animal fife. But the instant the oceanauts took a few steps, it burst into life. Black-back flounders, hundreds of them, fluttered in all directions, kicking up clouds of sand as they landed and quickly sniggled deep into the silt, leaving visible nothing but black eyes staring up at the oceanauts.

	"Glyptocephalus qjnoglossus," said Doctor Sparke as he pushed on.

	"Yes," agreed Markham, "and also a few fluke or Paralichthys oblongus."

	Josh noticed that when Markham or his father identified any form of animal life, they were precise. And with good reason. Not all creatures of the sea are fishes. A fish is an animal that lives in water and has gills, fins, and a backbone. The word "fish" in the plural refers to more than one fish of the same species, such as several herring; whereas the word "fishes" refers to two or more different species, such as several herring, mackerel, flounder, and so on. However, when identifying fishes scientifically, it is common to use the Latin terms to indicate both the genus and the species.

	On down the Shelf the oceanauts trekked, never stopping until their chronometers once more buzzed 2200 hours. Standing in the middle of a colony of sea urchins, all three checked their compasses. Doctor Sparke smiled and nodded. "During Unit 2 we traveled a little more than fifteen miles. Satisfactory, quite satisfactory. Now for some sleep."

	After scouting the area and finding a sandy spot clear of animals, the oceanauts lay down beside one another. Josh and Markham again looked forward to keeping their fights on for a few minutes to observe the fishes cavorting above. But this was not to be. Doctor Sparke, ever concerned about saving fuel, said, "Lasers out." And that was that.

	At 0400 hours of Unit 3, the oceanauts awoke, switched on their lasers, and sat up. Wasting no time, Doctor Sparke ordered, "All right. Up on your feet. Let's be on our way."

	At this point, except for occasional heaps of shellfish, the terrain was a hard gray sand, enabling the oceanauts to travel at a rapid pace for mile after mile. They were making excellent headway when Markham sighted something most unusual. "Look, look there!" he cried. "Look at that ... that up ahead and to the left about a hundred feet."

	Curious, Doctor Sparke and Josh looked and saw "that," a creature the likes of which none of them had ever seen before. From here even Markham had not the slightest idea what it might be. What luck! Perhaps it was a rare species of fish yet unknown to ichthyology. Veering to the left and walking faster, all three oceanauts could hardly wait to get a closeup view of ... of whatever it was.

	Approaching closer, they could make out that it was rectangular in shape and about fourteen inches long and ten inches wide. On top it had a yellow "organ" that slowly and rhythmically rose and fell, like a fish 'treadling" in and out. The oceanauts, more curious than ever, stopped at a distance of forty feet, then stealthily crept forward, careful not to make a sound for fear of frightening it. Doctor Sparke glanced at Markham, hoping that by now he recognized it. But he merely shrugged. Now they were closing in step by step when Josh burst out laughing.

	"Quiet, you idiot!" Doctor Sparke muttered under his breath. "You'll frighten the creature."

	"Don't worry, Father," laughed Josh, almost doubled up. "Don't worry a bit. That 'creature' is nothing but a magazine someone must have thrown off a ship. And that breathing' is nothing but the yellow cover flapping up and down in the current."

	Doctor Sparke and Markham advanced a few more steps, then stopped short. Josh was right, quite right. More embarrassed than disappointed, they returned to their course and continued walking, saying not a word. Josh, trading a few feet behind, was reluctant to make further comment, but a moment later he could restrain himself no longer. "Wayne," he asked, with an air of innocence, "how would you classify that creature, Magazinensis monthlyitus?"

	For the remainder of the unit the oceanauts descended a long slope dotted with rocks, down, down to a depth of 420 feet. There the chronometer buzzed 2200 hours. Time to stop and sleep. Before switching off his laser, Doctor Sparke checked his compass. During the third unit he and his companions had traveled sixteen miles, making a total of forty-three miles.

	'If we could only continue traveling at this rate of speed," Josh remarked, as he lay down on a bed of shells.

	"Hm," grunted Doctor Sparke, just before dozing off, "you can be sure we wont."

	The following unit Doctor Sparke drove himself and his companions hard for hours because if all went well, at approximately 1200 hours, they would arrive at the first rendezvous point and make contact with Tracking Station 1, the first milestone of the journey. But as luck would have it, they ran smack into a field of brownish seaweed with tall fronds swaying to and fro like wheat swaying in the breeze. "Hang it all," muttered Doctor Sparke.

	Slogging through the seaweeds, the oceanauts often found the growth so thick that it blocked their path, and they were forced to veer off course repeatedly. To make matters worse, the leaflike fronds clung to their feet, slowing them down still more. Fortunately, the seaweed extended only a few hundred yards and once more they were out in the open, now trudging up and down rolling sand dunes, similar to those found on Cape Cod. They admired the scenic beauty of the sea floor here until they again saw signs of man. Scattered in all directions across the bottom were tires partly buried in sand, pieces of cable and wire rope, fish nets, a bow of a wrecked fishing boat, a rusted anchor, sneakers, numerous beer cans and bottles, wooden boxes and paper cartons of all sizes, newspapers, magazines, empty cigarette packages, rags, caps, shirts, a pair of trousers, and other discarded articles. Due South they spotted two ominous-looking depth bombs and a torpedo partly covered with sand.

	Angrily kicking a beer can, Josh complained. "All this reminds me of our ugly highways back home. The ocean too is man's dumping ground."

	"Unfortunately," Markham added, casting his light across the bottom, "what you say is so. And it has been so ever since the beginning of time. And what we see is only an infinitesimal portion of all the debris dumped into the oceans all over the world."

	"Eight, quite right," Doctor Sparke spluttered, "as man has polluted the air and rivers and lakes, so has he polluted the oceans. But he had better wake up soon and realize that he is approaching the limit, for now not only is he dumping billions of tons of garbage and trash and junk of all kinds into the sea, but also radioactive wastes from atomic piles. And although the oceans are enormous in size, there will come a day ..."

	Farther on, the sand dunes behind them, the oceanauts tramped across gravel and shells, steadily approaching closer to the rendezvous point where, for the first time since Drop-Off, they would make contact with the air world. Looking forward to that moment, Josh and his father and Markham glanced at their compasses every few hundred yards, then every few minutes until 1630 hours when they arrived at the rendezvous point-41° 30* 4" North and 69° 2' 3" West —almost five hours ahead of schedule.

	Josh and Markham felt excited as they watched Doctor Sparke plant his feet firmly in the gravel and adjust his aquaphone. Then, in a strong voice, he spoke. "Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 1. Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 1. Over."

	Instantly the reply came down. "This is Tracking Station 1. We hear you loud and clear, and we are very happy to make contact. Over."

	"All is well. Making steady progress. Happy to say we are five hours ahead of schedule. My companions and I are in excellent condition and fine spirits. Over."

	"Congratulations, congratulations. We have a message for you from NISA. It reads Well done.'"

	"Thank you," replied Doctor Sparke, beaming. "Depth, 415 feet; temperature, 51 degrees; pressure, 200 psi; visibility, approximately 30 feet. Over."

	"Message received. Over."

	"Will make contact again at the next rendezvous point. Over."

	"Good luck and Godspeed. Over and out."

	The oceanauts looked at one another, smiled, then shook hands. That "Well done" from NISA was high praise, and they were proud.

	As they carried on, Josh's thoughts carried him back to Tracking Station 1, its crew, and the men in the Control Room. How thrilled they must have been to receive the first message from the oceanauts at the bottom of the Atlantic! No doubt by now they had dispatched the news to NISA. From there it would be broadcast throughout the United States and the world. And for days the main topic of conversation among the people would be the journey of the oceanauts. What Josh thought was so. But there was much more that this modest fellow did not imagine. By now he and his companions were heroes, and their pictures were on display everywhere. A particularly large one hung in a certain bedroom in Silver Spring.

	During Unit 4 the oceanauts had traveled a little over fourteen miles. Considering the delays caused by the seaweed, Josh and Markham were satisfied with the distance covered. But not Doctor Sparke, and he would never be satisfied until they were several units ahead of schedule. Crossing the Continental Shelf was the easiest part of the journey. But while descending the steep Continental Slope up ahead, they more than likely would run into trouble and be delayed; and there was little doubt that while climbing the high mountains of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge they would suffer serious setbacks. These and possibly other delays would cost them not hours but units of time, and Doctor Sparke was determined to get far enough ahead of schedule to allow for them.

	At 2200 hours the chronometers buzzed, ending the unit. All three oceanauts lay down and within minutes Doctor Sparke and Markham fell into a deep slumber. But not Josh. His thoughts carried him back to Tracking Station 1 and the air world above. Up there it was July 7, a few minutes after 10:00 p.m. Most of the folks back home were still awake, some sitting at home watching television, others out riding in automobiles or cheering at a baseball game, still others sitting on their front porches or in their back yards having a cool drink, taking a walk, or doing any one of a dozen things Americans do on a warm summer night. And Louise? What was she doing at this moment? Were her thoughts of him?

-

9 – A Narrow Escape

	Throughout Units 5, 6, 7, and into Unit 8, the oceanauts descended to depths where the light of the sun never penetrated, making it necessary to keep the lasers burning continuously—except during sleeping hours. Following the gray cones now edged and capped with a thin blue line, they walked across terrain that gradually became more and more rugged. Time and again they were forced to skirt boulders, glide down into deep pits, and clamber back up, climb up and down long stretches that undulated like roller coasters.

	Nonetheless, they managed to keep moving and made steady progress, and at 1415 hours they arrived at the next rendezvous point. Doctor Sparke, after waiting for a tremendous school of haddock to pass overhead, contacted topside for the second time.

	"Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 2. Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 2. Over."

	"This is Tracking Station 2. We hear you loud and clear. Come in. Over."

	"We have completed the first hundred miles across the Continental Shelf and now are seven hours ahead of schedule. All is well. Depth, 510 feet; temperature, 47 degrees; pressure, 245 psi; visibility 20 feet." "Message received."

	"Will continue east-southeast to next rendezvous point. This is all. Over and out." "Very well. Over and out."

	From the second rendezvous point the oceanauts pushed on for miles down the ever-sloping Shelf. All was going along without incident until 2145 hours when the tips of their lasers fell upon something about 2,000 feet to the northeast, something strange, a dark mass, a huge object resting on the sea floor. What could it be? A whale? No, it was much too big. Then what? Eager to solve the mystery, they walked faster; but a moment later the chronometer buzzed 2200 hours, and Doctor Sparke called a halt.

	"Father," Josh pleaded, 'let's not stop now. Let's find out what that thing out there is."

	"Sorry, son, but staying on schedule is more important than satisfying our curiosity. Furthermore, that 'thing' may be nothing more than a big bump on the ocean floor. In any event, it will still be there when we awake. We'll sleep right here."

	When they awoke, the oceanauts lost no time starting out, and they had one thought in mind: to find out what that dark mass was.

	Squinting and walking on, Josh asked, "What can it possibly be?"

	"One thing I'm sure it's not," said Markham. "A whale."

	"Of course," nodded Doctor Sparke, "it certainly is not a whale."

	Soon the dark mass, like a mysterious monster slowly emerging from a fog, took shape. "Ah, now I can make it out," cried Doctor Sparke. "It's a ship, a sunken ship."

	So it was and, except for a gaping hole near the stern, the ship lay intact on the bottom with a list of about ten degrees, her rudder bent and two blades of the screw jutting up from the sand.

	"Ah, yes," said Markham. "Now I can make it out too." Taking a few hurried steps, he added, "Sunken ships are havens that attract all sorts of animal life. It would be most interesting to go over and examine it."

	"Excellent idea" Josh agreed quickly, excitement in his voice, "excellent idea. Let's go over and take a look."

	Doctor Sparke, his eyes fixed on the ship, said nothing. He too thought it would be most interesting to explore a ship at the bottom of the sea, but it would take time. After debating with himself for a moment, however, he said, "All right. Since we're ahead of schedule, we'll stop ... but not for long."

	Josh and Markham exchanged glances and smiled as Doctor Sparke swung slightly off course and headed for the ship. A moment later they heard him say, "Just as I thought, a wrecked freighter."

	Casting his laser down the entire length of the hull, Josh said, "And a mighty big freighter at that."

	Doctor Sparke studied the nameplate on the ship's hull. He was able to make out only a few letters, but it was enough. "It's the Xanthe," he said, "a 10,000-ton Greek freighter. I remember now. About two years ago it was bound for New York, and on a foggy night it collided with an American freighter and sank. All the members of the crew but three were rescued."

	He now led his companions down the port side of the ship, threading a path through debris strewn about, drums, boxes, crates, some half buried in sand, all thickly encrusted with barnacles, mussels, and worms. Amidships they came upon a tragic sight. Lying crumpled on the sea floor were three empty jackets, shirts, trousers, and shoes, the only remains of the three seamen who had gone down with the ship.

	Craning their necks, the oceanauts scanned the hull, the deck and superstructure that teemed with animal life. Schools of pollock and cod cascaded over the superstructure and plummeted down toward the oceanauts like a waterfall. Fifty-pounders swam to within a few feet of them, separated, and permitted the oceanauts to pass through, then closed ranks again. On the lifeboats, spars, masts, cables, and chains squirmed and writhed layer upon layer of lobsters, crabs, hydroids, sea anemones, and worms. A dense forest of Gorgonias, strange creatures that looked like small bushes, waved their tentacles and resembled trees in a windstorm. Above the deck, amid the rigging and in and out of portholes, fishes of all sizes and shapes and colors suddenly swarmed in clouds and then just as suddenly dispersed like a flock of frightened birds.

	"What a mess of fish!" Josh gasped. "What a mess of fish! Must be thousands and thousands of them. Never saw so many in one place in my entire life."

	Doctor Sparke nodded. "Yes, this is what usually happens when ships sink to the bottom of the sea. All kinds of sea life, ranging in size from microscopic plankton to sharks and octopuses, swarm into, around, and over it, all seeking food and shelter."

	"In fact," Markham explained further, pointing up to the deck, "if you'll look just above the rail there, you'll see several grayish-brown fish about three feet long with white-edged tails and fins. They're Polyprion americanus, commonly called wreckfish because they're often found in wrecks."

	Walking toward the bow, the oceanauts came to a cable hanging down to the bottom. It bristled with lobsters that clung to it like flies to a string, many of them standing on their tails, opening and closing their claws, ready to do battle. Itching to climb aboard the ship and explore, Josh dared suggest, "Father, this is an opportunity we may never have again. I think we ought to go up on deck and take a look around, if only for a short while."

	Doctor Sparke had been expecting such a suggestion from his son ever since they sighted the ship. He was also sure that Markham was bursting with eagerness to make observations. And, as a matter of fact, by now he was as eager as they were. He looked at his chronometer. "All right, we'll do it, but only for a short while, a half hour." Then he stared at Josh and repeated slowly and emphatically, "One ... half ... hour. Is that clear?"

	"Of course," said Josh, as he walked over and grabbed the cable. Up he shinnied, hand over hand, shaking off lobsters that tumbled awkwardly to the bottom. Markham, then Doctor Sparke followed, and now all three stood on the slanting deck, gazed aft and gasped. A thousand aquariums in one. A huge submarine garden bursting with scores of different species of fishes and plant life. An ichthyologist's dream! From the windlass, capstan, and hawser holes sprouted long fronds, swaying like branches of a tree. To the tangled ropes and cables and wires lying on deck clung countless animals. From ventilators, spars, and life preservers grew layer upon layer of shellfish. Indeed, the ship itself seemed to be alive.

	Swarms of fishes, frightened by the strange two-legged creatures invading their haven, scurried from ventilators, zigzagging in panic. Gray trigger fish thronged above lifeboats, blackfish nibbled at worms and barnacles on the mast; blue cunners streaked through the water in search of killifish; silvery whiting, two feet long, fed on shrimp and octopuses; and a blue conger eeL as thick as a man's arm, stuck its head out of a ventilator, its mouth slowly opening and closing as it lay in wait for an unsuspecting fish or shrimp to wander by.

	Momentarily, the oceanauts stood transfixed, observing the scene boiling with life. "Fantastic," Doctor Sparke said, "simply fantastic!"

	Eyes wide open and bubbling with enthusiasm, Markham said, "Never in my fondest dreams did I think I would see anything like this. Incredible!"

	As excited as a child visiting an aquarium for the first time, he walked aft. His companions trailing close behind, he gazed here, there, and all over, having difficulty deciding what to observe in passing and what to stop at and examine closely. But he overlooked nothing. He scrutinized the rail that seethed with hydroids, Gorgonias, worms with plume-like heads, and a few species he had never seen alive before. "How exciting," he said over and over, "how exciting. I'll make a mental note of that ... and that ... and that..."

	Josh followed close behind his companions, but with each step his desire to explore the ship's innards increased until it became irresistible. Noticing that his companions were still absorbed studying the plant and animal life, he said, "I think I'll take a look around below deck," turned on his heels, and went his own way.

	At first Josh had difficulty standing upright on the slippery deck, but he managed to weave his way through a maze of tangled ropes and cables outside the pilothouse until he came to an open hatch. He peered down, then, feet first, dropped through the hatchway, and landed in the hold amid toppled drums, broken chains, coiled wires, and cracked timbers. Gazing around, he felt a strange feeling come over him. At one time, he thought, husky seamen walked about and worked down here. Deep voices barked orders. Now only silence, the eerie silence of the grave.

	Josh shuddered, then clambered over and around the drums, and wormed his way to the engine room. It too was in shambles, a jungle of twisted wires hanging from the ceiling, bent and broken pipes, cracked boilers, and splintered timbers. Not daring to venture deeper for fear of becoming enmeshed in the debris, he watched the frightened fishes swimming helter-skelter, then turned, headed for the companion-way, and climbed back up on deck.

	Seeing that his father and Markham were still busy, Josh checked his chronometer. He still had fifteen minutes. Why not explore forward? Well, why not? He made his way to the first cabin, forced the door open, and looked around. The bunks were in disarray, with bedding hanging down to the floor; encrusted shoes drifted in swirling water; trousers and shirts were strewn over the floor. So it was in cabin after cabin.

	On the bridge, Josh found the pilothouse door stuck fast, so he braced himself, pushed with all his might, and knocked it off its hinges and down to the floor. Again he frightened the fishes that fled pell-mell, this time out of the broken windows. The pilothouse was a mess, a maze of wires and pipes and bent beams. The floor was littered with navigating instruments—chronometer, binnacle, sextant, and such—all rusted and hardly recognizable because of the marine growth.

	Lifting his feet high, Josh entered and slowly cast his laser about the pilothouse. Several bottles swirled below the ceiling, giant anemones clung to the walls, lobsters and crabs crawled underfoot, mussels and other shellfish carpeted the floor. Only a few fishes remained and continued to swim about in spite of the bright light. Seconds later, for no obvious reason, they turned and fled in terror through the windows. Josh was still wondering why the rapid departure when once more a strange feeling came over him, this time a feeling that he was not alone in the pilothouse, a feeling that now something was watching him. He stood still, listened. Nothing. He was about to turn when he felt a light tap on the shoulder, then another. He whirled around... and froze to the spot.

	A gigantic white squid, resembling a spider one might see in a nightmare, was in the doorway, blocking the only exit. From its torpedo-shaped body, which was about six feet long and two feet around, protruded probing tentacles, each about twenty feet long and studded with powerful suckers. Its sharp parrot-like beak, capable of ripping a man to shreds, sucked in and expelled water as two eyes, the size of saucers, glared balefully. Josh knew that squids were intelligent but shy creatures that usually fled at the sight of a man; but he also knew that they could be fearless, so fearless in fact that they would not hesitate to attack a whale.

	Every muscle taut, Josh had no idea how this squid would behave, especially in such close quarters. And he was taking no chances. As it drew nearer and continued to probe with its tentacles, he drew his dagstock, crouched, and retreated step by step until his back was up against the wall. Like a boxer weaving from side to side, he ducked under one tentacle, sidestepped another, and warded off a third with his left arm. Now the squid remained stationary and changed colors, from white to pink, to blue, maroon, brown, and finally back to white again. A sign of attack, thought Josh, crouching lower and gripping his dag-stock tighter. Seconds later the squid discharged a cloud of inky fluid, blotting out much of the light. Josh, gritting his teeth and not budging, stood ready to lash out the instant he felt a tentacle touch him. He waited ... and waited ... but to his amazement the squid suddenly whirled completely around and shot out of the door head first like a jet-propelled torpedo!

	Josh heaved a deep sigh of relief, sheathed his dag-stock and leaned against the wall, his heart thumping like a hammer, hands trembling and body feeling hot all over. He remained there only long enough to recover from the fear that had gripped him, then as fast as possible left the pilothouse and made for the deck. Spotting his father and Markham examining Gorgonias clinging to the bronze bell suspended from a standard, he hurried over and joined them.

	Surprised, Doctor Sparke looked up. "Oh, it's you."

	"Yes, yes, I'm back," said Josh, speaking nervously, "I'm ready to leave whenever you are."

	Hardly able to believe his ears, Doctor Sparke glanced at his chronometer, then stared at his son.

	"Will wonders never cease? You're ahead of time. Why, I was sure I would have to drag you off this ship. What happened?"

	"Oh, nothing, nothing much. I've seen all I want to see on this ship."

	"Hm," grunted his father, eyebrows arched, "never did I think I would hear those words from you. In any case, it's time. I'm ready. How about you, Wayne?"

	Reluctantly, Markham nodded.

	As all three oceanauts walked toward the bow, Doctor Sparke and Markham could not help but notice that as they walked by the pilothouse Josh kept glancing back over his shoulder.

-

10 – The Oceanauts Adopt a Mascot—to Their Regret

	Leaving the Xanthe behind them, the oceanauts pushed on unceasingly down the Shelf, which at this point was strewn with boulders. From one hour to the next they had one thought in mind: Get as far ahead of schedule as possible. But in spite of their eagerness to make time, they never stopped peering around, lest they miss something of interest or importance. Doctor Sparke, when not checking his instruments, constantly scrutinized the sea floor—especially the mud, silt, or sand. Now and then he squatted, scooped up a handful, rubbed it between his fingers, and examined it. Markham, as usual, never tired of observing the fishes at the greater and greater depths —especially those he had not seen in shallower water. As for Josh he was his usual cheerful self, relishing the vast panorama of the seafloorscape that rolled on and on before his eyes.

	Not all the sights had to do with the sea. Once more they saw signs of man. One sight, a grim spectacle, was the remains of a twin engine rocket-jet fighter plane that had crashed moments after take-off from Otis Air Force Base outside of Boston. Part of its rudder jutted grotesquely upward. One of the engines was missing, but the other stood perpendicular in the sand with animals crawling all over it.

	Later on, while traversing a bowl-shaped depression, they spotted up ahead a long black snake-like object. Thick as a man's wrist, it extended as far as their lasers reached, rising and falling with the contour of the bottom until it vanished in the darkness. In places it was buried under sand. Soon Doctor Sparke identified it. "It's a section of the transatlantic cable. When we laid out our route, I knew we would come across it. Well, here it is and before long we should see it again. "Very interesting. It looks so inert, so lifeless, yet right now it may be sending as many as five hundred messages back and forth between the United States and England.

	To Markham, just now, the most fascinating aspects of sea life were the tiny animals called plankton. Much denser here than usual, they glistened in the laser beams like billions of bits of tinsel, rising, falling, drifting, floating. At the time, Josh also happened to be watching the plankton. "You know," he commented, "they look like nothing but specks of dust, yet each one is a living plant or animal."

	"They certainly are," agreed his father, "and no one should ever underestimate their importance. Some ichthyologists spend an entire lifetime studying those specks of 'dust.' "

	"And let me assure you," Markham added, "the plankton we see are only a small part of those in the water, for most of them are microscopic in size and invisible to the naked eye. And I might also say that they are not only fascinating to observe and study but also the most vital forms of sea life. Indeed, all other sea life is directly or indirectly dependent upon plankton, and without them the oceans would be as empty and lifeless as outer space, a sort of liquid vacuum." Ducking under a school of herring, he continued, "The word 'plankton comes from the Greek 'planktos,' which means wandering. These tiny creatures, driven by the tides and currents, wander aimlessly about the oceans. Some may, for example, drift all the way from Florida as far north as Maine."

	As Markham finished speaking, they caught sight of an amazing creature swimming out from behind a boulder. It looked like an underwater blimp and actually was about twelve feet long and weighed perhaps 1,000 pounds. Its big eyes bulging and heavy jowls and leathery lips drooping, the blackish fish approached the oceanauts and lazily cruised around them, opening and closing its huge mouth as it made audible "boomps" and revealed a thick blob of a tongue and rows of needle-like teeth.

	Markham eyed the monster as it barely moved its oar-like fins behind pulsating gills. "It's an Epinephelus itajara, a grouper, an unusually large one too," he said. "Must be a straggler. We don't usually find this species so far north."

	"Wow!" Josh gasped. "I've seen big fishes before, but this one's a whopper."

	Doctor Sparke, noticing his companions' absorption with the grouper, admonished, "All right, all right. Let's keep moving and not waste any time because of a big fish. The grouper may be large and most inquisitive, but it's harmless."

	"That may be so; then again it may not," said Josh, stepping more lively. "I've heard pearl divers in the Pacific say they feared groupers more than sharks."

	"That is so," warned Markham. "Groupers have been known to swallow pearl divers whole."

	Doctor Sparke, ever impatient with sensational stories of sea monsters, pooh-poohed, "But have you ever tried to authenticate any of those stories?"

	"Yes," replied Markham, "and I'll have to admit that I was able to verify only one or two. But that doesn't mean this monster can't be dangerous. It ought to be driven away."

	"Nonsense, nonsense," retorted Doctor Sparke, "if it leaves of its own accord, fine, but if it chooses to stay, it stays."

	Markham glanced at Josh and shrugged.

	Not only did the grouper choose to stay, but with each passing unit it became friendlier. It often swam over to Doctor Sparke, nudging him and almost knocking him off balance; but he only patted the creature on the head as one would a faithful dog. It went over to Josh, who also patted it on the head, saying, "Welcome, stranger, glad to have you aboard." When it approached Markham, he drew his dagstock, squatted, and speared a large crab. "Now watch this," he said to Josh, shoving the crab off the blade.

	Before the crab fell several inches, the grouper, with amazing speed, turned, opened its cavernous mouth, and sucked it in along with a powerful stream of water, which an instant later rushed out of its gills.

	"What suction!" Josh gasped. "More powerful than a big vacuum cleaner."

	"That's the way this brute eats," said Markham, "by sucking in its prey. And it has the appetite of a horse, swallowing everything from sea spiders to squids and other big fishes."

	Josh kept a wary eye on the monster as it turned and glided with surprising ease and grace. "I'll never get over it," he said, shaking his head. "Water is so much denser than air, yet fishes get about with less apparent effort than man does in air. I'm convinced that Nature has streamlined fishes more efficiently than other creatures, so much so, in fact, that fishes and water seem to be one."

	"A sound observation, son," Doctor Sparke remarked, "a very sound observation."

	"It also seems," said Josh, "that the environment of water means more to fishes than air to men."

	"Yes, I would say so," agreed Markham. "The environment of water means more to a fish than air to man. To a fish, water is its birthplace, its cradle, its playpen and school, its bed and home. Water also provides it with food, drink, toilet, a highway for travel, a medium for communication, and finally its grave."

	"From now on," remarked Josh as he stepped over a colony of sea cucumbers, "when someone says 'Like a fish out of water,' it will mean a lot more to me." Casting his fight upward, he went on. "Talking about fishes and their environment, I see more tuna and cod and other big fishes here at this depth."

	"That should be no surprise to an experienced diver like you," said Doctor Sparke, "You know very well that different species of fishes make their habitat at different levels in the sea."

	"I do know it," Josh replied, "but I've often wondered how a fish can tell whether it's in its own back yard or not."

	Doctor Sparke glanced back and said, "Wayne, you explain it,"

	"That's a very interesting question," explained Markham. "The level certain fishes swim at depends upon several factors, the most important of which are temperature, pressure, salinity, light, and oxygen content of the water. But just what body mechanism or mechanisms tell a fish when it is in its own back yard, as you say, we don't know as yet." He paused to tear off a jellyfish clinging to his helmet, then concluded, "We ichthyologists have learned much about fishes, but we have barely scratched the surface. There is so much, so very much yet to learn."

	"That can be said for all sciences," Doctor Sparke said as he checked his compass, "and especially for oceanography, ichthyology, and the others related to the sea."

	When the oceanauts stopped at the end of Unit 11 and lay down to sleep, they expected the grouper to go on its way. But it had other ideas. At 0400 hours there it was as big as ever, hovering over them, slowly moving its fins and waiting for them like a faithful Saint Bernard; and the moment they set forth, it again tagged along.

	"Well, well, well," said Doctor Sparke, smiling, "it seems that our new companion has decided to accompany us."

	"Guess it wants to be our mascot," chuckled Josh. "In that case, we ought to give it a name."

	"Excellent idea," agreed Doctor Sparke. "What do you suggest?"

	Josh stepped over a heap of mussels, thought for a moment, then said, "I have it. Let's call it NISA."

	"Splendid, son, splendid. Then NISA it is."

	Annoyed, Markham said acidly, "Call it NISA or by any other name, I still think it's staying with us for no good, and I suggest we drive it away. And if it doesn't leave, we should destroy it."

	"Nonsense," snapped Doctor Sparke, "if it leaves on its own accord, well and good, but if it chooses to stay it stays. And while I'm on the subject, let me inform both of you that there will be no senseless killing of fishes. That applies to this grouper and any other fish we might come across during the remainder of the journey. We're here to observe and study, not to destroy animal life."

	In the early hours of Unit 12, the oceanauts arrived at the third rendezvous point. And this time as Doctor Sparke stood on a knoll almost ankle-deep in scallops and prepared to make contact with Tracking Station 3, not only did Josh and Markham stay aside and wait-so did NISA.

	"Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 3," said Doctor Sparke. "Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 3. Over."

	"This is Tracking Station 3. Come in. Over."

	"All is well. Making good headway. Averaging 15 miles a unit. Still ahead of schedule."

	"Well done. Over."

	"Depth, 480 feet; temperature, 52 degrees; pressure, 240 psi. Soon we will change course and travel north-northeast. Over."

	"Thank you. Is that all?"

	"Yes, that is all. Well, not quite. We adopted a mascot." 

	"A what?"

	"A mascot, a grouper. It's been tailing along with us for the past few units. It will leave us before long, I believe. Over and out."

	"Good luck, Project Oceanaut... and keep a sharp eye on that grouper. Over and out."

	From that point the oceanauts descended to still greater depths, pushing their way through water that gradually became thicker and thicker with plankton until it looked like a living soup, with its billions of tiny plants and animals gleaming outside the laser cones like fireflies on a summer night. To Markham all this plankton was a wondrous laboratory. So taken was he with the astonishing phenomenon that he never bothered looking where he placed his feet; again and again he stepped into holes and stumbled over lobsters and clumps of seaweed. He made mental note after mental note. He also resolved to return here some day and make an intensive study of the plankton.

	There are two kinds of plankton, the plant fife called phytoplankton and the animal life called zoo-plankton. Contrary to what most people think, algae make up only an insignificant part of the plant life of the ocean's vegetation. The real "grass" or "grazing lands" of the oceans are the phytoplankton, which are so tiny that a spoonful of sea water might contain millions and so rich that they contain as much protein and fat as hay. At one time oceanographers believed that phytoplankton was found only from the surface to depths of several hundred feet, but it has been found as deep as 20,000 feet. This phenomenon has baffled oceanographers who cannot explain it for, like all plants, phytoplankton must have sunlight to survive.

	Now, for some reason, NISA ignored Josh and Markham and took a liking to Doctor Sparke, sticking close to his side as a dog heels his master. Occasionally, it playfully poked its snout against his faceplate, or nipped his fingers, or swam around and around him. It left Doctor Sparke's side only when it sighted another large fish. Then it would dart away, approach its prey, open its mouth, and with a powerful suction swallow it down with one gulp.

	Markham, who had spent many a long hour studying plankton under a microscope, watched the gleaming specks and commented, "It's unfortunate that we cannot see the zooplankton as they really are. To the naked eye they are mere specks, but under a microscope they are fascinating creatures of every color and shape imaginable. Some are a vivid red, rich purple, or bright orange, others a delicate pink or blue. In shape they often bring to mind the fantastic creatures dreamed up for horror movies or science fiction. Some, for example, look like weird spiders with hairy jointed legs; others like torpedo-shaped worms with long fangs and scythe-like jaws. Indeed, if some of these plankton were to suddenly grow very large, they would frighten not only us but the fiercest sharks in the sea."

	Sidestepping a clump of seaweed, Doctor Sparke went on to explain further. "And don't overlook the fact that plankton play a key role in the life cycle of all animals in the sea. Phytoplankton are eaten by zoo-plankton, which in turn are eaten by herring, mackerel, and others. These fishes in turn are eaten by tuna and other predators, which are eaten by squid and sharks, which finally are eaten by whales."

	"And eventually," Josh concluded, "man eats them all"

	"Quite right," Markham said, "and that's the end of the life cycle. But we have overlooked the very beginning of it all. When plants and animals die, from the tiniest zooplankton to the largest whale, their skeletons sink to the bottom. There bacteria decompose and convert the skeletal remains into nitrates and phosphates, which rise to the surface and nourish the phytoplankton, which are eaten by the zooplankton, starting the hfe cycle all over again."

	At 1230 hours of Unit 15, as Doctor Sparke veered slightly and headed straight toward the Continental Slope, Markham was still concerned about the grouper. Again he warned, 'Tor the last time, Homer, let's get rid of this monster."

	"Wayne," Doctor Sparke snapped angrily, "will you please stop worrying. So far NISA has accompanied us for several units without as much as making a threat. And he's been a pleasant diversion. Furthermore, before long we'll be descending the Slope, and there I'm sure he will leave us of his own accord."

	Markham sighed, threw up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness, and vowed not to say another word about the grouper. He would, however, keep a watchful eye on it.

	At this point the terrain changed from a white to a gray sand and later to a fine mud that rose in tiny clouds with each footstep. Their progress slowed, Doctor Sparke stopped, squatted, and adjusted his boots. "Push Lever 2 on boots," he instructed his companions. Josh and Markham obeyed and once more they were able to advance at a normal pace.

	As fascinated as Markham was with the plankton, so was Doctor Sparke with the sea floor. Gazing down much of the time, he observed the color of the mud, its consistency and thickness. Occasionally, without breaking the rhythm of his gait, he scooped up a handful of mud, rubbed it between his fingers, and examined it carefully, noting that it was as fine as talcum powder. "Ah," he said, a faraway look in his eye, "who knows where this mud, this sediment came from and how long it has lain here. If we oceanographers could unveil the secrets this sediment holds, we could solve many of the mysteries of the oceans that have baffled us so long."

	Josh, too, scooped up a handful and wondered: This mud called sediment, how deep was it? Hundreds of feet? Thousands? How long had it been lying here? For centuries? Eons? What mysteries of the earth's story lay concealed under it?

	Dust has been falling to the bottom of the oceans unremittingly and unceasingly flake by flake; speck by speck, for years and centuries and eons. Oceanographers estimate that it falls at the rate of one inch every thousand years, growing thicker and thicker. In some places on the sea floor it is thousands of feet thick, while in others it has been compressed into rock by its own tremendous weight.

	There are two kinds of sediment: terrigenous sediment, which comes from the earth, and pelagic or oceanic sediment, which comes from the sea. The earth sediment—found on th© bottom near shore-consists of sand, mud, silt, or clay of various colors. It comes from several sources: from the day-to-day battering of the waves against the coast; from volcanoes belching forth millions of tons of ash into the ocean; from meteors burning up as they zoom through the atmosphere and spin off iron and nickel meteorites; and also from icebergs drifting into warm waters, melting and dropping off soil, rocks, and boulders. The greatest sources of terrigenous sediment, however, are the streams and rivers that carry millions of tons of mud out to sea. Scientists estimate that each day the Mississippi River alone carries down to the Gulf of Mexico over 1,000,000 tons of sand and mud, enough to load 1,000 freight trains made up of fifty cars, each car carrying twenty tons of mud. They also estimate that all the rivers on earth pour into the oceans each day about 50,000,000 tons of earth.

	"It sets your mind to thinking," Markham said, "when you realize that right now we are walking on sediment that may have come from any one of a dozen distant parts of the earth."

	"Yes, yes," Doctor Sparke said, sidestepping NISA, "right now we may be walking on dust blown out to sea from the baseball diamond at Yankee Stadium, or from the smokestacks of steel mills in Gary, Indiana, or from the wheat fields of western Canada, or the deserts of Mexico, or even the exhaust pipes of automobiles speeding along the California freeways."

	Apparently friendlier than ever, NISA now dogged Doctor Sparke's footsteps, nudging and nibbling at him, swimming round and round, at times so close that the oceanographer was forced to shove it out of his path. Now Josh also became apprehensive. That monster was just too fond of his father. He wished it would go away. "Father," he suggested, "Wayne's right. We ought to keep that grouper at a safe distance or get rid of it altogether."

	"Well," snapped his father, "so you too are concerned. Stop pestering me. I have more important things to look after than a big fat harmless fish. And that's the last I want to hear of it from either of you."

	Josh kicked at a cluster of mussels and walked on.

	Oceanic sediment, the "dust" that comes from the sea itself, is called ooze and forms a thick carpet on most of the Atlantic floor, especially in the deepest parts of the abyss. It consists of skeletons of countless billions of plankton that have died and settled to the bottom over eons of time. The fall of these skeletons is so slow that it takes one hundred years to form a layer of ooze the thickness of a sheet of paper.

	To an oceanographer, the layers of sediment are the pages in the story book of the earth. By examining tiny particles under a microscope—those that fell to the bottom, say, 5,000,000 years ago—oceanographers can learn the answers to important questions, such as: What was the surface of the earth made up of at that time? Did volcanoes erupt on the sea floor or on earth or both during that time? And what was the nature of the glaciers that covered the continents then? Unfortunately, some of the pages in the story book are missing, leaving unsolved mysteries. For example, knowing the approximate age of the earth and sea, oceanographers estimate that the sediment should average 10,000 feet in thickness. But it does not. Then what happened to all that missing sediment? So far all the Sherlock Holmeses of oceanography have failed to solve that mystery.

	Preoccupied with thoughts of the sea floor and its mysteries, the oceanauts trudged across the ooze until they came to the next rendezvous point at 1130 hours of Unit 16. Once more Josh and Markham—and NISA —waited nearby as Doctor Sparke contacted topside.

	'This is Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 4. Calling Tracking Station 4. Over."

	"Come in, Project Oceanaut. Come in. Over."

	"Have completed first two hundred miles of journey. All is well. We are still descending the Shelf and making good progress. Now approximately one half unit ahead of schedule."

	"Well done. Over."

	"Depth, 515 feet; temperature, 49 degrees; pressure, 245 psi."

	'Thank you. By the way, is that mascot still with you?"

	"Oh, yes, yes. Still with us. But not for long, I presume. That is all. Over and out." "Thank you. Over and out."

	Minutes after they started out again, Josh's thoughts wandered back to the Tracking Station, which by now was steaming to the next rendezvous point. The ship with its crew, the sun and sky and air, they all seemed so far away and even slightly alien. Not until then did Josh realize to what extent he and his companions had become a part of this water world with its plants and animals and perpetual darkness.

	Here the bottom gradually changed from ooze to a gray sand and the oceanauts pushed Lever 1, restoring their boots to normal shape. They had walked about a mile when Doctor Sparke pointed out a strange phenomenon. The sea floor was pimpled with myriads of tiny mounds of sand that looked like anthills, each about three inches high and with a hole about the size of a lead pencil down the center. Surveying the bottom and stepping gingerly to avoid the "anthills,'' Doctor Sparke asked, "Wayne, what could these mounds possibly be?"

	"I have no idea/replied Markham, "I've never seen them before. They might be the habitats of certain species of fish, perhaps mollusks or crustaceans. But whatever they are, I certainly would like to examine a few."

	"Yes, of course," said Doctor Sparke, himself intrigued. 'It will take only a few minutes."

	The oceanauts fanned out, Josh to the left, Markham to the right, and Doctor Sparke, with NISA still close behind, straight ahead. And like children at play, each oceanaut squatted above a mound, watched the hole a few seconds, waiting for something to happen. But nothing happened. They moved on to the next and the next. Finally, they tried poking their fingers into the holes; and all they got were spurts of sand that shot up from the mounds like tiny erupting volcanoes. But not a single sign of life.

	Becoming more and more intrigued, Doctor Sparke drew his dagstock and went from mound to mound, seeking a big hole into which he could jab and perhaps spear whatever animal lived at the bottom. He finally spotted one about an inch in diameter, hurried over, and, in his haste, instead of squatting, bent forward. Silently and with incredible swiftness, the grouper maneuvered itself in a position directly in front of him, opened its mouth, and sucked him in, head first, then arms and torso, as if he were a rag doll!

	Josh, about thirty feet away, happened to look up.

	"Father!" he yelled frantically, drawing his dagstock and rushing toward him. "Father! Father!"

	Startled, Markham looked up and could not believe his eyes. "Homer!" he yelled at the top of his voice, also drawing his dagstock and rushing to save his companion.

	Kicking their legs and flailing their arms, they tried desperately to get to the grouper. But the resistance of the water was too great. In spite of their efforts, they could not push ahead fast enough; and, to their horror, right before their eyes, they watched Doctor Sparke being sucked farther and farther into the groupers mouth. In a frenzy because of his inability to go to the rescue, Josh screamed, "Father! Father! Father!"

	For a split second it seemed there was no hope, but then to Josh's utter astonishment he saw his father's hand protrude from the grouper's right gill, still gripping the dagstock and slashing up and down and crosswise. An instant later his hand emerged, then his arm, and finally his head, drenched in blood.

	Fighting desperately for his life, the oceanographer struggled with all his might and succeeded in getting the other arm out. Both hands free now, he made one last desperate effort, wriggling and twisting and pushing until he succeeded in squeezing himself through the gill rakers and tumbling in a heap to the bottom in a cloud of blood.

	At that very instant Josh and Markham reached the grouper and slashed viciously at it; but it swiftly swerved aside, easily dodging their blows. Blood spilling from its right gill, it stopped momentarily, glared at Doctor Sparke, then, with a "boomp boomp" of its powerful tail, swam away, leaving in its wake a trail of blood.

	Josh and Markham squatted beside their companion who lay sprawled out on the sand, gasping and semiconscious. Josh raised his father's head slightly and asked anxiously, "Are you hurt? Are you hurt?"

	Doctor Sparke, his glazed eyes rolling and purple lips quivering behind his faceplate, did not answer. Markham checked the tube leading from the Homeostat to the throat. Fortunately, it had neither been torn loose nor broken. Josh examined the suit. Except for a few minor scratches on the helmet caused by the grouper s teeth, no damage.

	Now the two worried oceanauts could do nothing but watch and wait. Minutes passed, but no change. More minutes passed, still no change. Not until a half hour later did Doctor Sparke open his eyes and gaze up at them.

	"Tell me, Father, are you hurt?" Josh asked again, his voice filled with tenderness.

	Doctor Sparke did not answer. He still lay motionless but now breathed more evenly.

	"Let him rest a while," Markham said. "I think he will be all right."

	"I hope so. I certainly hope so," sobbed Josh, his eyes moist.

	For several minutes longer the two oceanauts hovered over their injured companion. But he did not stir. Was he dying? Josh and Markham were beginning to lose hope when Doctor Sparke opened his eyes, then closed them again.

	"He's coming to," cried Josh. "Look, he's coming to."

	"Lie still, Homer," Markham urged, gently placing a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Lie still and rest."

	Doctor Sparke pushed his hand aside, struggled to a sitting position, and shook his head. "I'm all right. Shaken a bit, but I'm all right."

	Slowly he moved his arms, then his legs, wincing with each move. "No bones broken," he groaned, "thank goodness for that much. And thank goodness my Homeostat and suit are still intact. Otherwise that would have been the end of me. Here, give me a hand. Help me up."

	"Father," Josh pleaded, "rest a little while longer. Please."

	"No, no, my son. We must leave this area at once. There's blood in the water and should sharks be about and pick up the scent, we would be in real trouble."

	Josh and Markham helped Doctor Sparke to his feet and now, as they supported him on either side, all three oceanauts staggered forward. Holding his father by the arm, Josh thought of the remark about "real trouble" with sharks. What did he call his narrow escape from being swallowed alive?

	Even though Doctor Sparke found walking painful, he refused to stop and rest and, amazingly, within a short time he regained his strength and insisted on managing by himself. And once more he was his old self, barking out orders. "Come, come, let's move a little faster. That grouper made us lose time and we have to make it up ... Wayne, please accept my apologies. You were right about that blasted creature. I should have listened to you and got rid of it." As an afterthought, he added, "Incidentally, did you make a mental note of those mounds of sand? That was a most unusual phenomenon. It's unfortunate that our investigation was interrupted."

	"No, I didn't," replied Markham. "As a matter of fact, when I saw that grouper swallow you, nothing was further from my mind. But you can be sure that as long as I live I'll never forget those mounds of sand."

	When that eventful unit came to an end, the oceanauts lay down to sleep. Switching off his laser, Josh, a smile on his face, said, "Now I know why that grouper followed us so long. It was sizing us up until it finally decided Father would make the juiciest morsel."

	"You're wrong," Doctor Sparke corrected. "It selected me because I was the smallest. And I might add that if it had chosen to swallow a big fellow like you, it would have choked to death."

	"If it had succeeded in getting me down its gullet," Josh chuckled, "I'm sure it would have died of a terrible case of indigestion."

	Ever the ichthyologist, Markham thought out loud. "Wonder if that grouper's stomach juices would have been strong enough to digest an oceanaut with his suit and equipment?"

-

11 – Down the Steep Continental Slope

	The following unit, as the oceanauts walked down the remaining few miles of the Shelf, the sea floor took on the shape of a long natural stairway of sloping steps, each about fifteen feet high and thirty feet wide. At the top of each step the oceanauts simply leaned back, slid down toboggan style, then pushed on to the next. They repeated this procedure until the terrain leveled out once more and brought them to a "forest" of boulders, some large, some small, but all encrusted with wriggling worms and Gorgonias and crawling lobsters and crabs. Doctor Sparke led his companions in a zig-zag course through this strange but fascinating "forest" for hours until their laser cones fell upon what appeared from a distance to be a long wall of mud or sand. But, on approaching closer, they saw that it consisted of a long string of boulders piled one upon another to a height of about sixty feet. And it stood right in their path! "Blast the luck!" fumed Doctor Sparke. "Another delay."

	"Maybe it's not as bad as it looks from here," said Josh hopefully. "There must be some cracks or openings we can squeeze through."

	But, up close, they found not a single opening. "This reminds me," Markham said, "of the rock fences the farmers used to build around their farms in my home state of Maine."

	Surveying the wall, Josh commented, "Very likely these boulders dropped off glaciers."

	"Of course, but did they have to drop off here?" Doctor Sparke said angrily. "Well, since there are no openings, and it's much too far to go around either end, we have no choice. Well have to climb over."

	Scaling the boulders was far from easy, however. The plants and animals made it difficult to get a firm hand- or foothold. And each time the oceanauts did manage to get a grip, the plants would give way or an animal would slither out from under, causing them to tumble back down to the bottom. Josh, nevertheless, finally succeeded in clambering to the top of a big boulder, pulled up his father by the hand, and Doctor Sparke in turn pulled up Markham. In this manner they reached the top. From there they simply slid down, bumping down one rock to the next and landing on the other side.

	The oceanauts carried on without further delay until mid-unit when they came to the Continental Slope, completing the first leg of the journey. Standing on the brink of one of the most majestic features of the earth, they gazed straight down the Slope, then to the north and to the south. And they were stunned. They had studied about the Slope and examined models of it, but they never imagined the stark beauty and grandeur that now stretched out before them. What a magnificent sight! In awe, they cast their lasers down through the black water, surveying the scores of towering cliffs that hung like gigantic folds of drapery, one beside the other as they plunged a mile down to the abyss. Barren of all fife, most of the cliffs dropped sharply; others sloped gradually outward; a few stood like huge chairs hewn out of rock on which King Neptune and the members of his court might have sat.

	Continental slopes, found at the rims of all continents, are actually the borders of those continents. Technically speaking, therefore, the oceans begin at the brinks of those slopes. How the slopes came to be, oceanographers themselves are not sure. They believe, nevertheless, that the cliffs were caused by earthquakes on the ocean floor followed by the uplifting of enormous blocks of rock. If all the oceans were to suddenly dry up, the people on earth would see many awesome sights. For example, about 130 miles to the southeast of New York where the Continental Shelf ends, people would behold the Hudson Canyon, a sight as majestic as the Grand Canyon in Arizona. Off the coast of Chile the natives would behold the most breathtaking sight on earth. Mount Aconcagua in the Andes Mountains rises to a height of nearly 23,000 feet while not far to the north, where the Continental Shelf is very narrow, the Continental Slope drops sharply almost 25,000 feet. Therefore, from the top of Mount Aconcagua to the bottom of the Slope is a total drop of 48,000 feet, or more than nine miles—the steepest drop on earth.

	Turning to Josh, Doctor Sparke said, "Son, you're the expert mountain climber. From here on down to the abyss you're in charge."

	Pleased with his father's show of confidence, Josh studied the terrain below. All was as still and frozen as in a tableau—as if the cliffs with their ledges and crags, promontories, and flat platforms of bare rock had not changed since the beginning of time. What Josh scrutinized most carefully, however, was the yellow mud that covered the Slope, mud so smooth in appearance that he felt that with a pair of skis he could have slalomed all the way to the bottom —mud skin deep, mud many feet deep, mud hanging precariously over the edges of rock as though the slightest tremor would send it rushing pell-mell to the abyss.

	Grimly shaking his head, Josh said, "How deceptively serene and tranquil it looks from here."

	But wise to the treacherous ways of mountains, he knew well enough not to trust to appearances. Time and again he had seen snow lying still on a mountainside one moment, only to explode a moment later into a rampaging avalanche, sweeping everything before it, crushing and destroying towns and burying people alive. At any moment that mud below might well do the same.

	Josh walked along the brink in one direction, then in the opposite direction, carefully studying the contours of the Slope to determine the shortest, the least difficult, and the least dangerous route down. Finally, he decided upon one which, though longer, appeared safer. Preparing to descend, he pushed Lever 3, releasing the crampons on his boots. Next he opened the steel grippers on his fingers, then drew his dag-stock and converted it into an alpenstock. Doctor Sparke and Markham did the same.

	"Before we start," Josh said, "let me go over some important mountain-climbing rules. One, look before placing your feet down. Two, make sure the footing beneath your boots is solid before placing your full weight on it. Three, and this is most important, talk as little as possible. I repeat, talk as little as possible; the less vibration, the less chance of causing an avalanche. When necessary, I'll use hand signals to give instructions. A raised hand is the signal to stop; a wave forward, the signal to move on. Keep a space of a least twenty-five yards between us. Should an avalanche occur, there will be less chance of all of us being caught up in it. Last, should you be caught in an avalanche, kick your feet and flail your arms in a swimming motion and try to stay on top of it. Is all that clear?"

	Markham and Doctor Sparke nodded.

	"Okay, then, follow me," said Josh, leading the way to a narrow ledge that slanted down at a twenty-degree angle. And thus for the first time during the journey the oceanauts left the North American continent and entered the Atlantic Ocean.

	With Josh out front and Markham and Doctor Sparke trailing behind in that order, the oceanauts started the descent of the steep Continental Slope. Cautiously they walked down the ledge, feeling their way with alpenstocks, sticking close to the Slope wall on their right, and gingerly placing one foot before the other lest they slip on the mud despite cramponed boots. Down, down they trudged, from one ledge to another, traversing flat stretches of mud, gliding down from crags and promontories to others below, dropping to greater and greater depths. Now and then Josh looked back to make certain his companions did not get too close, but more often he glanced straight up and to his right, keeping a sharp eye on the Slope wall that towered above them. And what he saw-scores of crags and promontories piled high with mud —was not reassuring.

	More cautious than ever now, Josh often slowed down and descended step by step, displeasing his father who time and time again muttered, "at this rate we'll never get to the bottom."

	Josh, nevertheless, continued to use good judgment and walked at a slow rate from one hour to the next until a rumble like muted thunder was heard in the distance. Stopping short, the oceanauts turned and saw, several hundred feet to the south, a river of mud begin flowing down the Slope, rapidly gaining momentum then becoming a raging torrent. Standing dumbstruck, the oceanauts watched the avalanche roll and thunder on, sweeping boulders and piles upon piles of mud before it. Josh peered below and grimly shook his head. Markham shuddered and Doctor Sparke gaped in awe. When the avalanche reached bottom no one uttered a word but all three were shaken by the same terrifying thought: Suppose that avalanche had occurred several hundred feet to the north.

	More important, how much had it loosened the other mud still lying on the Slope?

	Continuing their descent, the oceanauts were so preoccupied with this example of Nature's power that it was not until they reached a depth of 1,000 feet that Markham paid any attention to the fishes. There were the usual red-and-white shrimp kicking their legs and waving antennae, large jellyfish coiling and uncoiling tentacles, squid probing the water and squirting black liquid, and conger eels poking their heads out of holes in the rock. But now for the first time Markham and his companions saw outside their laser cones countless different colored fights, streaking and flashing through the black water. These were luminescent fishes, the strange creatures that generate and radiate their own light and inhabit the depths of the oceans. Markham smiled and said, "Ah, from here on and for almost the remainder of the journey we will move among these remarkable fight-bearing fishes."

	About one-third of the way down the Slope, Josh led his companions over a bumpy ledge of bare rock that zigzagged like a winding river and apparently provided a route to the bottom. Traversing the ledge, the oceanauts stumbled over rocks, dropped into holes, and climbed over mound after mound of mud. To make matters worse, in places the ledge turned sharply every hundred yards or so, slowing them down to a snail's pace. No one complained, however, not even Doctor Sparke. At this point of the treacherous Slope, just to get to the abyss safely was all the oceanauts asked for. But farther along they did run into trouble, smack into a high and massive wall of rock. Dead end!

	Josh stopped short and waited for his companions to close ranks; and now all three stood side by side pondering their dilemma. To their left the Slope plunged down sharply hundreds of feet; to their right it rose vertically all the way up to the Shelf; while directly before them the wall towered high above and projected outward about 150 feet where it curved sharply to the right. It looked like the gigantic prow of a ship.

	Casting his laser out to the end of the wall, Josh sighted a flat platform of rock jutting out from its face, like an immense lip. "What a stroke of luck!" said Josh. "That platform out there might be a good jumping-off place to continue our descent."

	His neck craned, he slowly ran his laser over the wall before him. Fortunately, he spotted several cracks, horizontal cracks big enough for a man to squeeze into and extending all the way to the curve in the wall. Josh scrutinized each crack, then turned to his companions. "We can do either of two things. We can take our chances and glide straight down, or we can crawl through one of those cracks to that platform out there and hope to find a route down the rest of the Slope. What do you think?"

	"It's up to you, son," replied his father. "You're in charge."

	"Whatever decision you make is agreeable to me," said Markham.

	Josh studied the situation. 'If we glide down and land on that loose mud below," he said, "we're almost certain to start an avalanche. I think it would be wiser to make for that platform out there. Follow me."

	He then climbed up the wall several feet, squeezed into a crack, and lay flat on his stomach. With arms extended forward, he dug his grippers and crampons into the rock under him, then pulled and pushed forward like a soldier crawling across a battlefield. Markham and Doctor Sparke followed close behind. Inching their way forward proved exhausting for all three oceanauts, but for Josh at times it also was painful. He not only had to clear the way of obstructing mud but, being the huskiest of the three, he could squeeze through the crack only with great difficulty. Foot by foot the oceanauts continued crawling until they came to the bend in the wall. There they drifted down to a ledge, leaned back, and rested. "Whew!" Josh groaned, "I'm sure glad that's over."

	"So am I," Markham said, panting for breath.

	"I'm exhausted," said Doctor Sparke. "Descending the Slope was difficult enough to take the starch out of any man."

	Fortunately for all three of them, at that moment the chronometers buzzed 2200 hours. Never had it been so welcome. Without a word they all stretched out and switched off their lasers.

	Josh and Doctor Sparke soon fell into a deep slumber. But Markham could not sleep. He lay awake, staring up into the darkness which—except for an occasional flicker of luminescence—now seemed to be an impenetrable blanket of black. And before long it appeared to be a solid substance, weighing down on him and holding him prisoner. He felt an irresistible urge to push it away and let in some fight. Again and again he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but in vain. He tossed and rolled about for a while, sat up, lay down again, rolled about, then finally fell into a fitful sleep.

	An hour or so later he suddenly sat bolt upright, wildly thrashing his arms and kicking his feet. "Let me go!" he screamed. "Let me go, I say!"

	Josh and Doctor Sparke jumped up and switched on their lasers. "Wake up, wake up," Doctor Sparke said, shaking Markham by the shoulders. "Wayne, wake up. Wayne ..."

	"Take your hands off of me," screamed Markham, pushing him away. "You're choking me. Let me go ... let me ..." Panting, he opened his eyes, shook his head, and stared blankly around. "Where am I? What happened? What happened?"

	"Steady, steady now, Wayne," Josh soothed, holding his companion by the arm. "You're here with us, and everything is okay."

	His mind clearing, Markham recognized his companions and bowed his head in embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, so very sorry. Guess I had a bad nightmare. Some huge black monster was sitting on my chest and strangling me."

	Doctor Sparke put his arm around his shoulder. "Don't feel bad, Wayne. Things like this happen to men confined for any length of time in strange and dark environments. I doubt it will happen again. Now go to sleep."

	"Yes, go to sleep," concurred Josh.

	After Markham lay down again, his companions sat up and watched over him until he fell asleep. Then they too dozed off.

-

12 – The Oceanauts Perform a Good Deed

	Up on their feet and on their way at 0400 hours, the oceanauts walked down the ledge that curved to the right and brought them to the face of the wall. There Josh turned a sharp left and headed across the platform of bare rock, which was shaped like and about the size of an aircraft carrier s deck. Fortunately, it was comparatively level and smooth. "After what we've been through," said Josh, "this is easy...."

	"Not so easy as you think," interrupted Markham as he pointed straight ahead. "Look."

	Josh and Doctor Sparke looked and sighted just above the far end of the platform nine gray sharks, each about fifteen feet long, swimming leisurely round and round in a circle. They were the voracious Sphyrna zyaeno, commonly called hammerheads.

	"Hm," grunted Josh, "we have company waiting for us."

	Perhaps and perhaps not," said Markham, eyeing them carefully. "One can never tell about sharks, they're so unpredictable." Looking around, he went on, "Nonetheless, I don't see any other prey about so we may be in for some trouble."

	"Whatever they're waiting for," scoffed Doctor Sparke, boldly walking on, "no blasted fish are going to force us to change course. Josh, carry on!"

	Josh carried on, leaning on the alpenstock and digging in with crampons. But not far. His father, eager to get a close-up view of the face of the wall, glanced back then stopped short. "Wait! Wait!" he called out. "Take a look at what's behind us."

	Josh and Markham stopped and turned around. About fifty feet to their left yawned a mammoth cave about twice the size of an airplane hangar and extending far back into the rock. From where they stood -they could see the water inside the cave teeming with luminescent fishes and the sides crawling with sea spiders, anemones, and Gorgonias. "Wow!" gasped Josh. "What a cave! What a cave to explore!"

	"What a cave to observe sea life!" exclaimed Markham, his eyes aglow.

	"And what a secluded place for a submarine to hide from an enemy," Doctor Sparke said. Checking his compass to fix the location, he added, "Wayne, get a picture of this cave in your mind. Memorize every detail. The Navy will be extremely happy to know about it."

	As Markham scrutinized the cave, Josh and Doctor Sparke cast their lasers around the rim of its mouth, higher and higher, then stopped abruptly. There they saw the same snakelike object they had seen earlier: the transatlantic cable hanging down from above. But there was something odd about it. Instead of hanging down across the mouth of the cave, it was drawn back sharply as if pulled by some force.

	Curious, Josh and his father walked over until they stood directly before the mouth of the cave and cast their lights into it. And to their amazement they laid eyes on an enormous whale: a mottled monster about the length of two trailer trucks and weighing perhaps 120 tons. Most of its body consisted of a huge head with two small eyes, a blowhole at the left and front of the snout, and a lower jaw lined with eight-inch teeth. The unfortunate creature, entangled and shackled like a prisoner by a loop of cable around the lower jaw that bore an open wound, lay motionless and helpless.

	The instant the lights struck the whale's eyes, it came to life, yelped, let out a high-pitched whistle, and lumberingly moved toward the oceanauts. It did not get very far, however, for the cable quickly tightened around the jaw, restraining it as though it were a dog on a leash. Again and again it tried to ram ahead, but it only succeeded in causing a surge of water that shoved the oceanauts back several feet.

	Doctor Sparke called Markham over and pointed to their discovery. Markham gaped, then said, "Well, that solves the mystery of those sharks out there. They're not interested in us at all; they have a bigger quarry in mind. Like vultures, they're waiting for this whale to grow too weak to defend itself or drown, then they will attack and devour it, even though it may still have some life in it."

	"How the devil did it ever get in that mess?" asked Josh.

	"Oh, such a thing is not uncommon," Doctor Sparke replied. "Indeed, there are such instances of whales getting entangled in cables at depths of 3,000, 4,000 feet, and nearly a mile. Some manage to wriggle free; others don't and drown."

	"But that doesn't answer my question," Josh persisted. "How did it get all tangled up?"

	"We really can't say," Markham explained, "but we can guess. Sperm whales feed on squid and octopuses. Very likely this fellow saw the cable hanging limp over the mouth of the cave, thought it was a tentacle of a squid, attacked, and got all tangled up. In the attempt to free itself, it must have twisted and turned so violently that it got helplessly snarled."

	"Well, it's still alive," said Doctor Sparke, "so it must have got into this mess not so long ago."

	"True," agreed Markham, "a sperm whale can stay submerged for as long as two hours. Eight now this one's getting weaker by the minute, and if it doesn't get some fresh air soon, it will drown."

	The sharks, growing bolder, now circled nearer and nearer while the dying whale, its strength waning, seemed to sense the imminent danger. It moved slowly back and forth, emitting pitiful whistles.

	Josh stared at his father. "Now what?"

	"Now what!" snapped Doctor Sparke, reprovingly, "We're certainly not going to leave this creature to grow weaker and be eaten alive. We're going to disengage it."

	Josh and Markham glanced at each other and smiled. Doctor Sparke, the impetuous and impatient leader of the journey who would brook no delays, could not desert a helpless creature to be devoured alive.

	"Very well," Markham said, "But it's not safe to approach now. It still has enough strength left to be dangerous."

	"All right then, if we have to wait, we'll wait." said Doctor Sparke.

	'It's an old bull," Markham explained, "and I imagine an ill-tempered one at that. Look at its head."

	The whale's head, besides being covered with barnacles, bore a pale spot on top and deep scars around the upper and lower jaws, scars where the skin had been ripped off, probably during struggles with giant squid that fought back savagely with tentacles, hooks, and suckers before being swallowed alive.

	"Hm," grunted Josh, "since it might be an ill-tempered bull, that presents a problem. Suppose we do free it. What's to prevent it from making a meal of us?"

	"Nothing, nothing at all," replied Doctor Sparke, brushing off the question, "but that's the chance we'll have to take. In any event, we're not going to let this animal fall prey to those vultures out there."

	Closing alpenstocks and sheathing them, the oceanauts stood by and waited. Meanwhile, Josh ran his eyes all the way back from its head to tail and thought: "What magnificent creatures whales are!"

	The whale is the largest animal that ever existed on earth, even larger than the dinosaurs and other prehistoric creatures. Thousands of years ago whales lived on land, walking about on four legs; but with the passing of time they entered the sea and adapted themselves to it. The present-day whale, like all mammals, must breathe air to live. At the surface, through its one nostril called a blowhole, it exhales stale air and inhales fresh air. Its eyesight and sense of smell are weak, but its sense of hearing is acute.

	Found in the Arctic and tropical waters, whales have an average life span of twenty to thirty years, but they have been known to live as long as fifty years. All except the sperm whale eat by gulping immense quantities of water, straining it through thin bony structures called baleen, then swallowing the plankton and other remaining forms of animal life. The largest whale is the blue whale, which may measure as long as 114 feet or the combined length of three trailer trucks. It may weigh up to 160 tons or about as much as 2,300 men of average weight; in fact, its heart alone may weigh 1,000 pounds and its liver 2,000 pounds. Unlike fishes, the whale's tail or fluke is horizontal and oscillates like the rotating motion of a ship's propeller; the flippers serve as elevator planes, enabling it to go up, down, and turn right or left. A mighty creature, a whale can swim through water with the force equal to the combined horsepower of two trailer trucks traveling at the speed of twenty-five miles an hour.

	Josh and his companions continued their vigil until the monster, now hardly stirring and with glazed eyes partly closed, seemed near death. Doctor Sparke was eager to move in, but Markham shook his head. Still too dangerous. Doctor Sparke was willing to wait a few more minutes but, when he turned and saw the sharks swimming menacingly close, he changed his mind. "They're getting ready for the kill," he said. "We can't wait any longer. We'll risk it. Wayne, take over!"

	Markham thought it was still dangerous, but he said, "All right, if you insist." He eyed the monster for a moment then added. "The whale has a blind spot, a point at which it cannot see someone approaching from the front. We'll move forward to that point, then from there close in on both sides of its head, one of us on one side, two of us on the other."

	"I'll take the one side by myself," Josh volunteered.

	"Fine, fine," Doctor Sparke said, "but be careful, son, there may be more life in this fellow than we think."

	"When we do close in," Markham warned, "be on the alert for any move it may make and don't talk. Sounds may excite it. If we have to communicate we'll do it by signals. Ready, here we go."

	Markham led the way in a wide circle to the blind spot directly in front of the whale. From there he and his companions approached closer and closer to a point where they could almost reach out and touch the creature's head that now loomed above them fifteen feet. Tense and ready to fall back at the slightest sign of life, they separated and, cautiously, very cautiously, advanced step by step until they stood in their assigned positions behind the loop of the cable, Josh alone on one side of the head and his two companions on the other. Bending down, they could see each other through the whale's open jaws. Josh stared at the open wound, then at the two rows of teeth in the lower jaw, each tooth about two inches in diameter and eight inches long, all gleaming like the teeth of a giant saw. He shuddered at the thought of how easily the monster could make mincemeat of him and his companions should he suddenly come to life and attack.

	As a test, Markham and Doctor Sparke picked up their end of the loop in both hands, slowly pushed it sideways toward Josh, and waited. Although the cable made a scraping sound and stirred up a cloud of mud, the whale did not react. So far, fine. Next, after Josh picked up his end of the loop, all three oceanauts shoved the cable toward each other, making the loop larger and larger until it was almost large enough to be slipped over the lower jaw. Markham was about to give a signal when Josh, not realizing his own strength, gave too mighty a heave, causing the cable to scrape against the wound. Instantly, the whale, with what little strength it had left, oscillated its fluke and plowed ahead; but, thanks to the cable that once again tightened around the lower jaw, it advanced only a few feet. Luckily, Josh and his companions were able to move back far enough to avoid being crushed, but they did not escape the powerful surge of water that knocked them down.

	Sprawled out on the bottom, Josh quickly picked himself up and chuckled, "That's gratitude for you."

	None the worse for their experience, the oceanauts scrambled to their feet, waited for the whale to drift back, and returned to their positions. Again they picked up the two ends of the cable and pushed toward each other, until the loop was large enough. That done, on a signal from Markham, they stepped behind the loop and, now more cautiously and slowly than ever, pushed it forward inch by inch until it was completely off. Finally, they pulled the cable in opposite directions, straightened it out, and dropped it-then as fast as possible moved back.

	The whale, now free, remained motionless as if dead. But a moment later, as the jittery oceanauts watched, it closed it jaws, opened them, closed and opened them again, as if testing to make sure the cable was no longer there. Whereupon, it oscillated its fluke, waved its flippers like giant oars, and again plowed ahead like a locomotive getting up steam-straight at its rescuers, approaching to within thirty ... twenty-five ... twenty feet—and stopped.

	Petrified with fear and unable to flee or hide, Josh, Doctor Sparke, and Markham stepped back, as the whale with its baleful eyes still glistening in the fights, stared at them as though trying to make up its mind whether or not to destroy the two-legged creatures now at its mercy All three oceanauts were sure this was the end. But, seconds later, the monster once more oscillated its fluke and waved its flippers ... but instead of moving forward it began to rise. Unable to believe this stroke of good fortune, the oceanauts looked up and followed it as it rose higher and higher; and, finally, when they felt they were out of danger, they sighed with relief and simultaneously let out a cheer.

	"Wayne," Doctor Sparke asked anxiously, "it's more than a half mile to the surface. Do you think it has enough oxygen left in its system to get there?"

	"I'm not sure," replied Markham, "but I believe so. In any event I certainly hope so."

	"Atta boy! Atta boy!" Josh cried encouragingly. "Keep trying, fella, you'll make it." Turning, he looked for the sharks. But they were nowhere to be seen. Gone. "Well, well, well," he sneered, "what do you know about that? Those brave sharks have skedaddled."

	"Of course," said Markham, not the least bit surprised, "against a whale sharks don't have a chance."

	The whale apparently safely on its way, Doctor Sparke checked his chronometer. It was 0700 hours. They had lost almost a half hour rescuing the whale, but he did not begrudge it. He and his companions had succeeded in saving the life of one of the most majestic creatures of the sea.

	Taking the lead again, Josh for the second time started out across the platform and this time never stopped until he came to the end. From there he and his companions would complete the descent of the Slope, a leg of the journey they were eager to have behind them.

-

13 – Avalanche! Avalanche!

	From the platform and down the remainder of the steep slope to the abyss was a drop of another 2,500 feet. As Josh and his companions surveyed the terrain below, they saw more ledges and crags and promontories, and also more smooth yellow mud, still appearing deceptively tranquil but actually more dangerous than ever. "Well, there it is," said Josh, pointing straight down. "I'm afraid that will have to be our route to the bottom."

	Doctor Sparke and Markham gazed below and saw a crooked path that resembled a giant Z extending down to what the oceanographers call the Slope apron, a stretch of bare rock dropping at a forty-degree angle all the way to the abyss. The first section of the Z consisted of a ledge running north and parallel to the Slope wall for several hundred yards; the second, a deep rut that ran diagonally southeast between vertical walls of rock and mud; and the third and last, a slanting ledge that led to the Slope apron. The route was far from what Josh had hoped for. It turned and twisted, dropped sharply, rose abruptly, and was studded with boulders. But Josh had no choice. It was the only route down.

	Impatient as usual, Doctor Sparke stared at his son. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

	"All right, let's go," said Josh. "Remember, no talking unless it is absolutely necessary; and this time stay farther apart, say, about fifty feet."

	Hands close to sides and body stiff, he was about to step off the brink when he heard another low rumble. It grew louder and louder, and an instant later the oceanauts saw to the south an immense mass o£ mud move, slowly at first then faster and faster until it rushed headlong down the Slope, spreading out and boiling up in yellow clouds twenty, thirty, forty feet high.

	Josh watched for a moment, then shrugged. "That's that. We don't dare start now. That avalanche not only loosened thousands of tons of mud, but also caused enough vibration to start other avalanches. We'll just have to wait."

	Doctor Sparke pounded his fist into his hand. "Delays, delays, delays!"

	Losing no time, Markham seized the opportunity he had been waiting for ever since they reached this depth. "Since we have to wait anyway," he said, enthusiastically, "I suggest we switch off our lasers and observe the luminescent fishes about us."

	Resigned, Doctor Sparke agreed. "All right, Lasers out."

	At this depth of 3,900 feet the eternally black water burst into life with luminescent fishes, providing the oceanauts with a spectacular and dazzling display of fights. Alice in Wonderland was never more enchanted. Above and below and on all sides swam luminescent fishes as tiny as plankton and as big as eels, fishes of every hue from pale purple, yellow, and pink to ghostly greens. They flashed by; they twisted; they crossed and recrossed in a bewildering mass of countless lights. In some places they resembled a summer sky aglow at night with twinkling stars, in other places Broadway ablaze at night, and, in still others, a 4th of July display of fireworks. Some fishes, their lights sparkling brightly, looked like dancing puppets, prancing chorus girls, drifting trays of jewels, neon signs, or tiny trains racing through the night. Others zipped through the water like Roman candles, formed blobs of light resembling jack-o'-lanterns, bounced up and down like pogo sticks, or flared brightly then faded like lighthouse beacons.

	Wide-eyed, Markham turned his head from side to side, observing the different species. "This is the world of luminescence/' he said. "It's most wondrous and fascinating."

	Mouth open, Josh nodded. "Yes it is, wondrous and fascinating."

	'Yes, yes," agreed Doctor Sparke, "it is a sight to behold, and I wish we had more time to admire it, but we don't, so switch on your lasers and let's take a look."

	The instant the lasers flashed on, the luminescence in the cones vanished and the oceanauts once more scanned the Slope below. The river of mud was still sliding down, though very slowly, and the clouds had not yet settled. "Still too risky," said Josh. "We'll have to wait."

	"All right," said Doctor Sparke, "but only for a few minutes, no more. Then we move on, regardless."

	Lasers out, they again were enthralled by the luminescence. "Tell me, Wayne," Josh asked, staring straight up, "have you ichthyologists ever solved the mystery of what causes luminescence in fishes?"

	"No, not yet. For a long time we have studied luminescence in bacteria, plankton, jellyfish, worms, prawns, and other forms of life in the abyss, but we haven't found the answer. Of course we have theories and theories, but the one I accept is that luminescent fishes possess substances called luciferin and luciferase which, when they come in contact with oxygen in water, produce a cold light similar to that given off by fireflies at night."

	"Also," added Doctor Sparke, "ichthyologists are not even sure what the fishes use those lights for, are they?"

	"No, I'm afraid not. Nonetheless, we do know that the lights serve some purpose. Perhaps the fishes use the luminescence to light up the water while hunting for food, as a lure to the opposite sex, to blind an enemy, or perhaps even as a sign of recognition to other fishes of the same species. We are not sure and ..."

	"We've waited long enough," Doctor Sparke interrupted, switching on his laser. "Lights on. Time to be moving on."

	Josh switched on his laser and cast the fight down the Slope. The mud had stopped flowing, but it had not settled and was still a threat. Nevertheless, he placed both hands close to his sides and stood stiff. "Let's go," he said. "Remember, stay fifty feet apart. Follow me."

	Straight down to the ledge the oceanauts glided, first Josh, then Markham and Doctor Sparke, in that order. Well spaced, they walked north proceeding with caution and uttering not a word. Two hours later they came to the end of the ledge, turned sharply, and followed the deep rut that descended in a southeasterly direction. The farther they walked, the rougher the route became, slowing them down considerably. At times they were forced to glide down from one level to another, climb over and walk around boulders, squeeze through narrow paths between walls of mud rising sharply on either side. Twice the oceanauts heard ominous rumbles, and on each occasion they peered down, then up the Slope. What they saw below was menacing enough, but what they saw directly above was downright terrifying. The crags and promontories overhead, topped with layers of mud—twenty, thirty, and forty feet high—jutted out like hideous monsters crouched and waiting for the right moment to pounce upon their defenseless prey below. Feeling the way with his alpenstock, Josh advanced foot by foot, and it was not until mid-unit that he turned north and continued down the last section of the Z, another slanting ledge that brought them all the way to the upper edge of the apron.

	Happy that they had descended the most dangerous part of the Slope without mishap, the oceanauts relaxed. The worst was over—or, at least, so they thought.

	Josh signaled his companions to stop, then scanned the apron directly below. Except for a boulder here and there, it was bare rock, dropping sharply. It was immediately obvious that the apron could be descended only in one way—by crawling on all fours, like a bear coming down a tree. Josh folded his alpenstock and sheathed it, faced about, fell flat to the rock, and dug in hard with his grippers and crampons. His companions followed his example and now all three oceanauts, still about fifty feet apart, started crawling down. Farther and farther they crawled, often having difficulty getting a firm hand- or foothold in the rock, at times slipping and sliding down ten or twenty feet before coming to a stop.

	Crawling down was exhausting and painful, but the oceanauts did not complain. Only a few hundred feet to go now. But just then they felt the rock beneath them quake, and then they heard a rumble, a rumble that grew louder and louder until it changed to a hiss, then a roar, and finally a muffled explosion. Aghast, the oceanauts glanced up. Just what they feared most. A river of mud, like a weird monster, was creeping down toward them, little by little gaining momentum until it roared down at express-train speed, piling up waves upon waves of mud that spread out and billowed higher and higher.

	"Avalanche! Avalanche!" screamed Doctor Sparke, falling flat and hugging the rock.

	"Watch out!" Markham yelled, diving behind a boulder.

	Josh did not have to be warned. He had sighted the avalanche immediately, a cascading swath of mud about two hundred, yards wide, hurtling over precipices, bounding and rebounding off the rock with the thundering roar of a hundred locomotives. And he stood right in the path of its fringe.

	He stared at the onrushing mud for a fraction of a second, then bolted to get out of its path. But too late. He had taken only a few steps when suddenly he felt as if a giant hand had picked him up and hurled him with irresistible force down toward the abyss. Frantically, he flailed his arms and kicked his legs in a swimming motion, trying to stay on top of the river of mud. Time and time again he grabbed hold of a projecting rock or a boulder but promptly let go for fear of having his arms torn off. Completely helpless, like a pebble caught in a tidal wave, he was bounced, driven to the top of the river of mud, sucked down to the bottom, spun around, and rolled over and over all the way to the abyss—where he lay unconscious and buried in mud.

	The instant the avalanche roared by, Doctor Sparke and Markham jumped to their feet and peered through the yellow clouds now enveloping them. They could see each other faintly, but no sign of Josh. They waited a few minutes for the water to clear, but still no sign of him. All they could see below were spurts of mud belching up amid clouds that now bloomed larger and larger like mushrooms.

	"Josh, Josh," Doctor Sparke cried, "where are you?"

	Silence.

	"Josh, answer me," he cried again, "where are you? Answer me."

	Markham walked over to his companion and suggested, "Let's wait until the water clears. Perhaps we'll see some sign of him then."

	"But he may be buried in mud, and by then it will be too late. We must search for him now, right now."

	Whereupon they both pushed Lever 2 on their boots and slogged over the soft mud in the general area where they thought Josh might have been hurled. Ignoring the danger of starting another avalanche, Doctor Sparke cried out again, "Josh! Josh! Josh!"

	Once more only silence.

	"He can't be far off," said Markham, his voice filled with compassion as he tried to console his companion. "He was not more than fifty feet from us when the avalanche struck."

	"True, true," said Doctor Sparke, his eyes moist as he stared across the vast expanse of mud stretching out below them. "But who knows how far he was carried, a hundred yards, a half mile, a mile? Who knows, oh God, who knows?"

	Desperately, they continued slogging this way and that, crying out, searching, crying out. Later using alpenstocks, they jabbed deep into the mud, probing, probing, probing. Still nothing, still not a sign of Josh.

	"Let's turn our lasers off," said Markham. "If he's buried under mud we may see a glimmer of fight."

	"Yes, yes, of course," agreed Doctor Sparke, switching off his laser. "Let's try it."

	Now they peered in all directions through the black water that had cleared considerably. Nothing, nothing but the occasional flicker of a few luminescent fishes that still remained, but not the faintest glimmer of a laser.

	Now Doctor Sparke was positive his son was buried alive in the mud—or dead. If the former, his chances of survival were slight for, without the free circulation of water, death would be only a matter of time. Suffering pangs of conscience, he broke down and sobbed convulsively, "Oh why, why, why did I ask him to volunteer for this dangerous journey? What a fool I was! Josh, my dear son, my good son ..."

	Markham placed his arm around his companion. "Come, Homer, come, it's not hopeless. There's a chance he might still be alive. Up to now we've been searching at random. I suggest we try probing the mud methodically as mountaineers do when searching for survivors after an avalanche."

	"Of course, Wayne, of course," Doctor Sparke sobbed as tears rolled down his cheeks. "Why didn't I think of that? Wayne, I'm in such a panic I can't think straight ..." Pausing to collect his thoughts, he went on. "I guess we can assume he was swept straight down the apron. So let's search every foot of a swath about fifty feet wide from here to the bottom."

	"Excellent idea, Homer," agreed Markham, happy that Doctor Sparke's brilliant mind was once more functioning clearly. "An excellent idea."

	Standing side by side, about two feet apart and facing due north, the two oceanauts slogged ahead, jabbing their alpenstocks into the mud, withdrawing them, walking a step or two, probing again, walking, probing until they covered about fifty yards. There they faced about, probed and walked the same distance, then faced about again. Thus they searched for hour after hour, back and forth, farther and farther down the apron. But still no sign of Josh. At 2200 hours the two oceanauts were ready to drop from exhaustion, but they continued the search right into the next unit, grimly determined to find Josh—dead or alive.

-

14 – Dead or Alive

	Unknown to Doctor Sparke and Markham, only a short distance away, in fact, 120 yards below and to the left, Josh lay buried in the mud. How long he had lain there he himself had no idea but, on regaining consciousness, he opened his eyes and all he could see was a faint yellow glow in front of his faceplate caused by the laser penetrating the mud an inch or two. As his dazed mind cleared, he recalled bounding and somersaulting down the Slope and frantically making swimming motions. To him it was a miracle that he had survived the nightmare. But he was alive and mighty thankful for that.

	Attempting to move, he realized that he was covered with mud and held as though encased in concrete, his legs wide apart and extending straight out, left arm pinioned behind his back, and right arm bent at the elbow with his hand hanging limp overhead. Once more he tried to move, hoping that in places the mud would be loose enough for him to wriggle free and force his way out. But, except for his right hand, he could not budge. Suddenly, the full realization of his predicament dawned on him. He was buried alive ... in a tomb of mud! A feeling of horror seized him. "Father!" he cried. "Father!" But his voice rang only in his own ears. "Fa ..." he began but stopped short What was the use? No one would hear him anyway. Furthermore, it would be a waste of energy and, if he were to get out of this tomb alive, he would need every ounce of energy left in his battered body.

	Since his head was held as in a vise, he rolled his eyes from side to side and up and down; but all he could see was the yellow glow of the mud flush up against his faceplate. A sensation of panic welled up within him; and he was about to cry out again when he recalled the mountain climber's rules for survival when buried in snow: Remain calm. Think. Perhaps someone will rescue you.

	Rescued? Not a chance, he thought. Most likely his father and Markham also had been caught in the avalanche, and they too were buried in the mud. Perhaps dead. What a horrible and inglorious end to the journey. But on second thought, perhaps they had not been caught up in the avalanche. Yes, yes, now he remembered that he had been caught up in the fringe of an onrushing river of mud. Perhaps they were still alive, indeed, most likely they were; and if so, they undoubtedly were searching for him this very moment. "Help! Help! Help!" he cried. But once more his voice rang hollow in his ears.

	Restraining himself lest he panic, Josh considered his predicament for a moment, then decided there was nothing to do but try to dig himself out. His chances of success were remote, but if he were to die it would not be without putting up a fight. To dig himself out, however, he must first know his position in relation to the bottom. Was he facing sideways? Upward? Downward? If sideways, his chances were nil, for he might dig forever and still be under mud. If downward, again nil, for he might dig straight down to rock. Only if he faced upward did he have a chance.

	To determine his position, he resorted to two tricks well known to mountaineers. First, with the fingers of his right hand he tried to form a ball of mud, hoping to release it and determine which way it fell. No success, the mud was too water-soaked. Next, he released saliva from his mouth and waited. What luck! Because of gravity it drooled down the corners of his mouth. "What a relief," he sighed, "I'm sitting upright. At least I have a chance."

	Josh was right, he did have a chance—albeit a slim one—but it depended on the thickness of the mud overhead. He assumed it was not very thick, otherwise he would have been crushed to death by its sheer weight. So, using his right hand only, he would try to escape this prison of mud by boring a hole straight up overhead. If he got through, and if his hand reached the top, and if he could move his head just a little so his laser would shine up and cause the mud to glow, his father and Markham might see it. But if more than three feet of mud lay on top of him ...

	Wiggling the fingers of his right hand, he pecked away at the mud with grippers, little by little working his hand up one ... two ... three inches. In his cramped position each movement was tiring, but he continued to peck away, push up then rest, push up then rest, until he was able to force his arm up as much as six inches. But by that time he was so fatigued he had to stop and rest. To add to his woes, he began to feel a sensation of hunger. To him, of course, this was no mystery. The mud was acting as a filter, and the little water being sucked into his Homeostat was almost entirely devoid of plankton. If he remained there long enough, he would starve to death.

	With what little strength remained, he once more pecked away with his right hand, grunting and groaning as he pushed his arm higher and higher, inch by inch until his elbow was almost straight. Only a few inches to go. He stopped and rested, hoping that when his elbow was entirely straight his fingers would be poking up through the top. If not ... In one last desperate effort, he pecked away and with all his might pushed and pushed until his arm was fully extended. Fearful, he slowly wiggled his fingers ... and felt no mud! He wiggled them again and again, still no mud. Water, only water. He had succeeded in piercing a hole all the way to the top of his tomb!

	Heart thumping, Josh twirled his hand in a circle, shoving the mud at the top aside to make the hole as large as possible. Next, he slowly worked his arm up and down to enlarge it still more, and finally with much effort he pulled his arm back down. Now he was able to move his head as much as an inch or two, until it was almost directly under the hole, and direct the laser beam upward. As expected, some loose mud slid back down the hole, so Josh could not tell how much fight, if any, poked up from his tomb. Although his bones and muscles were wracked with pain, he continued to work his arm up and down until a feeling of dizziness came over him and he lost consciousness.

	Meanwhile, Doctor Sparke and Markham had been searching the area throughout the remainder of Unit 17 and right on into Unit 18 until 1800 hours when they collapsed from exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep. Early the following unit, however, they once more carried on, slogging back and forth, probing with alpenstocks, and occasionally switching off their lasers and peering through the black water. Still not a sign of Josh.

	By now Markham was certain Josh was dead. So was Doctor Sparke, but he stubbornly refused to admit it. It just could not be. It must not be. Like a man possessed, he drove himself and his companion on and on. But anxiety together with fatigue reaped their toll; and before long the two oceanauts could barely lift their feet as they staggered across the mud, rapidly losing hope. Shortly after mid-unit, Doctor Sparke once more said "Lasers off," this time disconsolately as if it did not matter one way or another. Looking around, he and his companion expected to see nothing as usual, but Doctor Sparke thought he sighted something about thirty yards to the left ... a light ... a faint glow.

	Afraid his mind was playing tricks on him, he squinted. No, it was still there! "Wayne! Wayne!" he cried. "Is that a spot of light over there? Answer me! Answer me!"

	Markham looked, squinted, and, after what seemed an eternity to Doctor Sparke, said jubilantly, "Yes, yes, I believe it is a light."

	Filled with new hope, the two oceanauts made for the spot as fast as they could push themselves through the water, still fearful lest the glow fade and vanish. But no. The closer they approached, the brighter and more distinct it was. "Oh, light, blessed light," rejoiced Doctor Sparke, forging ahead.

	The instant they reached the glowing circle of mud, they switched on their lasers and dug frantically. With hands and feet and alpenstocks, they scooped and kicked and shoved the mud aside; and within a matter of seconds found Josh lying at the bottom, his body crumpled in a heap, his eyes closed.

	Doctor Sparke squatted and wiped a layer of mud from his son's faceplate. "Josh," he said softly, "Josh, do you hear me?"

	No answer.

	Gently tapping his son's helmet, "My son, my son, answer me."

	Still no sign of life.

	Doctor Sparke slapped again and again until Josh opened his eyes and closed them.

	"He's alive," gasped Doctor Sparke. "Thank God, he's alive."

	"It's a miracle," gasped Markham.

	Once more Josh opened his eyes and though in great pain, managed a weak smile and tried to move.

	"Lie still," Markham urged, "be still."

	"Of course, don't move, son," Doctor Sparke pleaded. "Don't move."

	Doctor Sparke and Markham quickly cleared away the remaining mud around him. Then ever so gently they lifted him out of the hole, easing him down on a smooth surface.

	"Lie still, my son, while we examine you," said Doctor Sparke, as he and Markham felt Josh's arms and thighs and calves.

	"Any pain?" asked Markham.

	"Some, but not much," moaned Josh. "It's only in the muscles, I think."

	Doctor Sparke and Markham told him to slowly raise one arm, bend it, and straighten it out. The same with the other arm. Then the legs.

	"Any pain?" Doctor Sparke asked.

	"Yes, mostly in the left arm, but it's not an excruciating pain."

	"Fine," his father said. "Now turn your head from side to side. Slowly." Josh obeyed. "No pain."

	Doctor Sparke and Markham stared at each other and smiled. Apparently Josh had suffered no broken bones. Even the flag in the thigh part of his suit remained undamaged.

	"Thank heaven," Doctor Sparke said, "thank heaven you've suffered no serious injuries."

	Markham leaned over and said, "Josh, you must have taken an awful battering flying down that apron."

	"I sure did, and how I ever lived through it I'll never understand," replied Josh, his voice growing stronger. "Now I know how a shuttlecock feels during a game of badminton. If it hadn't been for the water breaking my fall and the mud providing a soft cushion to land on, I'm sure every bone in my body would have been broken. ... By the way, how long have I been buried?"

	"Well" Doctor Sparke replied, "you started your wild toboggan slide sometime during Unit 17, lay there throughout Unit 18, and now we are in the middle of Unit 19. So you've been here almost two units."

	"Hm," Josh grunted, "is that all? It seemed like two centuries." Leaning on his elbows, he continued, "I'm sorry to have caused the loss of all that time, Father, but I can walk now if ..."

	"You'll do nothing of the sort," interrupted Doctor Sparke. "We have a long journey ahead of us, and we'll make up the lost time. Meanwhile you'll do no walking. In fact, we all can do with some rest, so we'll stay right here for the remainder of the unit and start out again at 0400 hours—that is, if you are up to it."

	"But we won't get to the next rendezvous point on time," Josh said.

	"We'll be late, of course, but all the tracking stations have orders to wait in case we are delayed. So put your mind at rest and relax."

	Lights still on, all three oceanauts stretched out on the mud to rest from their nightmarish experience. Josh's muscles still ached, but his sense of humor was not dampened. "You know," he remarked, "I never intended to fly to the abyss like an acrobat, but I did it."

	"You certainly did," said his father, checking his fathometer. "We are now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, 6,400 feet down."

	Josh did some quick mental arithmetic. "It's amazing " he said, "and I still can't get over it. Just now there are about 3,000 pounds of pressure on every square inch of our bodies, yet we're safe and comfortable as if we were in the air world above."

	"Yes, and every bit as comfortable as those fishes swimming around us," said Markham, pointing to a few rare species of deep sea life that happened to go by: lizard-like Bombay ducks, rattails with large heads and long tapering tails, greenish sticklebacks with three sharp spines in front of their dorsal fins, and several duckbill eels.

	After the oceanauts switched off their lasers and lay down, Markham said, "This has been quite a unit. Let's hope we never have another one like it."

	"Amen to that," sighed Josh.

	Doctor Sparke, in his usual manner of getting to the heart of the matter, snapped, "Let's face it. From the moment we started, we knew this journey would be no picnic and, indeed, the most difficult and dangerous parts he ahead. So keep that in mind and hope for the best. And that's enough talk for now. Sleep."

	And all three slept. Like the dead.

	The instant the buzzer awoke them the following unit, Doctor Sparke leaned over to Josh. "How do you feel, son?"

	"A little stiff in my left arm," Josh replied, sitting up, "but other than that not too bad."

	"Think you can walk, or would you rather rest a little while longer?"

	"No, I'll manage. Just give me a hand and help me up."

	His father supporting him on one side and Markham on the other, Josh got to his feet and limped on.

	Each step forward was painful, but he refused to stop. Fortunately, later on the sea floor changed from sand to rock; and the oceanauts, after pushing Lever 1, were able to proceed with little effort. Soon Josh was walking with barely a limp, and he was his old energetic self by the time they reached the edge of the great Sohm Abyssal Plain. The Plain was the next leg of the journey, roughly 1,000 miles long.

	From there on Doctor Sparke drove himself and his companions at a steady pace down a steep decline to the next rendezvous point. Standing in a sandy depression, Doctor Sparke made contact.

	"Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 5. Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 5. Over."

	Instantly the reply came down. "This is Tracking Station 5. Happy to contact you again. You are now two units behind schedule. What caused the delay?"

	"Avalanche, mud avalanche."

	"Avalanche!"

	'Yes, but no harm done."

	"Anyone injured?"

	"Josh incurred slight injuries, but he is all right now."

	"Need any help?"

	"None at all, thank you. Depth, 8,100 feet; temperature, 38 degrees; pressure, 3,600 psi."

	"Are you sure all is well?"

	"Yes, quite sure. Over and out."

	"Thank you, Project Oceanaut. Better luck on the next leg of the journey. Over and out."

	Moments after they set forth, Doctor Sparke remarked, "Can you imagine the excitement our delay caused back in the States?"

	"Yes," said Markham, shaking his head. "The entire country must have been waiting to hear some word from us."

	Josh correctly imagined that and much more. When Tracking Station 5 reported no contact with the oceanauts, the message was flashed immediately to Washington, D.C., throwing President Halloway, NISA, and the entire country into a state of alarm. Newspapers ran screaming headlines: NO CONTACT MADE WITH OCEANAUTS! and OCEANAUTS LOST! and PROJECT OCEANAUT ENDS IN FAILURE! Radio and television broadcast the news. Americans and other peoples all over the world prayed for the oceanauts' safety.

	The man on the street had his own theories as to what had happened, the most common of which was that the oceanauts had been devoured by a ferocious sea monster. The gloom-mongers—a few government officials and scientists—boomed in stentorian tones that the journey was a harebrained scheme, a hundred years ahead of its time. It should never have been undertaken in the first place. A few politicians made capital of the "disaster," bellowing, "The President has sacrificed the lives of three outstanding men on the altar of science."

	Josh also thought of Louise. What anguish she must have suffered!

	From this point on Doctor Sparke and his companions forged ahead relentlessly to make up for the lost time. From the beginning to the end of each unit, Doctor Sparke never veered off course, never slowed down, never permitted stops for observations. And fortunately for him and his companions the Plain was one long steep downgrade, enabling them to make excellent progress.

	By the time they reached Tracking Station 8, they had made up one unit; and, after passing the Kelvin Seamount and arriving at Tracking Station 10, they had traveled the first five hundred miles in forty-two units, averaging twelve miles a unit, and they were on schedule again. Doctor Sparke was not too dissatisfied, but he was not satisfied either. At this point he had hoped to be two or more units ahead of schedule.

-

15 – A Welcoming Committee of Sharks

	As the oceanauts continued traversing the Sohm Abyssal Plain on their way toward the Mid-Ocean Canyon, Doctor Sparke had some second thoughts about crossing that deep gash in the ocean floor. Knowing little about the nature of the terrain at the bottom of the canyon, he feared further delays; and for a while he seriously considered taking another route, one parallel to the rim of the canyon. But, after thinking the matter over and discussing it with his companions, he decided that the canyon was too unusual and important a feature of the ocean floor to bypass. They would descend to the bottom and travel its entire length, regardless of what it might hold in store for them.

	At 8,700 feet the water outside the laser cones was so black that the darkness seemed to be a solid substance, something one could touch. "When I return to the air world," Josh said, gazing around, Til never speak of darkness again. Only down here is there darkness, real darkness."

	"Quite true," agreed Doctor Sparke. "On earth there is no such thing as total darkness, for even on the darkest night there is some light, however little."

	"It's a staggering thought," commented Markham, trailing only a few feet behind Doctor Sparke, "when one realizes we are the first to cast a light through this Stygian blackness, through this world that has been in total and perpetual darkness for two billion years."

	"Yes, yes," agreed Doctor Sparke, "ours are the first fights since the oceans were born. And during all those eons there never existed the dimension of time. Here there are no rhythmic cycles: no morning, noon, or night; no days, weeks, months, or years; no spring, summer, autumn, or winter. Nothing but blackness, forever and ever."

	Markham turned his attention to the myriad luminescent fishes scurrying about in the darkness. As yet most of them had no common classifications. In fact, he observed a few he never knew existed. Like most other luminescent fishes, they too had been endowed with large owl-like eyes. He recognized a bespangled Cyclothone microdon, about three inches long with a large mouth and a series of fights extending down the entire length of its body and shining like stars. An illuminated Cyema atrum, a black arrow-shaped snipe eel about six inches long, whose upper and lower jaws opened and closed like scissors blades. A small blazing Halosaurus rostratus, & beautifully streamlined fish that hung motionless in the water, slowly waving its glistening tail. A star-studded Chiasmodon niger, a fish capable of swallowing prey three times its own size; right then, in fact, it looked as if it had just swallowed a basketball that hung grotesquely down from its belly. A small iridescent Argropelecus affirm with a body resembling a hatchet, eyes projecting above its large mouth like telescopes and a belly lined with purple fights like kernels on a cob.

	"Tsk tsk," Josh laughed, "Nature has been very cruel to that creature. The lights on its belly point downward but its eyes point upward."

	Perhaps the ugliest, yet the most fascinating of all was the Chaulidus sloani, an illuminated saber-toothed viperfish that one might see in a nightmare. About a foot long, its head, sides, and belly glowed with bluish lights strung out like a series of bulbs on an advertising sign. Its mouth was filled with luminous front teeth projecting from the upper and lower jaws. When it opened its mouth and curious fishes swam up close for a better look, they were promptly gulped down.

	"Wow," Josh gasped, "that viperfish should never enter a beauty contest."

	Farther along Markham pointed to a most unusual specimen, six inches long, a Lophodolus lyra, commonly known as an angler fish. Its body, bespangled with lights, consisted mostly of a large mouth illuminated and filled with needlelike teeth. From the angler's back projected up a slender "fishing rod" equipped with a light "bulb" that dangled down over its mouth and served as bait. When an unwary fish was lured close enough to the "bulb," the angler jerked the "rod" back, opened its mouth, and gulped down its prey.

	"I'll bet," Josh chuckled, "that angler could teach Izaak Walton a few tricks about fishing."

	"I'm sure it could," agreed Doctor Sparke, checking his compass, then veering slightly south-southeast. "But you must keep in mind that with that angler and other animal fife down here, fishing is not a sport. It's either catch fish or starve."

	At that moment Markham sighted a species he never knew existed; and he became so excited that he could hardly contain himself. Josh, bursting with curiosity, watched it closely. Doctor Sparke even stopped for a moment to allow closer observation. The fish, almost as round and flat as a pancake, was ten inches across and had luminescent eyes shaped like corkscrews that pointed upward. A ring of tiny fights circled its mouth, while from its lower jaw hung an appendage that looked like a man's beard studded with lights. All three oceanauts gaped in wonder as the fish hung motionless in one spot with its mouth wide open, nonchalantly letting the current carry plankton and small crustaceans down its gullet.

	"This is a species unknown to ichthyology," beamed Markham, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Really, a most unusual find. Ill make a mental note of it. My colleagues will be delighted to know about it."

	"Have you no idea at all what it might be?" asked Doctor Sparke, setting out again.

	Tm not sure, but I believe it's one of the rat-tailed Macrouridae family."

	'In that case," said Josh, pretending to be very serious, "I don't think the poor creature should go through life without a name. So let's give it one."

	"Good idea," Markham said. "What do you suggest?"

	Josh gazed across the undulating sea floor of sand, thought a moment, then said. "Well, why not Waynis markhamus?"

	"Yes, why not, since Wayne discovered it?" agreed Doctor Sparke. "Josh, you could not have made a better choice."

	"Thank you," Markham said, 'Tm highly flattered. Then Waynis markhamus it shall be."

	Early in Unit 46 the oceanauts contacted Tracking Station 11 then continued traversing the Plain across vast stretches of sand- or silt-covered terrain that brought them to a series of step-like drops ranging in height from one hundred to three hundred feet. At each step the oceanauts walked to the brink, glided down, then carried on to the next, repeating the procedure over and over to a depth of 14,900 feet where, the sea floor once more leveled off. Doctor Sparke was in a happy frame of mind. For several units now they had been advancing at a good rate of speed and without a single delay. They were not only making up for lost time but, if all continued to go well, they would arrive at the mouth of the Mid-Ocean Canyon ahead of schedule.

	But Doctor Sparke knew better than to expect things to go along smoothly. And so it turned out. Later, when they walked to the top of a slope that descended gradually all the way down to the canyon, he saw something. "Now," he said, pointing, "just take a look at that."

	About two hundred yards up ahead, Josh and Markham sighted a school of sharks lazily swimming in and out of the laser cones. Each black creature, tinged with purple, was about twenty feet long and weighed perhaps as much as a ton. And, strangely enough, as the oceanauts advanced the sharks swam farther and farther back, maintaining a gap of about a hundred yards.

	"Well," said Markham, "I see we have a welcoming committee."

	"Such a welcoming committee," sneered Josh, "we can well do without."

	"Greenland sharks, I believe," said Doctor Sparke, without slowing his pace.

	"I'm afraid so," Markham said ominously. "They're the Somniosus microcephalus. Extremely voracious scavengers."

	"Very, very interesting," said Josh, fingering his dagstock. "I just hope they don't consider us something to scavenge."

	"Well, they're here and that's that," said Doctor Sparke. "They may or may not give us trouble, but in any case we're not changing course or even slowing down for the likes of them."

	Ignoring the sharks and continuing to walk at a brisk pace, Doctor Sparke led his companions down the slope that was rippled with ridges of sand evenly spaced and a few inches high. The entire area resembled an immense plowed-up field on a farm. Intrigued, he peered in different directions and nodded. "If anyone doubts the existence of currents at the very bottom of the ocean, he should see this. Positive proof of deep sea currents."

	"And should he want further proof, let him look out there," said Markham, pointing to where a cluster of luminescent fishes remained in one spot, all facing in the same direction with mouths wide open and catching the many forms of life the current carried in.

	"I'll say this much," said Josh, keeping a wary eye on the sharks, "anyone who doubts there are currents in the seas from the surface down to the bottom should never live to see the day when those currents stop."

	"Amen to that," agreed Doctor Sparke, most emphatically, "and if that day should ever come, the oceans would become one enormous mass of stagnant foul-smelling water, a vast swamp covering three-quarters of the earth and making life on land as well as in the oceans impossible."

	The oceans contain roughly 400,000,000 cubic miles of water that cover an area of 140,000,000 square miles of the earth and weigh approximately 1,500,000,000,000 tons. Nature, as with a giant spoon, ceaselessly stirs this enormous body of water, causing currents that continually flow north, south, east, and west—and other currents that flow vertically or up and down. There are massive surface and under-the-surface currents, which move in horizontal paths and together form the "bloodstreams" that keep the oceans "alive." They perform invaluable services for man. They soak up heat from the tropics and distribute it to colder parts of the world. They also absorb oxygen from the air above and disperse it throughout the oceans. Without that oxygen all plant and animal life would perish.

	Besides the surface and under-the-surface currents, there are currents that move in vertical paths like water in a slow-boiling kettle, rising from the bottom to the surface, then dropping back to the bottom. This massive movement of billions of tons of water, called upwelling, performs two vital functions. It brings up from the depths the nitrates and sulphates that fertilize the phytoplankton or "grass" of the seas. It also brings up from the bottom water that has lost most of its oxygen, which is replaced by highly oxygenated surface water that sinks to the bottom. Without this oxygenated water all life in the depths would perish.

	The waters that rise and fall vertically move at a ponderously slow rate of speed. Some oceanographers estimate that complete turnover of all the water in the Atlantic Ocean from the sea floor to the surface and back again takes about five hundred years—the Pacific Ocean, 1,000 years. Possibly the very water the oceanauts were now walking through once lapped against the hulls of Columbus' Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. This mixing of the ocean waters has been going on for millions of years, and one can safely say that actually there is no such thing as the Atlantic Ocean or Pacific Ocean or Indian Ocean. It is all one stupendous mass of water. Perhaps it should be called the 'World Ocean."

	Now only two miles from the canyon, Doctor Sparke kept a sharp eye not so much on his instruments and the route ahead, but on the sharks. "Wayne," he asked, glancing back over his shoulder, "Wayne, those brutes are behaving suspiciously. What do you think? Are they up to no good?"

	"I haven't any idea," Markham replied, "as I explained before, sharks are strange fish, most unpredictable. At times they may be as timid as minnows, at other times they will snoop around out of mere curiosity, and at times they will attack with the ferocity of tigers." Watching them for a moment, he continued, "One thing is certain though. Those devils have stopped moving back, and they're letting the gap between us close."

	"Yes, I've noticed that too," said Josh, fingering his dagstock to make sure it was loose in its sheath.

	Subsequently, in the latter hours of Unit 47, the oceanauts approached to within a few hundred yards of the canyon's mouth and were eager to descend to the bottom. But the way was blocked. The sharks— fourteen of them, all gracefully streamlined and with tails slowly moving from side to side and gills pulsating rhythmically—swam in a wide circle. Three-foot remoras—parasitic fish—clung to the lower jaws of several of them. Now the oceanauts could clearly see the brutes' pointed snouts and their huge jaws, opening and closing menacingly and revealing rows of gleaming white teeth.

	In spite of the danger, Doctor Sparke boldly led his companions forward, refusing to slow his pace or veer one inch off course. But suddenly, and to their dismay, they saw the sharks break formation, swim out in single file, and with incredible speed encircle and form a sort of noose around them. Trapped, the oceanauts stopped short and huddled close together, slowly turning their heads and watching the predators swimming round and round. No doubt about it now. These sharks were not timid; they were not curious; they were vicious and hungry. In complete command of the situation, they seemed to be playing a game of cat-and-mouse with their victims. At the moment of their own choosing, they would attack.

	The oceanauts drew their dagstocks.

	"Josh, Wayne," Doctor Sparke said softly, "listen to me. Don't take your eyes off them for a second. Be ready for anything, but make no hasty move. Strike only if they attack. We don't want to draw blood unless absolutely necessary."

	Crouched back to back, the oceanauts brandished their dagstocks and dug their boots deep into the sand. Tense and ready, Doctor Sparke noticed that the sharks were closing in and tightening the noose. "This may be the end for us," he said, "but we'll put up a fight."

	"No question about that," snarled Josh, teeth clenched and eyes fixed on the underbelly of the nearest brute, now only a few yards away.

	Markham studied their movements, trying to catch some sign of impending attack. "We haven't a chance against these monsters," he said, "unless we ..."

	"Unless what?" asked Doctor Sparke and Josh simultaneously, keeping their eyes glued on the sharks.

	"I have an idea," replied Markham, "but I'm not sure it will be effective."

	"Come, Wayne," muttered Doctor Sparke angrily, "this is no time for discussions. Out with it. Quick."

	"We might be able to frighten them away by yelling at the tops of our voices."

	The shark is one fish whose ears receive communications from the outside. Besides that, like most other fishes, it has what is called a lateral line—a series of microscopically small openings running the length of both sides of its body from head to tail. These openings are extremely sensitive to outside pressures, especially water movements and sounds.

	"Yes, of course, of course," said Doctor Sparke, "why didn't I think of that?"

	Josh nodded. He had heard scuba divers tell of instances in which they had scared off sharks by making loud noises; but he also had heard them tell of instances when loud noises did not scare them off. He gripped his dagstock tighter.

	"Well," said Doctor Sparke, "since we have no alternative, we'll try it. Now when they attack, I'll give a signal and we'll all yell—an Indian war cry, as loud as possible. But, remember, all together and not until I give the signal."

	"Get ready," Markham whispered, "they'll be coming in any second now."

	"Let them come," growled Doctor Sparke. "Come on, you blasted brutes. Neither you nor anything else in this ocean is going to prevent us from finishing this journey. Come on."

	Like a tiger about to spring, Josh crouched still lower as he saw two remoras detach themselves from the lead shark and dart straight at him, banging up against his faceplate. Refusing to be distracted, he brushed them aside and kept his eyes on the real danger.

	Suddenly the lead shark, followed by the others, broke from the circle, swam off a short distance, swerved, and with blinding speed charged at the oceanauts.

	Doctor Sparke waited a split second then commanded, "Yell! Yell!"

	Together, the oceanauts let out a spine-chilling shriek, "Eee ... eee ... ah!"

	As if by magic the startled sharks wheeled and, like a flock of frightened birds, scurried madly in all directions. Almost simultaneously a surge of water knocked the oceanauts sprawling and somersaulting backward across the bottom, jarring their dagstocks from their hands. Stunned, all three quickly scrambled back to their feet, picked up their weapons, and huddled together again, ready to fight. But there was nothing to fight, for by now the sharks were hundreds of yards away and still fleeing as though they were pursued.

	Dazed, unable to believe they had come out of the hair-raising experience untouched and alive, the oceanauts stood speechless and stared at one another. Finally, Josh said, "Wayne, congratulations. Your idea did the trick. It certainly did. Wow!"

	"Yes ... it ... did," stammered Markham, still shaking in disbelief. "What a stroke of luck!"

	"Luck, yes," said Doctor Sparke, "but much more than that. It was really your knowledge of the habits of sharks that really saved our lives. If not for you, this journey would have come to an end right here." Sheathing his dagstock, he glanced at his chronometer and said, "Fortunately, we lost only twenty minutes. Come, the way to the canyon is now clear."

-

16 – A Walk Across the Bottom of the Bottom

	The sharks gone and the way clear, the oceanauts moved ahead and within a short time were standing at the mouth of the Mid-Ocean Canyon. To oceanographers, the origin of this canyon and the others at the bottom of the oceans is still a mystery. Again there are theories, of course. One is that they were caused by earthquakes; another is that they were caused by rivers of water flowing under the sea floor for ages until the floor itself caved in. The most plausible explanation is that they were caused by turbidity currents—those tremendous jets of water loaded with mud, gravel, and rocks that rush at great speed through the abyss with the force of a hundred express trains, gouging out deep gashes in the sea floor.

	The oceanauts, casting their lasers north, south, then due east, could hardly wait to descend to the bottom of the canyon. And each for his own particular reason: Doctor Sparke, to observe the terrain; Mark-ham, to discover new species of animal life; Josh, to explore the bottom of the bottom. Hands on hips and eyes filled with anticipation, Josh stood at the brink and peered below. "Looks mighty interesting from up here," he said, "just like a superhighway waiting for us to be the first to travel over it."

	"And a most unusual highway it is," commented Doctor Sparke. "It's about four hundred feet deep, three miles wide, and runs from here due east about 350 miles, roughly equivalent to the distance from New York to Pittsburgh ... Well, let's not stand here gaping. Push Lever 3, open grippers, and follow me."

	Trailed by Markham, then Josh, Doctor Sparke glided to a smooth shelf of rock below and walked down to the edge of a steep pebble-covered slope that slanted sharply to the canyon floor. There Doctor Sparke paused for a moment, surveyed the terrain, and said, "We will traverse the first half of the canyon along the base of the north wall to our left; midway we'll cross over and traverse the remaining half along the base of the south wall to our right. From what I can see from here, we're going to have some rough going. Come."

	And as Doctor Sparke predicted, the going was rough. From one unit to the next they moved forward at a tediously slow pace, climbing up ridges, gliding down sharp drops, crawling over jagged rocks, skirting huge boulders, stepping over crevasses. Originally, Doctor Sparke had allowed between twenty-five and thirty units to travel from the western to the eastern end of the canyon, but the bottom proved so much more irregular than expected that he was forced to revise his schedule. At the next rendezvous point he informed Tracking Station 12 that the trek would require at least thirty units, perhaps more.

	From there the oceanauts forged ahead, fascinated with the thought of exploring the very innards of the earth as they alternately cast their lasers ahead, across the canyon floor, then to the left against the north wall. The wall, with its ever-changing face, now held them entranced. For the first fifty miles it was flat and smooth, but beyond that the currents and erosion had worked strange wonders. In one place the wall took on the appearance of the Grand Canyon in Arizona with its purple and blue and red layers of rock—also with its temples, mesas, towers, and other bizarre rock formations. Farther along it resembled a section of the Roman Coliseum with tier upon tier of benches, giving the impression that ages ago prehistoric monsters might have staged contests on the canyon floor where other monsters fought to the death.

	Near the midway point, the oceanauts came upon another astonishing phenomenon. Scattered across the bottom and imbedded in sediment lay thousands of odd-shaped nodules or lumps, ranging in size from that of a potato to that of a watermelon. As Doctor Sparke threaded his way through the field of nodules, he now and then picked one up, examined it, then explained to his companions that it was part manganese, part iron, and the rest copper, nickel, and cobalt. Oceanographers believed, he further explained, that over the ages these nodules are formed around sharks' teeth, whale bones, and such, as pearls in oysters are formed around grains of sand. Glancing at his compass to make a note of the exact location, he concluded, "This is an excellent example of the inexhaustible quantities of mineral wealth lying at the bottom of the oceans. I prophesy that some day man will devise a way to scoop up these millions of tons of metal. Some day he will even learn how Nature forms these nodules, whereupon he will set up farms on the ocean floor and will culture metal nodules very much as today he cultures pearls."

	As the result of their slow progress through the canyon, the oceanauts were unable to contact Tracking Station 15 until Unit 62, one unit behind schedule. And unless the terrain improved considerably, which was unlikely, it seemed certain that by the time they reached the eastern end, they would be even farther behind. Strangely, Doctor Sparke was only mildly concerned. The walk through the canyon was proving so fascinating and providing so much information that he resigned himself to falling behind schedule. It was worth it.

	Midway, Doctor Sparke turned sharp right and led his companions across the canyon toward the south wall. The crossing proved uneventful until they came to a strange, intriguing phenomenon. The canyon floor suddenly changed from a craggy surface to a "pavement" as smooth and flat and black as any modern asphalt superhighway. Walking over the "pavement," the oceanauts could hardly believe their eyes. Except for a thin layer of ooze, it seemed to have been built only recently by man and now was waiting for trucks and automobiles to speed over it. At no time during the journey had the oceanauts seen anything like it.

	Amazed, Josh said, "If they ever build automobiles capable of traveling at the bottom of the ocean, this will be a speedway."

	"Just what is this?" asked Markham.

	Doctor Sparke wiped the ooze from a small area and scrutinized the smooth black surface. "Hm," he grunted, "just as I thought. It's manganese oxide. Oceanographers have discovered areas similar to this off the coast of Georgia and elsewhere." Checking his compass to note the exact location, he continued, "NISA and many of my colleagues will be most interested in knowing about this phenomenon."

	The oceanauts enjoyed the pleasure of walking over the "pavement" with such ease until they came to the south wall where Doctor Sparke turned sharp left and led the way northeast, once more plodding over rough terrain. They had walked only a few miles when Markham noticed that, whereas the animal life along the north wall had been sparse, here along the south wall the water was alive with angler fish, squid, crustaceans, and jellyfish—many of which he had already seen in shallower water. He did, however, see others, a few observed perhaps for the first time by man in their natural habitat: a two-foot Eurpharynx pelecanoides, sometimes called a gulper eel, with a long thin illuminated body and a large mouth filled with depressible teeth that allowed prey to slide down easily; a Vampyroteuthis infernalis that looked like a cross between a squid and an anemone with a body all bespangled with lights; and a foot-long Bathypterois dubuis, a species related to the lantern fishes and equipped with long stilt-like pectoral fins with which it dug into the sediment for worms. In one spot near the base of the wall he sighted a species he never knew existed. "Look!" he cried. "Look at the strange creature!"

	Doctor Sparke and Josh gazed at the black fish that was four inches long, bespangled with lights, and equipped with a foot-long caudal fin that streaked behind like the tail of a kite. Stranger still, it swam up and down like a helicopter.

	"A most interesting species," said Doctor Sparke. "What is it?"

	Markham studied the fish and tried to classify it. 'Tm afraid I don't know," he said. "I really can't say."

	"If you can't classify it," Josh remarked, "it must be a rare one, perhaps a species unknown to ichthyology."

	"In any event, Wayne," Doctor Sparke said, "make a mental note of it. I'm sure your colleagues will be interested in seeing a sketch of it."

	"And while you're at it," Josh said, stepping over a crevasse, "why not give it a name too?"

	"Agreed," said Markham, nodding, "and if you don't mind, "I'll name this one. I'll call it Joshis sparkeus."

	Doctor Sparke smiled. "I knew my son would go down in history somehow."

	Feigning a look of sadness, Josh shook his head and mumbled, "Poor fish."

	As the oceanauts continued to advance throughout Units 62, 63, and 64, they found the face of the south wall flat and monotonous. Only twice did it change drastically. At one point the base receded back a hundred yards while the top projected out about the same distance, providing a canopy of rock under which the oceanauts walked. Feeling insecure, Doctor Sparke often glanced up, well aware of the fact that those thousands of tons of rock hung precariously overhead weakened by centuries of erosion and buffeting of currents and might come tumbling down on them without warning at any moment. He pushed himself and his companions relentlessly at a rapid pace, never slackening the pace until the wall once more flattened out.

	At another point, sixty miles short of the eastern end of the canyon, erosion had carved on the wall a sort of reproduction of an Indian pueblo village in Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado. At first the oceanauts stared wide-eyed in disbelief. There were the similar horizontal ledges, one above the other; similar holes and cracks in the wall; and the similar round and square rock formations that might serve as dwellings. And, of all things, there were also the rough-hewn rock ladders climbing from one level to another. Walking past the "village," the oceanauts watched fishes swimming in and out of the holes and cracks and "dwellings," just like Indians who might have been going about their business in a pueblo.

	To Josh, however, the most exciting and also the most tempting part of the south wall was its base, which was pock-marked with cave after cave. Ever since he had explored his first cave at the age of ten, he had dreamed of exploring one at the bottom of the sea. And now, as he walked on, he cast his light into one cave, then the next and the next. Little by little, the temptation to enter one and take a quick look around increased until he was on the verge of asking his father to stop for a while. But he decided against it. Not here, especially since they were behind schedule. His time would come. There would be more caves—many more and bigger—in the mountains of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

	In the latter part of Unit 79 the oceanauts finally arrived at the eastern end of the canyon. There, fortunately, a smooth incline provided an easy path back up to the Sohm Abyssal Plain, and soon Doctor Sparke and his companions were traveling over level terrain. Veering slightly to the southeast, Doctor Sparke led the way to the next rendezvous point, 39° 2C 4" North and 56° 25' 3" West. Standing in a shallow pit of sand, he made contact with topside.

	"Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 18. Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 18. Over."

	"This is Tracking Station 18. Come in, Project Oceanaut. We hear you loud and clear. Over."

	"Have crossed the Mid-Ocean Canyon. All is well, but again we are behind schedule—two units."

	"What caused the delay?"

	"The canyon floor was much rougher than we had expected. Believe, however, that we can make up for lost time while crossing the Plain. Depth, 17,400 feet; temperature, 33 degrees; pressure, 7,900 psi. That is all. Over and out."

	"Thank you, Project Oceanaut. Good luck. Over and out."

	Twenty minutes after Tracking Station 18 had signed off, the chronometers buzzed 2200 hours. Doctor Sparke and Markham, quite tired and weary, lay down and soon fell into a deep slumber. Josh, however, could not sleep. His father's words "Depth, 17,400 feet" kept ringing in his ears. He and his companions were now almost three and a half miles down in this desolate world of eerie silence and perpetual darkness that never seemed to change. Here time did not exist. If not for their chronometers, Josh thought, he and his companions would have no sense of time whatever. They would be existing in sort of a limbo, as though suspended in outer space.

	But up in the air world above, with its sunlight and sounds and people and things, it was autumn, mid-September, a time of change. The days were growing shorter, the nights longer; the blistering sun was losing its sting, and Nature had begun its annual splashing of trees with vivid yellows and browns and reds. The baseball season was drawing to a close, football was about to begin, the election campaigns were in full swing. Farmers were harvesting their crops. Men, women, and children, their vacations over, were back at work or at school. Louise also was back in the classroom.

-

17 – Lost in an Undersea Cave

	As they started out the following unit, Doctor Sparke assessed the progress he and his companions had achieved so far, their present position, and the prospects for completing the journey. And he was satisfied. He and his companions had traveled 1,000 miles, or one quarter of the distance, Their Homeostats and suits and equipment were still functioning well. They were not only in excellent physical condition but also in high spirits. They were two units behind schedule, of course, but there was a good chance they would make up the time while traversing the last half of the smooth Sohm Abyssal Plain. And if they suffered no serious setbacks during the remaining 3,000 miles, they would have ample fuel to sustain them until they reached the coast of Portugal.

	Now, for the first time during the journey, the oceanauts trekked across a portion of the sea floor that was as flat as a billiard table and so level it dropped only a foot every mile as it stretched endlessly before them. Indeed, it looked like a desert covered with water; and for the first ten miles the oceanauts walked on as if in a daze, seldom saying a word as they peered around in awe at the vast emptiness.

	Doctor Sparke, when not checking his instruments to stay on course and his chronometer to maintain the proper pace, constantly scanned the bottom. Here, at 18,500 feet, he saw no silt or sand but much ooze and sediment and different kinds of volcanic mud, black mud, red mud, blue mud, and green mud. Time and time again he wished he could scoop up a few samples and take them back home for study under a microscope. On the sea floor Markham spotted nothing but a few sea spiders, brittle starfish, and worms—and in the water some crustaceans and luminescent fishes. The vast barren Plain reminded Josh of the Great Plains of Kansas that extend hundreds of miles to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, all flat land with a horizon that seems to recede endlessly as one travels west. Except for the routine stops at fifty-mile intervals the dull sameness and monotonous scenery was never broken until the oceanauts reached rendezvous point 38° 18' 4" North and 43° KX 20" West, a few miles from the foothills of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

	Doctor Sparke had hoped to reach the foothills several units ahead of schedule but, in crossing the Plain, they were able to make up only two units. Now they were just on schedule, not a happy situation with the treacherous mountains looming up ahead.

	The Mid-Atlantic Ridge was discovered at the bottom of the sea about a century ago and was perhaps one of the greatest single geographical finds in modern times. The mountains rise to a height of 12,000 feet, are twice as wide as the Andes Mountains, and wind their way across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean from Iceland to the southern tip of Africa—a distance of 11,000 miles. Of the Ridge's countless peaks, most of which were born of volcanic eruptions, only a few—such as the Azores Islands—poke then-way up through the surface. The highest of these is Pico Island which from the sea floor up to its peak, rises to a height of 27,000 feet.

	It is not known just how the Mid-Atlantic Ridge was formed. The romanticists like to think it is the mythical Lost Atlantis, the continent that mysteriously vanished in one day and one night. The oceanographers have several theories. Some believe that at one time the eastern and western hemispheres were one great land mass that split into two parts and drifted from each other, leaving behind the Ridge. Others believe it resulted from the uplifting and faulting of the earth's crust. The most convincing theory perhaps is that the heat inside the earth created tremendous pressures, forcing up through the crust billions of tons of rock that mushroomed and spread out, piling up to great heights.

	At the time Doctor Sparke and NISA had planned the route across the bottom of the ocean, the Ridge presented serious problems. One was its great width. Because of the limited fuel supply, the crossing had to be made at the neck or narrowest part which—including the western foothills, the steep upper reaches, and the eastern foothills—extended a total of nearly 1,100 miles. Two, the Great Rift Valley, the deep cut that runs down the entire length of the chain of mountains, had to be crossed somehow. Three, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge was the most active center of volcanic and earthquake activity on the sea floor. The less time spent crossing it, the better.

	Happy to leave the Sohm Abyssal Plain, the oceanauts carried on and, even though they knew this leg of the journey would be the most difficult and dangerous, they also knew it promised to be the most exciting. The very thought of crossing the mountain at the bottom of the ocean filled them with anticipation. Leaning on alpenstocks and digging in with crampons, they started up the western foothills, which consisted of three terraces averaging one hundred miles in width, and continuously rising higher and higher to the base of the upper reaches of the mountain. With Doctor Sparke up front, the oceanauts ascended the foothills, never stopping except to sleep and contact topside. Slowly they made their way up the first terrace through water sparkling with luminescence and over terrain strewn with rocks, gashed with crevasses, and, to Josh's delight, pitted with caves. They climbed over mesas and dropped into gullies and followed their meanderings. They trudged up sinuous valleys and threaded their way through fields of huge black volcanic boulders, many so delicately balanced that it appeared that the slightest jolt might send them tumbling down to the Plain.

	As the oceanauts trudged up the foothills, they gradually fell farther behind schedule. But their minds were occupied with other thoughts. Doctor Sparke studied the terrain, especially the volcanic rock. Occasionally he would pick up a piece, turn it over and over, and examine it carefully. Once he muttered to himself, '"What a place for a geologist to do research!" Markham, as usual, looked about for unknown species that might inhabit the deep current that flowed ponderously over the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. And he did discover a few. Josh was thrilled just to be climbing a mountain at the bottom of the sea, but before long he became engaged in a struggle with himself. As he passed one cave after another, he found each one more inviting and tempting than the last; and in passing he would drag his feet, look back longingly, wondering if he dared ask his father to stop for a while. From one unit to the next his desire to enter and explore a cave increased until he became a man obsessed with one thought: Before we cross this mountain, I'm going to explore a cave. It's now or never. Occasionally he looked up ahead, gathered courage, and was on the verge of asking permission to stop. But the sight of his father planting his alpenstock hard into the rock, peering straight ahead, and pressing forward in his usual no-nonsense manner made Josh have a change of heart.

	Halfway up the first terrace, however, luck smiled on him. In the early hours of Unit 123, as they were skirting the base of a low peak, Doctor Sparke ran his eyes up and down its wall and said, "The composition of the rock here has always baffled geologists. Is it volcanic? Or granite? Or is it solidified sediment or what?" Walking up close to a boulder, he added, "It might be a good idea to stop just a few minutes, chip off a few samples of rock, and examine them."

	"Excellent idea," agreed Markham, who had been wishing right along to stop for a while and make some observations of his own, but had also dared not ask permission. "There are several anglers and snipe eels I'd like to study."

	Quick to seize the opportunity, but trying to sound casual, Josh said, "Father, don't you think it would be worthwhile to examine a few chips from inside one of those caves?"

	"Fine, fine," said his father, momentarily caught off guard as he chipped away at the boulder with his alpenstock. "Go right ahead."

	Josh turned and was heading toward a particular cave about fifty yards away when his father looked up. "Just a minute, young man," he said, "not so fast. Which cave?"

	"That one over there," Josh replied, pointing to one at the base of the peak.

	Doctor Sparke gazed fixedly at the cave then, knowing his son's weakness for unexplored caves, warned, "All right, but remember, I want you back here within fifteen minutes. Understand? Fifteen minutes, no morel"

	"Of course, Father, of course," said Josh, his voice ringing with excitement.

	Losing no time, he made for the cave, but it just happened that on the way he came to the mouth of a tunnel, paused, and cast his laser into it merely as a matter of curiosity. And what he saw brought him to an abrupt stop. The tunnel, about fifteen feet in diameter, spiraled down at a sharp angle about one hundred feet to a large vault. Irresistibly lured to the tunnel, in spite of his better judgment, Josh forgot his father's warning and also the spelunker's maxim never to enter a cave alone. He sheathed his alpenstock, opened his grippers, and crawled into the opening.

	Down, down he slid, stirring up clouds of ooze, bumping his faceplate against jagged rock, dodging silvery fishes, and finally landing in the vault. Getting to his feet, he gazed about at the raw beauty of untouched Nature. Eyes opening wider and wider, he gasped, "Fantastic! Absolutely fantastic!"

	The vault, about twice the size of the great Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, could have sheltered several giant airliners. Its dome-shaped ceiling, mottled with greens and yellows, was studded with slivers of stone that hung down like so many long pencils. The walk, sloping down in graceful curves, seemed to have been decorated with friezes and scrollwork by undersea sculptors. Most exciting of all, the bases of the walls were pockmarked with scores of tunnels and caves that looked like so many black holes. The floor of the vault was most irregular, bumpy, gashed with cracks, and studded with boulders. Josh wondered what could possibly have caused the formation of this vault with its bizarre rock formations. Erosion resulting from deep-sea currents? Radioactive heat from beneath the earth's crust? Or convulsions of the earth caused by earthquakes or volcanic eruptions?

	Letting his eyes wander slowly around the base of the walls, Josh, his heart thumping, smiled and murmured, "Wow! This place is a honeycomb of tunnels and caves."

	The more he looked, the more his curiosity was aroused and the faster his heart beat. Where could they all lead to? Dead ends? The lairs of undersea creatures? Other and even greater vaults? Now each one seemed to beckon to him, to promise sights he had never before laid eyes on. He glanced at his chronometer. He still had several minutes. Why not crawl into one, take a quick look around, see what there way to see, then return and rejoin his companions. Sure, why not?

	Since each hole looked as tempting as the next, Josh walked around the great vault, peering into one after another until one tunnel in particular caught his fancy. Only three feet in diameter and about sixty feet long, its jagged walls were pimpled with projecting points of rock, but what made it most intriguing to Josh was that it seemed to lead to another vault. Perhaps even a larger one. Head and shoulders first, he squeezed into its mouth, then, pulling with grippers and pushing with crampons, crawled inch by inch over ooze and through water teeming with snipe eels that slithered in and out of cracks. Now and then they darted at Josh who by reflex would duck or jerk his head to avoid them. On and on he crawled to the opposite end of the tunnel, emerged, looked around, and shook his head. This second vault was small and of little interest. Disappointed, he wasted no time, squeezed into the tunnel again, and started crawling back. He was making steady headway and was only a few feet from the mouth of the tunnel when a snipe eel darted from a crack and zipped straight at his faceplate. Caught off guard, Josh jerked his head up hard, banging it against the rock and knocking out his laser!

	Quickly crawling out of the tunnel and back into the vault, Josh stood up and shook his head vigorously. He slapped his hand hard against his laser. No light. He switched it on and off, on and off. Still no light. Breathing heavily, he gazed around the vault. Except for the luminous fishes, all was solid blackness and forbidding silence.

	A feeling of panic crept over Josh, but he quickly pulled himself together and considered his predicament. Here he was alone in this immense vault with no light. Should he wait for his companions to come and rescue him? No doubt by now they were searching for him—but in the wrong place. On failing to find him there, they would of course try others, but this entire area was a honeycomb of tunnels and caves and vaults. Now what? Of one thing Josh was certain: one of those tunnels on the opposite side of the vault, the one he had entered, led to the open sea. But how to find it? To cross this immense vault and find it among so many others was like trying to find a needle in a haystack in total darkness. Josh, however, had no choice.

	Like a blind man with arms outstretched before him, he groped his way across the vault floor, trying his best to walk in a straight line. On the way he bumped into a boulder, fell into a crevasse, and tripped over rocks, all of which threw him off course and forced him to walk in a zigzag path. After what seemed an interminable time, he touched what he thought was the opposite side of the vault. Standing still, he now mentally retraced his steps, remembering that after he had left his companions, he had crawled into a tunnel and descended a spiral chute that led to this vault. Whether or not he was near that particular tunnel now, he had not the slightest idea. The thought occured to him that other tunnels might provide an avenue of escape, but on second thought they might also lead him into a worse maze. He must find that tunnel, and he was determined to do so even if he had to try them all, one by one.

	Placing his hands against the wall, Josh groped and groped until he came to the first hole and ran his hands around its mouth. No, judging by his sense of touch, this was not the one. Too big. He groped to the next one. Not that one either. Too small. Thus he walked and stumbled and groped to the next and the next and the next—in vain. Every hole seemed too big or too small or of a different shape. Finally, he reached an opening which, to the touch at least, seemed to be the right one. He crouched and crawled into it several feet, but quickly crawled out. Not that one either. It was not a spiral. Thereafter, he tried another and another; still no luck. Growing desperate, he entered every opening, but they all ended in a dead end, tapered to a point, or sloped sharply up or down. Refusing to quit, he continued groping hour after hour until, his energy spent and nerves frazzled, he leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor, utterly exhausted. Resting his head and arms on bent knees, he mumbled, "If I only had a light, just for a few seconds, just for a few seconds ..."

	Moments later his chronometer buzzed 2200 hours, but already Josh had dozed off. He slept fitfully, however, tossing and rolling, groaning right through to the following unit when he opened his eyes, closed them, then opened them again, hoping against hope it was all a nightmare. But it was real. Too real. Without a fight, he was lost under the bottom of the sea; he was a prisoner in this black vault. He sat up, slapped his laser, switched it on and off repeatedly, then gave up in disgust. Momentarily, he stared at the luminescent fishes swimming above so freely and seeming to mock him in his helplessness. How he envied them their lights. Struggling to his feet, he reached blindly for the wall and continued to search for a way out, groping against the wall, crawling in and out of tunnels and caves. Still in vain. He strained to hear or see some sign of his companions—but not a sound, not a flicker of light. Now fatigue and failure led to frustration, frustration to desperation, desperation to helplessness and despair. Of a sudden he yelled at the top of his voice, "Father, Wayne, where the devil are you? Have you deserted me? Have you left me here to die?"

	His only answer was silence, the silence of a tomb. Indeed, if he did not find his way out, if he were not rescued, this vault would become his tomb. And death would not come easy. The Homeostat would keep him alive with life-sustaining plankton for hundreds of units yet; then would follow a slow agonizing death from starvation. Once more he slumped to the floor and closed his eyes.

	Utterly spent and wracked with the thought of being trapped like an animal in a cage, Josh began to be tormented by hallucinations. First, he felt that the vault with its dome and walls were gradually closing in on him. Then he imagined he saw eerie shafts of light emerging from every cave like automobile headlights, ghastly lights that alternately brightened and faded. Later, he heard strange voices calling, first in whispers then increasing in volume until they echoed throughout the great vault and stopped. He sat up stiff, shook his head, looked around, listened, and waited. Nothing, nothing but the dreadful darkness and silence. The lights and voices, where were they now? What had happened to them? Why didn't his father and Markham come to his rescue? Why? Why? Frantically, he scrambled to his feet, leaned against the wall, and stumbled blindly from one hole to the next, groping and calling, "Father ... Father" until a chill numbness seized him and he collapsed and lay spread-eagled on the floor as though dead.

	Josh never stirred until three hours later when he opened his eyes, looked around, and caught sight of a shaft of light emerging from one of the holes about a hundred yards to the right, growing brighter and brighter. Shaking his head in disbelief, he moaned, "Oh, no, no, it's not real. I'm still seeing things."

	Seconds later he heard a faint voice calling, "Josh, Josh, are you there? Josh?"

	Fearing he was going out of his mind, he closed his eyes and clasped his hands to his head. He had suffered enough. He would not permit his imagination to torture him any longer.

	But, on opening his eyes again, the lights were still there, brighter than ever; and now the voices grew louder and louder. Could they be real this time? Yes, yes they were real, very real. "Father! Father! I'm here," he cried out, struggling to his feet.

	After what seemed an eternity, he once more heard the voice, this time unmistakably. "Josh! Josh! Where are you? Where are you?" "Here, over here," cried Josh, his strength rapidly returning as he waved his hands wildly and stumbled toward the shafts of light. "Over here, my laser is dead."

	Seconds later Doctor Sparke and Markham emerged from the mouth of the tunnel, casting their lasers every which way until they fell upon Josh. Although the lights blinded him, he was so happy to be found that he forged through the water as fast as he could. His companions hurried toward him and when all three came together Doctor Sparke, tears rolling down his cheeks, threw his arms around his son and sobbed, "Oh, it's good, so good to see you again. I feared you were lost forever."

	"Father," Josh said, his eyes moist, "I was about to give up hope entirely."

	Markham patted Josh gently on the back. "We have been looking for you for nearly an entire unit."

	"Tell me, son," Doctor Sparke asked, "are you all right? How do you feel?"

	"Exhausted and very weary, but otherwise fine," Josh replied. Then breaking out in a broad smile, he continued. "In fact, just now I feel wonderful, never felt better in my whole life."

	"Tell me, son, how did you ever manage to get into this mess?"

	Josh explained how he got down to the first vault, then crawled through another tunnel to a second vault and on his return bumped his head and knocked out his laser.

	"And ever since then," he concluded, "I've been trying to find my way out of this confounded maze ... Now tell me something. How did you ever manage to find me?"

	"After waiting fifteen minutes," Doctor Sparke said, "we searched the vault you said you would enter and every tunnel and cave in it. Failing to find you there, we tried descending the tunnel leading to this cave and here we are." Glancing at his chronometer, he added, "Well, that's over with, thank goodness. You're safe and that's all that matters. Come, we've already lost one unit; let's not lose any more time. But, wait, first let me check your laser."

	Doctor Sparke examined the lens, shook it, slapped it, but in vain. "Oh, well," he shrugged, "it's unfortunate, but no tragedy. From now on instead of taking up the rear, you will walk between Wayne and me. You'll get plenty of fight from our lasers." He paused and, with a glint in his eye, concluded, "Your having no light will have a distinct advantage. You won't be able to go off on any more little excursions of your own. Come now, let's get out of here."

	After leaving the vault and crawling out of the tunnel, the oceanauts continued up the foothills—this time, however, with Doctor Sparke in the lead, Josh in the middle and Markham taking up the rear. They had walked only a short distance when Markham asked, "Josh, did you happen to see any rare species of fishes down in that vault?"

	Josh chuckled as he stepped over a chunk of volcanic rock. "To tell you the truth, Wayne, at first I was so completely enthralled at the sight of that vault I thought of nothing else. And after my laser went out, I had one concern... getting out of there."

	Doctor Sparke could not resist another question. His voice edged with sarcasm, he asked, "By the way, son, did you happen to find any interesting chips of rock in that vault?"

	Josh did not answer.

	His father was not finished, however. "One more thing, young man. Let me remind you that for the remainder of the journey, don't you dare, don't you dare leave my sight. Is that clear?"

	Josh mumbled a meek "Yes, Father," and kept on walking, head down and knowing full well that he deserved this comeuppance. He also knew that by letting his curiosity run away with him he had jeopardized the entire journey. It would not happen again.

-

18 – To the Top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge

	After the oceanauts had completed the accent up the first terrace of the foothills and started up the second, Doctor Sparke estimated that they were approximately 225 miles from the upper reaches of the mountain. At this point, according to his schedule, they should have been two or three units ahead—but instead they were two behind. To be sure, if they succeeded in climbing the remainder of the foothills and the steep mountain without losing more tine, they might still be able to gain a few units and get back on schedule while descending the eastern slope of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Doctor Sparke was concerned, but not worried. Not yet.

	Mile after mile they pushed on with Josh still walking behind his father and ahead of Markham. He had no particular objection to the middle position except that he could see only the things that happened to fall in the cones of his companions' lasers. A curious young man, he would often kick at a piece of lava in frustration for not being able to aim his fight at an unusually interesting luminescent fish or bizarre rock formation. During one unit he was quite irritated while he and his companions were winding their way through a wilderness of grotesquely shaped knolls and buttes and spires, all of which were black and grooved, indicating volcanic origin. Years, centuries, or eons ago, all that rock, once hot and soft, had turned cold and hard and had been lying there ever since.

	Happily for Josh, however, near the end of the second terrace his laser, for no apparent reason, went on again, blazing forth and piercing the water with a cone of light as bright as ever.

	"My light, my light!" he shouted. 'It's on!"

	"Yes, so I see," said Doctor Sparke, glancing back over his shoulder without slowing his pace. "Well, at least that's one piece of good luck we've had."

	"But how do you explain it?" asked Josh, smiling and casting the light here and there.

	"I have no idea, son, except that perhaps here we're at a much higher level and there's considerably less pressure on your laser."

	"Sounds logical," agreed Markham.

	"Whatever the reason, I don't care," chuckled Josh, falling back into position behind Markham. "All I can say is that I'm mighty glad it's on again. What a difference!"

	Farther along the oceanauts found the third terrace not only more jagged but much steeper than the first two; and here they were given a taste of what lay ahead. Most of the time they were forced to ascend by switchbacking, but in spite of it their pace was not slowed until they entered a dense "forest" of hummocks, towers, and pinnacles, very likely the remains of convulsions that once shook the bottom of the sea. Surveying the bleak desolate area, Josh was reminded of the Bad Lands of North Dakota. This, he thought, was how the surface of the earth must have looked billions of years ago.

	Late in Unit 149 the oceanauts were within a few miles of completing the ascent up the foothills when they felt the sea floor tremble beneath their feet and heard a rumble in the distance.

	Startled, Markham asked, "What's that?"

	"Maybe an avalanche in the mountain up ahead," replied Josh.

	"No, no," Doctor Sparke corrected, his face set hard. "That was no avalanche; that was an earth tremor. This whole region is a hotbed of earthquakes, and the higher we climb the more tremors we can expect."

	"A hotbed of earthquakes, eh," said Josh, kicking at a clump of lava. "Well, that is something to look forward to."

	A short while after the tremor occurred, the oceanauts arrived at the base of the high mountains of the great Mid-Atlantic Ridge. There they stopped momentarily and peered upward, feeling small and insignificant as they cast their lasers as far and high up the majestic mountain as possible. Amid the massive rock formations, they saw gullies and ravines. They saw valleys cutting serpentine routes higher and higher, then branching off like so many gnarled fingers that curled upward until they vanished from sight. Wide canyons carved deep gashes that climbed and twisted, eventually shriveling and becoming narrow gorges. Spires and pinnacles, like giant redwood trees, jutted out from cliffs and walls of peaks. The oceanauts also saw giant peaks looming vaguely in the distance. Mysterious and menacing, they seemed to frown down upon the three oceanauts who dared venture into their realm.

	Still surveying the mountain, Doctor Sparke said, "Josh, from here on you're in charge." He paused then continued, "Unless I'm mistaken it looks as if we're going to have a rough climb."

	Josh grinned and nodded. Knowing what a back-breaking task it was to climb a mountain on land, he could imagine what it would be like to climb 150 miles over a mountain at the bottom of the ocean. "Yes, Father," he said, "it is going to be rough, mighty rough."

	Josh already had in mind a route for crossing the Ridge, one he and his father and NISA had worked out from topographical profiles back in Washington, D.C. It consisted of four main segments: first, a steep valley; second, a winding ridge of rock; third, a long gully; fourth, the last peak that rose to the top of the mountain. Necessarily, it was a tentative route, subject to changes as they ascended, because the profiles of the sea floor made by oceanographers on surface vessels were not always accurate and did not always reveal the sea floor as it actually was.

	Josh instructed his companions to open their grippers, then reminded them of some important mountain-climbing rules. "Remember, at all times be on guard against rockfalls. Most important, never rest the weight of your entire body on one point of contact. Whenever possible, rest it on four points, two hands and two feet; if not four, three; if not three, two. But never, never one." He paused then asked, "Any questions?"

	Markham shook his head.

	"I have no questions," answered Doctor Sparke, leaning on his alpenstock. "However, before we start let me make one thing clear: While climbing this western slope and later while descending the eastern slope, there will be no stops other than those absolutely necessary. None whatever."

	"Of course," said Josh. "Now follow me."

	Trailed by Markham and his father, Josh led the way to a valley that zigzagged up the mountainside for many miles, its terrain often changing in character. For the first ten miles the sea floor was covered with lava pillows that looked like so many sacks of coal thrown about helter-skelter. Higher up it changed to a series of ooze-covered undulations, resembling ocean waves, forcing Josh and his companions to climb up crests and slide down into troughs again and again. Still higher, where cliffs rose abruptly on either side, the valley was studded with boulders and gashed with crevasses.

	On this leg of the journey, according to Doctor Sparke's timetable, they were supposed to average seven miles a unit. But, in spite of the rough terrain and thanks to Josh's expert mountaineering, they traveled at a faster rate of speed and succeeded in making up a unit; and, by the time they reached the rendezvous point during Unit 157, they were only one unit behind schedule. Doctor Sparke was pleased, but with the most treacherous heights ahead, he found no cause for rejoicing as they plodded up the last few miles of the valley that brought them to the tip of a long serpentine ridge of rock.

	The ridge—narrow in places, wide in others-dropped sharply on either side and snaked a winding route to the top of a peak up ahead. For mile after mile the oceanauts continued the ascent, stumbling over rocks and threading their way through beds of lava. On the wider parts they climbed at a slow but steady pace, but on the narrower parts they walked with extreme caution, gingerly placing one foot before the other. Once Markham, as usual preoccupied with observing fishes, slipped, lost his footing, and slid off the edge. Fortunately just in time, he caught hold of a splinter of rock, held on, and, with the help of Josh's outstretched arms pulled himself back up.

	"Wayne," Doctor Sparke scolded angrily, "this is not the time or place to make observations. Just look where you're going."

	The higher they climbed, the steeper the ridge became and the slower they advanced; and not until the latter part of Unit 171, did they reach the top of the peak. There they once more felt the earth tremble and heard a rumble. "Hm," Josh grunted, "a hotbed of earthquakes is right."

	From the top of the peak the oceanauts descended to a gully shaped like an enormous saddle. First it sloped down then ran level for a score of miles and finally poked upward all the way to the base of the tallest peak, the last and most difficult barrier standing between them and the summit of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. How they would climb to the top of that peak Josh did not know; but he hoped that a shelf—or a series of terraces or one rock formation or another— would provide a route.

	The gully presented no great obstacles and the oceanauts, except for the usual stops to sleep and contact tracking stations, forged upward steadily and units later arrived at the base of the great peak. There they stopped, cast their lasers up its steep wall, and signed with relief. A shelf of rock about eight feet wide coiled its way round and round the peak, higher and higher. From where they stood peering up, the shelf looked like a series of steps, one above the other. Whether it coiled its way to the top could not be determined, but what the oceanauts could see was enough to satisfy them—at least for now. Neck craned and still scrutinizing the peak, Doctor Sparke smiled. "That shelf! What a singular piece of good luck!"

	"It most certainly is," said Markham. 'Without it I don't know how we would manage."

	Josh also was happy about the shelf, but with reservations. He knew about shelves on mountain peaks. Seldom did they spiral all the way to the top. More often than not, they narrowed until they were hardly wide enough to support a man's boot, or narrowed more and more and finally vanished altogether, or ran smack into a solid buttress of rock.

	With the towering peak wall to their left and the yawning abyss to their right, Josh and his companions leaned hard on their alpenstocks and started ascending the ooze-covered shelf. The first miles were clear of obstacles and wide enough to traverse, but higher up they ran into trouble. At times the shelf rose so abruptly that the oceanauts were forced to climb on all fours, advancing at a snail's pace. At other times it slanted sharply to the right, making it difficult to keep from sliding off the edge. Here and there a boulder lay on the shelf, blocking their path. When possible, the oceanauts climbed over it; when not, Josh put his shoulder to it, gave a mighty heave, and sent it tumbling down to oblivion. Once the shelf narrowed to a width of about ten inches, forcing the oceanauts to lean hard against the wall and cross over by placing one foot before the other as a man measures off a distance.

	These obstacles combined with the steepness of the shelf slowed the oceanauts down to a rate of three miles a unit. As usual, Doctor Sparke grumbled, but Josh did not complain. All he asked for now was that the shelf continue to provide a path to the top of the mountain. He was content just to keep climbing. But before long they ran into worse trouble. When they were halfway up the peak the shelf again narrowed, this time to a width of only three or four inches—not even wide enough to support a man's boot.

	Josh stopped and studied the narrow strip. Fortunately, it was not as bad as it first appeared. True, it was very narrow and covered with ooze, but it was only about twenty-five feet long, and it extended to a point where it once more was sufficiently wide to walk on. Sheathing his alpenstock, he said, "There's only one way to cross over ... by hand traverse—that is, hand over hand, I'll go first, and I want you to watch me closely. Do exactly as I do, and remember that before you shift one hand to the side, make sure you have a firm grip with the other. Most important, make no quick moves. Is that clear?"

	Doctor Sparke and Markham nodded and sheathed their alpenstocks.

	Josh then turned and faced the wall, squatted, knelt, and dug his grippers into the rock, getting a firm hold on the narrow strip. Next, he dropped his feet over the edge and hung down full length. Holding firm with his left hand, he moved the right a few inches to the right, then the left, the right, the left, and so on. Thus, he slowly shifted farther and farther until he reached the other end, where he pulled himself up, threw his right leg over the edge, and scrambled to his feet. The instant he stood up, his companions watching from the other side sighed with relief. Now it was Markham's turn. Imitating Josh's every move, he dropped off the shelf, hung down, then hand-over-hand shifted to the other end without mishap. Doctor Sparke followed, and he would have managed just as well, but in his eagerness to get to the other side, he became careless, moved too fast, and lost his grip with his right hand. Watching him dangle by one hand, Josh and Markham held their breath. If his left hand slipped ... Fortunately, however, he held on long enough to get another firm grip with his right and slowly, very slowly, worked his way to the other end.

	Thereafter, the oceanauts carried on without incident or delay. The higher they climbed, the more often the face of the peak changed in character and contour. In places the wall recessed as if some force had pushed it far in, or it bulged out like a bloated stomach. In other places it was pockmarked with caves, gashed with chimneys or vertical cracks—some rising straight up only twenty or forty feet, others a hundred feet or more, a few several hundred feet and on to the top of the mountain.

	Ordinarily, the oceanauts would have been observing the ocean phenomena about them. But just now Markham had no interest in fishes, Doctor Sparke examined no rocks, and Josh sought no adventure in caves or anywhere else. All three were preoccupied with one thought: Soon they would reach the top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, and at long last the worst leg of the journey would be behind them. The very thought gave them the added strength they needed to carry on. But luck turned against them during the early hours of Unit 179 when they suffered the worst setback of the entire journey. After Josh had followed the shelf around a sharp turn, they found themselves standing directly in front of an immense buttress of rock, as smooth as if polished by a stone mason, towering hundreds of feet high and blocking their path. Dead end!

	From the time they had started up the peak, this was precisely what Josh had feared. And here it was! Standing there, stunned, the oceanauts gazed and gazed and said not a word. With the steep wall of the peak to their left and the abyss to their right, now what? To turn about, retrace their steps, descend back down to the foothills, and climb the mountain by another route would consume precious fuel and definitely write finis to the journey. Never since Drop-Off Day did things look so hopeless.

	Scanning the buttress, Josh searched for a crack or a ridge or anything that might afford a hand- or foothold. But nothing, nothing at all. Then he turned, gazed back down the shelf, and grimly shook his head.

	Doctor Sparke, disheartened, eyes pleading for a glimmer of hope, stared at Josh and asked, "Well, son?"

	Josh thought a moment then replied not too optimistically, "I'm afraid there's only one chance. Maybe..."

	"Yes, yes, go on."

	"It's just possible that one of those chimneys we passed on the way up might rise to the top of the peak."

	"And if it does?" asked Markham anxiously.

	"It it does and it's narrow enough, we'll climb it," snapped Doctor Sparke.

	"Climb it!" said Markham incredulously. "Those chimneys rise vertically, and their walls are smooth and covered with ooze."

	"It will be a tough climb, very tough," said Josh, "maybe impossible, but ..."

	"If it's the only way out of this cul de sac," Doctor Sparke interrupted, "if it's at all humanly possible, we'll do it."

	"And," Josh went on to explain, "when we ..."

	"This is no time for explanations," Doctor Sparke interrupted a second time. "They will come later. Back we go, son. Lead the way."

	For the oceanauts, retracing their steps was most distressing. The very act of going backward was repugnant to them. Each mile they descended meant a mile lost, each unit that passed meant so much more fuel consumed and time lost. Added to their woes was the haunting thought that, despite their efforts, they might never find a chimney suitable for their purpose. Failure to complete the journey was no longer a possibility; it was a probability.

	Dejected, they continued descending the shelf, stopping at chimney after chimney where Josh entered, peered up, and scrutinized the walls for smoothness and roughness, but most important for width and height. Some were too narrow, others had walls much too jagged, but most did not extend high enough. As Josh emerged from each chimney and shook his head disapprovingly, his father grew more and more irascible. On one occasion he glared at his son and growled, "Time is passing. Why don't you make up your mind? What are you looking for, a ladder?"

	Josh nevertheless continued to search, determined to find a chimney that offered at least a chance of success; and finally his patience was rewarded. He found a V-shaped chimney about ten feet deep, a litde more than three feet wide, and with smooth walls. Though the walls were covered with slime, they rose straight up about five hundred feet to the top of the mountain. "It's not quite what I was looking for," Josh said, "but it will have to do."

	"It's about time," snapped Doctor Sparke, examining the chimney.

	Markham said nothing, but he studied it as he would a specimen under a microscope, noting every pit and bump in the rock.

	Josh told his companions to sheath their alpenstocks then went on to review the technique of climbing a chimney. "Here again you support yourself on four points of contact, but in this case the four points are different; they are your two shoulders and two feet. Now to climb a chimney you must first wedge yourself in at the bottom by leaning back against one wall and pressing hard with your shoulders, then jam your feet forward against the opposite wall. After that you raise the right foot a few inches, then the right shoulder about the same height; next do the same with the left foot and left shoulder, and so on up to the top. But, remember—and this is very important-push back hard with your shoulders and push forward hard with your feet, otherwise you'll lose your hold and drop to the bottom. Is all that clear?" Markham said, "Quite clear."

	"Yes, yes, very clear," said Doctor Sparke. "Let's get started."

	"I'll climb up first," said Josh, "so watch me closely. Though the technique is simple, climbing is difficult and tiring because we'll be using muscles we haven't used recently. But we're all in good shape, so we should be able to make it to the top."

	"All right, we understand," said his father, impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. "Let's not dilly dally."

	As Doctor Sparke and Markham watched, Josh leaned against the wall, pushed his shoulders back hard, then jammed his cramponed boots into the opposite wall. Knees bent and holding himself firmly in position, he started to climb, raising his right foot several inches, wriggling his right shoulder to the same level, then his left foot and left shoulder and so on. Slowly and laboriously he inched higher and higher, grunting as he strained every muscle in his back and legs until he was too tired to continue. He then rested a moment, caught his breath and continued, foot and shoulder, foot and shoulder until he was forced to stop and rest once more. Thus he climbed and rested, climbed and rested, and finally reached the top where he pulled himself over the edge. Panting heavily, he gazed down at his companions who, with necks craned, were still watching him. "All right," Josh gasped, as he lay flat on the rock and looked down. "Who's next?"

	Doctor Sparke and Markham admired the agility and apparent ease with which Josh made the climb up the chimney, but they were not deceived. Notwithstanding the extra leverage he had because of his long legs, the climb was much more difficult than he made it appear. In fact, it was a grueling test of any man's stamina and endurance. They only hoped they could do as well.

	"All right, Wayne," Doctor Sparke said, "you're next. Up you go."

	Markham stepped deep in the chimney, peered up. and shook his head. "I'll try," he said, not too confidently, "I'll try my best."

	"You won't try," rebuked Doctor Sparke. "You'll do it."

	Markham leaned back hard against the wall, jammed his crampons into the opposite wall, and, with knees slightly bent, started climbing, right foot and right shoulder, left foot and left shoulder. Since his legs were shorter than Josh's, he went up more slowly. But he stuck to it and managed to climb fifty, seventy-five, one hundred feet and higher. One quarter of the way up he stopped to rest, looked down, then up. Doctor Sparke below seemed so near and Josh above so far. Rested, he continued. All was going along well until his right foot slipped in the slime and he began to slide down slowly, inch by inch. He would have lost his hold entirely and tumbled down had he not remembered Josh's instructions and with all his might pushed his shoulders back and feet forward, checking his fall.

	"Good work, Wayne," Josh called down encouragingly. "Now up you go again. Come on. You can do it."

	With what little strength remained, Markham stuck to it until he got to within a few feet of the top where Josh reached down, grasped his hand, and pulled him up to the top. Entirely spent, he stretched himself out, puffing and wheezing. "How I ever got up here," he gasped, "I'll never know."

	Down below Doctor Sparke did not wait for instructions from Josh. The instant Markham had clambered over the edge, he was in position and ready. Being the shortest of the three, however, he had the least leverage, making his hold rather insecure, and every inch he climbed would require more energy, tire him more rapidly, and necessitate more frequent stops to rest. But Doctor Sparke was never one to give much thought to difficulties or obstacles.

	Knees only slightly bent, he boldly started up, raising his feet and shoulders three or four inches at a time. From the beginning each movement was difficult—more so the higher he climbed. At one hundred feet he already showed signs of fatigue; at 150 feet he suffered shooting pains in his back and legs. Nevertheless, he continued climbing higher and higher until suddenly both feet slipped on the ooze and down he tumbled, head over heels, shouting on the way down, "Confound it! Confound it! Confound it!"

	The instant he hit bottom, he scrambled to his feet and immediately got into position again.

	"Father," Josh called down, "push harder with your shoulders and feet. You won't lose hold then."

	Panting and glowering up at his son, Doctor Sparke barked, 'What the devil do you think I was doing? Can't you see my legs are too short?"

	Again he climbed steadily and slowly but, by the time he reached the halfway mark, he was gasping and grunting and struggling inch by inch. Each raising of a shoulder, each lifting of a foot was torture, but he doggedly continued climbing, higher and higher. When he reached the three-quarter mark, he was forced to rest every few seconds. Occasionally, he started to slide back down, but each time he mustered enough strength to check the fall.

	Watching from above, Josh and Markham could see fatigue rapidly gnawing away at his endurance, and for the first time they doubted that he could reach the top. But they still had hope. Doctor Sparke had done the "impossible" before.

	Fifty feet short of the top, his shoulders ached terribly and his legs felt heavy, and with each move he grimaced in pain. That he continued to climb was amazing but, in spite of everything, he finally managed to get to within twenty feet of the top where he again stopped to rest. Glancing up, he saw the outstretched hands of his companions. Only twenty feet to go but, the way he felt, it might just as well have been twenty miles.

	"Come on, Homer," encouraged Markham, stretching his arm as far down the chimney as possible, "you can make it. Just a little higher, just a few more feet."

	"Sure you can, Father," coaxed Josh, "sure you can."

	Doctor Sparke, grunting and striving desperately, inched his way up to within nine ... eight ... seven feet from the top then stopped, utterly exhausted. His face twisted in agony, he looked up and stammered, "I ... can't move ... another ..."

	"Yes you can, Father," Josh pleaded. "Yes, you can; you must!"

	Doctor Sparke gazed up into his son's eyes, took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and, calling on his last remaining ounce of energy, struggled up one foot... another ... and another, then collapsed and doubled up. Down to the bottom he would have tumbled again, but just then Josh's strong arms grasped him by the shoulder and slowly, gently pulled him over the edge.

	Nerves frazzled and bodies wracked with fatigue, the oceanauts sprawled out on the rock, gasping. They all craved rest, but that would have to wait. A few minutes later, they struggled to their feet and staggered a few hundred yards up a long incline to the top of the great Mid-Atlantic Ridge. There, although they could hardly stand on their feet, they had a ceremony to perform, and they were determined to perform it no matter what. First, they wearily went about gathering chunks of lava and piled them in a heap. Josh then removed the flag from his suit, unfurled it, and jammed it hard down the center of the heap. As they stood around and watched the Stars and Stripes wave gently in the current, a thrill of pride surged through them. Standing stiff and tall, they saluted.

-

19 – Descending the Mountain

	Like dead men, the oceanauts slept on top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge through Unit 190 and never awoke until the early hours of Unit 191. Bodies aching, they could have rested several more hours, but now the element of time was more pressing than ever. The climb up the Ridge had caused them to lose considerable time, and now they were eight units behind schedule. With Doctor Sparke in the lead, they set forth, bound for the Rift Valley and traversing terrain that rose and fell like an ocean swell.

	It was not long before Markham noticed that besides luminescent fishes there were others swimming about: cat sharks, snubnose eels, and skates, the first seen since leaving the coast of the United States. "If anyone doubts we are at a higher elevation and in shallower water, take a look at those fishes," he said.

	At the next rendezvous point, 35° 5C 37" North and 36° 17' 17" West, Doctor Sparke stood on a flat chunk of lava and contacted topside. "Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 45. Calling Tracking Station 45. Over."

	Instantly, an anxious reply came down. "This is Tracking Station 45. Come in, Project Oceanaut. Come in, come in."

	"Sorry to have been delayed, but we ran into a dead end up in the mountain and had to retrace our steps for several units."

	"Everything all right now? Need any help?"

	"No, everything is in order, except that we now are eight units behind schedule."

	"We are well aware of that and have been much concerned about you. In fact, for the past few units we have been in constant contact with NISA and President Halloway, who also have been anxious about your safety."

	Doctor Sparke had assumed this was so, but he did not know that for the first time NISA and the President were no longer optimistic about the success of the journey. He also did not know that the President had given orders that he be kept informed of each contact with a tracking station, the distance yet to be traveled, and the quantity of fuel remaining.

	"Sorry to have given you cause for concern," Doctor Sparke said, "but the delay was unavoidable. I believe we can make up most of the lost time while descending the eastern slope of the Ridge."

	"We wish you success."

	"We'll do our best. Depth, 5,400 feet; temperature, 36 degrees; pressure, 2,500 psi. That is all. Over and out."

	"Thank you. Good luck. Over and out."

	Doctor Sparke may not have been aware of the thinking in Washington, D.C. but he was very much aware of the predicament he and his companions were in now. At this point of the journey eight units behind schedule was a most serious matter. The remainder of the journey, except for the eastern slope, consisted of the Madeira Abyssal Plain, the European Continental Slope, and the Continental Shelf—all uphill and much of it steep.

	Upon arriving at the brink of the Rift Valley, the oceanauts stopped and surveyed the interesting phenomenon stretching out below them. The Valley, actually a deep crack running north and south and splitting the mountain in two, varied in depth from a half mile to three and a half miles and in width from fifteen to thirty miles. Peering far down, all the oceanauts could see were jagged cliffs dropping perpendicularly, water teeming with luminescent fishes, and deep down beyond their laser cones the black abyss.

	"Wow!" said Josh. "Heaven help anyone who slips and falls down there."

	"It would take more than a unit to climb back up." said Markham.

	"More likely it would be impossible," Doctor Sparke said.

	Eyes opened, Markham commented, "Can you imagine what rare species of fishes one might find down there?"

	"Yes," Josh grinned, "and can you imagine what caves one might find down there?"

	"For the time being," snapped Doctor Sparke as he set out in a northeasterly direction, "you can dismiss those fond thoughts from your minds. Just now we have something much more important to look for. Somewhere along this Valley is a sort of bridge, a strip of rock that extends all the way across. Put your active minds to finding that."

	Walking along the zigzagging brink, all three oceanauts searched for the narrow strip of rock. Hours passed, but no sight of the "bridge" or anything else that might provide a means of getting to the other side of the Rift Valley. Indeed, Josh and Markham began to wonder if it existed at all. So did Doctor Sparke, but he distinctly remembered having seen it on more than one topographic profile of the sea floor. That, however, did not make it a certainty; and that it did not exist at all was a strong possibility. Having no alternative, Doctor Sparke continued to plod on, constantly peering ahead and searching. So intent was he on finding it that when the earth once more quaked beneath his feet, he merely shrugged and carried on. And at 2200 hours, after he and his companions lay down and switched off their lasers, he kept repeating to himself, "Where the devil can that bridge be?"

	The following unit they saw no sign of the bridge until 1130 hours when Doctor Sparke pointed and cried out exultantly, "There it is! The bridge! I was sure it would be somewhere near here."

	Josh and Markham stared ahead and sighted what appeared to be nothing but a blurred shadow poking its way through the water and on across the Valley. But as they approached, it grew darker and darker and finally took shape. Yes, it was a bridge all right, a natural bridge of rock arching its way across until it vanished in the darkness.

	"By golly, you're right, Father," Josh said, beaming. "It's a bridge of rock, and it reminds me of the Rainbow Bridge in Bryce National Park. The Rainbow Bridge in Utah arches above a creek and joins the opposite walls of the canyon."

	"Amazing," said Markham. "Down here at the top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge we find such a well-formed natural bridge."

	"I just hope it runs all the way across the Valley," said Josh.

	"According to the profiles, it does," Doctor Sparke said.

	A few minutes later, when he and his companions stood at the end of the bridge, he said, "Son, take charge."

	Josh stepped out front and asked, "How far is it to the other side?"

	"Oh, I would guess about fifteen miles."

	Josh cast his laser as far as possible and studied the strip of rock. It varied in width from three to six feet, slanted down to the right, and was covered with loose sediment. Shaking his head, he mumbled to himself, "I sure don't like the looks of it. I wish we had some rope."

	That being out of the question, he pondered the situation a moment and came up with a makeshift solution. Opening his grippers and alpenstock, he ordered his companions to do likewise and said, "Crossing this bridge is not going to be any picnic; it's not only narrow but slippery. We won't be able to walk as usual. Much too risky. I believe the safest way is to form a human chain."

	"Anything you say," said Doctor Sparke.

	"All right now, Wayne, Father," Josh said, "hold your alpenstocks in your left hands and extend them forward." After his companions had followed his instructions, Josh reached behind his back and grasped Markham's alpenstock in his left hand. "Now Wayne," he went on, "do as I'm doing. Put your left hand behind your back and take hold of Father s alpenstock." Glancing back, he checked then concluded, "That's fine, fine. Now we all have some extra support. Instead of only two points of contact, each of you has three: your two feet and the grip on the alpenstock. As for me, I have four points of contact: my two feet, a grip on Wayne's alpenstock, and my own that I'll use to feel my way across. AH set?"

	"Ready," Markham and Doctor Sparke replied simultaneously. Setting forth, Josh first cautiously tested the firmness of the rock with his alpenstock, gingerly placed his left foot down, then placed his full weight on it. He did the same with the right foot, then the left again, and so on; thus he proceeded slowly across the bridge as his companions followed, keeping in step and holding tightly to the alpenstocks. From the time they left the brink, all three oceanauts were tempted to glance down at the dizzying depths on either side. But they did not dare. Here there was no room for a single mistake, a single false step. Occasionally, Josh or Markham or Doctor Sparke stumbled or slipped but, thanks to the extra support received from the alpenstocks and to Josh's skill, they crept on step by step. In places where the bridge widened, Josh dared walk a little faster, but most of the time he picked his way forward with the utmost caution. Constantly tense and on the alert, the oceanauts soon tired, but Doctor Sparke permitted no stops for rest. Even at 2200 hours he refused to risk sleeping on the bridge and ordered Josh to keep moving. On and on they advanced mile after mile until they finally came to the eastern end. Very tired, they climbed up a bluff, found a smooth area, and lay down to sleep. Just before closing his eyes, Josh muttered, "That's one part of the journey I never want to repeat."

	Although the oceanauts had only three hours sleep, they awoke promptly at 0400 hours of Unit 194 and pushed on to the rim of the eastern slope. Casting their lasers down the mountainside, they beheld a sight as breathtaking as any they had seen on the sea floor. Spellbound, they stood silently, gazing in awe at the desolate grandeur of the vast expanse that dropped sharply and resembled a mammoth relief map, a panorama of countless bizarre rock formations. Jagged peaks rose in quiet majesty above dark valleys that corkscrewed downward. Gorges carved deep gashes across the ridged volcanic terrain. Mighty cliffs fell thousands of feet to the abyss. Gullies and crevasses crisscrossed the slope where stood pinnacles, spires, and monoliths.

	"Ah," beamed Markham, turning his head from side to side, "such scenery, such magnificent scenery, This sight in itself is worth all the trouble."

	Bubbling with enthusiasm, Josh said, "Marvelous! Wonderful! If only the folks back home could enjoy this fabulous view."

	"Before long they will," Doctor Sparke said, standing with hands on hips and admiring the beauty of Nature undersea. "Right now there is an Undersea National Park off the coast of Florida, another off the coast of the Virgin Islands, and still another off the coast of California. The day is not far off when travel agents will book undersea trips. Tourists will board submersible craft, descend to the sea floor, and from portholes view the flora and fauna, the Continental Shelves, the Slopes, the abysses, and the mountains of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge in all their magnificent splendor."

	"And I will serve as the first undersea guide," chuckled Josh, "and I promise ..."

	'1 think we've admired this scenery long enough," Doctor Sparke broke in. "It's time to be on our way again."

	"I'm ready," said Josh, starting down. "Follow me."

	In his original plan to descend the eastern slope and the foothills, which together extended six hundred miles to the Madeira Abyssal Plain, Josh had hoped to make up several units by frequently gliding down cliffs and canyon walls; but after the first fifty miles he was dismayed to find that this side of the Ridge was carpeted with considerably more ooze and sediment than expected. The slightest jolt caused by an oceanaut landing on it or, still worse, a severe jolt caused by an earth tremor might send millions of tons of mud sliding down the mountainside. Obviously, gliding down entailed great risks. The only alternative, however, was to walk down the entire length of the slope, which would require much time and doom the journey to failure.

	Josh conferred with his companions, discussed the matter thoroughly, and came to a decision. Dangerous or not, at this late stage of the journey, when they were so far behind schedule, bold measures were necessary. They would take their chances. They would glide down as often as Josh deemed it a calculated risk.

	Down the mountainside the oceanauts plunged, descending at a rapid rate, never stopping except to sleep and contact topside. Often Josh led his companions in taking hair-raising risks, gliding down five hundred feet and more at a time. Occasionally they felt earth tremors, but they ignored them and continued the descent at a rapid rate of speed. They were making excellent time and might have gained several units, but upon approaching the foothills the terrain suddenly changed. And from there they were forced to trudge through gullies and valleys, switch back down steep declines, crawl under arches of rock, climb over mesas, and thread their way through fields of boulders all the way to the foothills.

	While traversing the first portion of the foothills, fortune for a change smiled on the oceanauts. The sea floor not only sloped downhill, but it was comparatively smooth and free of obstacles, enabling them to travel a straight course. Without a single delay they advanced 150 miles to the base of a chain of sea-mounts called the Atlantis and situated south of the Azores. To get around the seamounts, the oceanauts were forced to change course but later returned to their original south-southeasterly course. They continued making excellent headway until they came to a "forest" of bizarre rock formations, and again they were slowed down. But they were partly compensated for the loss of time.

	To the astonished oceanauts, the "forest" was most fascinating. Rock pillars resembled ancient castles and holy temples; stone mounds rose from the bottom like Oriental pagodas; arches spanned gullies and reminded one of the Arc de Triomphe; canyons scooped out of the bottom formed Roman amphitheatres; monoliths glared down haughtily like specters of ancient gods; pinnacles stood guard like sentinels. Here and there the bottom was dotted with lava formations resembling giants sculptured by human hands. Passing through the "forest," the oceanauts felt as though, instead of descending a mountain, they were taking a tour through a region filled with ruins.

	After leaving the "forest," the oceanauts descended the last few miles of the foothills that gradually leveled out and melted into the Madeira Plain. At long last they had crossed the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, but they were in no mood to cheer. It was Unit 271 and, despite the glides and rapid pace, they had succeeded in making up only three units and were still five behind schedule. With nearly 1,200 miles between them and their destination, and fuel in their Homeostats sufficient only for eighty-nine units, they would have to travel uphill almost fourteen miles a unit to reach Sagres.

	With the journey apparently doomed, Doctor Sparke once more stepped up front; and the oceanauts, an air of gloom now hanging over them, dejectedly crossed the Plain of gray gravel. No longer did they have to contend with mountains and cliffs and rock formations, but now their fight was against a more relentless, more remorseless foe—time. Wearily they plodded onward and now, as they made routine stops at rendezvous points, Doctor Sparke sensed with each succeeding contact with a tracking station that President Halloway and NISA were giving serious thought to writing the journey off as a failure. And during Unit 284, at rendezvous point 32° 30' 4" North and 25° 50' 7" West, his worst fears were confirmed.

	Speaking in his aquaphone, he said, "Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 56. Project Oceanaut calling Tracking Station 56. Over."

	"This is Tracking Station 56. Come in, Project Oceanaut. Come in. Over."

	"All is well. Equipment functioning and in order. We are in fine condition. Regret to say we are still five units behind schedule. Depth, 18,200 feet; temperature, 31 degrees; pressure, 8,300 psi. Over."

	"Thank you, Project Oceanaut. We have a special message for you from NISA. It reads as follows:

	If at any time you feel you cannot complete the journey, or that the lives of you and your companions are in jeopardy, you are ordered to rise toward the surface and request that a bathyscaph be sent down for you.

	"Over."

	His heart sinking, Doctor Sparke mumbled, "Will follow orders, thank you. Over and out."

	"Good luck and Godspeed. Over and out."

	No doubt about it now. In an indirect manner NISA had informed Doctor Sparke of what he already knew; they had no chance of reaching their destination. They had failed, and it was left to him to decide where and when to bring the journey to an end. Josh and Markham, though they never mentioned it, had already resigned themselves to the fact that it was only a matter of time before they would return to the surface—that is, barring a miracle. And here, three and a half miles down in the black and cold and ruthless abyss, miracles just did not happen. As for Doctor Sparke, though discouraged, he stubbornly refused to accept defeat. His determination to cross the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on foot remained unshaken.

-

20 – Tsunami!

	With heavy hearts the oceanauts continued their trek across the Madeira Abyssal Plain, now face to face with two grim facts: the distance yet to be covered and the quantity of fuel left. In light of these facts, all their knowledge of the ocean, their resourcefulness, and courage seemed to be of no avail. The journey was coming to an inglorious end, and now it was only a question of when and where. No longer were the oceanauts filled with curiosity and zeal. From the beginning of each unit to the end, only one thought occupied their minds and haunted them: how soon would they be ordered to return to the surface, the air world.

	Only Doctor Sparke still hung onto a thread of hope, however slender. How he planned to complete the journey, he himself had not the slightest idea, but somehow he believed he would find the answer. Now, as he contacted tracking station after tracking station, it became quite clear that NISA was maintaining a twenty-four-hour watch on the oceanauts' progress. And finally what he had been dreading right along happened. During Unit 300 he received instructions to continue the journey only to the farthest rendezvous point their fuel supply would allow. There he was to request a bathyscaph. His instructions also included orders not to undertake any venture that might jeopardize his own life or the lives of his companions. As Americans their lives were precious; but as oceanauts, the only human beings ever to walk thousands of miles across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, they were invaluable not only to science but to all mankind.

	Like mechanical men, the oceanauts pushed on. North of the Madeira Islands they veered slightly south and followed the original route which, had they had sufficient fuel, would have taken them directly to Sagres. Here the terrain was no longer smooth. Hummocks and pillars jutted up from the sea floor; sea-mounts, their bases pitted with caves, rose thousands of feet to the surface—but now they were of no interest to Doctor Sparke. At the close of Unit 347, much against his will, he finally accepted the inevitable. As he and his companions lay on the gravel to sleep, he said in a subdued voice, "Josh, Wayne, keep your lasers on. I have something to say."

	Josh and Markham knew what was coming; in fact, they had been expecting it before this.

	Doctor Sparke went on. "We are now roughly about five hundred miles or ten tracking stations from Sagres, and we have fuel to last only thirteen units. Obviously, to complete the journey is impossible." He paused, swallowed hard, then concluded, "As instructed, we will carry on as far as our fuel will allow; and if my calculations are correct that should bring us to Tracking Station 73 sometime during Unit 358. There I shall request a bathyscaph be sent down for us." Sad-eyed, he gazed at his son then at Markham. "Does either of you have anything to say?"

	Markham could not look Doctor Sparke in the eye. Staring straight up, he murmured, "No, nothing, nothing at all."

	Josh, so choked up he could not speak, merely looked down and shook his head from side to side.

	Hope gone, discouraged, and downcast, Doctor Sparke stammered, "Needless to say ... this is ... the greatest disappointment of my life."

	Josh and Markham made no comment. They themselves felt disappointed and wretched, for the journey meant much to them also. But their hearts ached for Doctor Sparke. To him, it truly was the "greatest adventure of his life." And now it was ending in failure.

	A moment later all three oceanauts switched off their lasers. But none slept. For hours they lay quiet, staring up into the black water sparkling with luminescence.

	The following unit as the oceanauts traversed the rising and dipping sea floor they found it hard to believe that after walking 3,500 miles, surviving an attack by a grouper, living through an avalanche, confronting a whale, fighting off a school of sharks, traversing the Mid-Ocean Canyon, scaling the great Mid-Atlantic Ridge, crossing the Rift Valley, and descending the eastern slope of the mountain, after all that and just when success was within reach, it would slip from their grasp. They just could not believe it, but it was so; and from there on, like three lost souls at the bottom of the vast ocean, they mechanically put one foot ahead of the other as if nothing mattered.

	Monotonously, one by one the units rolled by, and at last it was unit 358. At 0600 hours they were skirting the Ampere Seamount, at 35° 20' 4" North and 13° 3^ 6" West and only nine miles from the last rendezvous point, when they suddenly felt the earth tremble severely and heard a muted crack of thunder. An instant later a surge of water overwhelmed them, sending them bouncing and somersaulting sideward hundreds of yards off course before they finally came to a stop. Doctor Sparke, sprawled out on the bottom, battered and dazed, raised his head a few inches and looked about. To his distress, he saw a massive current of water rushing westward and back toward the open sea. Then, catching sight of his companions lying on the bottom, he gasped, "Are you two all right?"

	"I'm all right," replied Markham, still somewhat in a state of shock as he rubbed his hip. "At least, I think I am."

	"I'm still in one piece, I guess," chuckled Josh, flexing his knees.

	Doctor Sparke pointed to the base of the seamount. "See that cave over there? Make for it. But whatever you do, don't stand up, don't get to your feet. Keep down as low as you can and crawl. Follow me."

	Hugging the bottom, all three oceanauts crawled like soldiers over a battlefield until they reached shelter inside the cave. Still stunned, they got to their feet, huddled together, and stared in awe as the entire ocean seemed to be rushing westward in one enormous mass, relentlessly and frighteningly, faster and faster. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" cried Josh, his eyes popping in wonder and amazement. "What a sight!"

	"Look at all those fishes," Markham said, "they're helplessly being driven far back out of their environment."

	"Yes, they are," said Doctor Sparke, "and if we hadn't found shelter in this cave, we too would have been swept along with them, who knows for how many miles. As for the fishes, Wayne, don't be too concerned about them. Before long all that water will return at great speed, just as it does during what the Japanese call a tsunami."

	A tsunami, which comes from the Japanese word meaning "large waves in the harbor," is actually a seismic sea wave. It may be caused by an undersea volcanic eruption. It may also be caused by an undersea earthquake, during which a portion of the sea floor suddenly rises and later flows downhill in all directions, causing high tides and much damage along shores within a radius of hundreds and even thousands of miles. When the sea floor drops the water flows down into an immense hole, causing low tides along the near and distant shores. That, however, is only half the story in this case. As the tremendous quantity of water flows back into the hole, it piles up higher and higher, then flows back faster and faster until it reaches speeds of up to 450 miles an hour. After traveling long distances, however, it loses much of its energy and slows down to thirty or forty miles an hour; but by that time the water has piled up so high that when it crashes against the shoreline, it does so like a battering ram and with pulverizing force. In 1775 a tsunami washed over the city of Lisbon, Portugal, causing great devastation andJtoss of life.

	The oceanauts, standing speechless and motionless and feeling humble before this terrifying demonstration of the power of Nature, kept their eyes glued on the current that now raced westward at jet speed. Finally, Josh exclaimed, "Just think, in a matter of time all that water will start rushing back to where it came from."

	"Yes, son," said his father. "Just as in a tsunami that water will continue flowing out to the open sea then come to a stop, slack water. For a while it will remain still after which ..." Stopping abruptly in the middle of a sentence, he put his hand to his chin. Little by little, his eyes opened wider and wider and gleamed with new hope. Unwittingly, Josh had planted a seed in his father s mind, a seed that quickly took root then bloomed into a stroke of genius, another "wild" idea. And for the first time in many a unit, Doctor Sparke regained his characteristic energy and enthusiasm. "Now listen to me and listen closely," he beamed. "I have an idea, a proposal to make."

	Josh and Markham gathered in close.

	"Son, a moment ago you remarked," said Doctor Sparke as he glanced at his compass, "that that same water would return from the open sea and flow eastward. Well, you're right, and when it does we'll let it carry us ... oh, oh, what's this? My compass isn't functioning." He shook his arm once, twice, three times, each time more vigorously. Yet the needle did not move. He slapped the compass again and again. The needle still did not move.

	"Oh, well," he shrugged, "it's nothing serious. We only have a few miles to go. I'll set the course by one of your compasses."

	"Sure," Josh and Markham replied simultaneously, checking their compasses.

	Astonished, Josh said, "But mine is out of order also. The needle doesn't budge."

	"Neither does mine!" gasped Markham.

	Now they too shook their arms and slapped their compasses, but in vain.

	"What rotten luck!" Josh muttered. "This must have happened when we were knocked down after the earthquake and ..." He stopped short as he looked at his father and Markham, who were standing as if frozen and staring blankly at him; and within seconds the reason dawned on him. Now they were in trouble, the most serious trouble ever. Now they were not only nine miles from the last tracking station, but off course—and without a single compass. Here they were on the vast ocean floor without any means of distinguishing between north, south, east, or west. To set and follow a course was utterly impossible. To rise and try to contact a tracking station was also out of the question because they had been driven miles off course. They were lost!

	Shocked by the tragic stroke of misfortune, Doctor Sparke, hands behind his back and head down, started pacing back and forth across the cave floor. Hopelessness etched deep on his face, Josh leaned back against the wall, arms folded and chin resting on his chest. Still dazed, Markham stood motionless, gazing out of the cave. Only a short while ago the oceanauts had resigned themselves to failing to complete the journey, which was very disappointing. But now they were faced with what appeared to be a final twist of fate.

	Minutes passed ... more minutes passed. Not a sound was heard in the cave as a lone brittle starfish crawled across the floor and luminescent fishes darted from one crack in the wall to another. Doctor Sparke, racking his brain, trying to figure a way out of this apparently hopeless predicament, continued to pace back and forth until an idea came to him. Stopping in his tracks, he stared out at the swift flowing current then pounded his fist in his hand, "By Jove, I have it. I think I have it," he cried exultantly. "I think I have the solution. Compass or no compass, we have a chance—perhaps one in a million, but nevertheless a chance. Listen carefully." Pointing out of the cave, he continued, "When that current out there stops flowing and becomes slack water, we will walk out, detach Set A lead plates from our boots, thus achieving neutral buoyancy. Do you follow me?"

	Wondering what Doctor Sparke was driving at, Josh and Markham nevertheless nodded.

	Doctor Sparke checked his fathometer. "We are now at a depth of 16,000 feet. After achieving neutral buoyancy, we will tread water and rise until we reach a depth of four or five hundred feet. Do you still follow me?"

	Still wondering, Josh and Markham again nodded.

	"Now when that mass of water starts flowing back, we will form our bodies into the shape of balls and allow ourselves to be driven to shore."

	So bold and dangerous did the proposal sound that Josh and Markham could hardly believe their ears. Speechless, they stared at each other. Was he serious? Of all his wild ideas, this no doubt was the wildest. Simultaneously, they exploded with questions, firing them at Doctor Sparke in rapid-fire succession.

	"How will we survive," blurted Josh, "in water rushing shoreward at jet speed and ..."

	"Suppose we don't have time," Markham broke in, "to rise to a level higher than the Continental Slope. We'll be slammed up against the cliffs and smashed to bits like egg shells against a stone wall."

	"And what if we do rise above the Continental Slope," Josh asked, "and are washed up on dry land? Well all die like fish out of water."

	"And even if we are not washed up on land," Markham said, "and end up in shallow water in an isolated area along the shore, who will know where we are? We might remain there for who knows how long and die of starvation."

	"And what about Tracking Station 73?" Josh asked. "They won't have the slightest idea where to look for us."

	Doctor Sparke stared at his companions, listening intently and patiently but saying nothing. He knew better than they that everything they said was so. No doubt about it. The idea was fraught with the gravest danger, and their chances of surviving the wild ride were extremely slight. But the alternatives of trying to find their way across the vast expanse of the sea floor without a compass or waiting to be rescued by the bathyscaph offered even less hope.

	Finally, in a calm voice filled with understanding, he replied, "Josh, Wayne, let me first answer your question regarding the tracking station. We are not scheduled to arrive at the rendezvous point for several hours and, if we should be lucky enough to reach shore and be rescued before then, the ship will be notified by radio immediately. As to your other objections, all you say is absolutely so; and I am the first to admit my plan is dangerous; and we may not get to shore alive. But as for me I prefer it to the other alternatives ... and let me add one more thought. If we should be lucky enough to reach shore alive, we will not only have saved our fives, but we also will have completed the journey. However, if you prefer not to take the risk, I will press the matter no further. I leave the decision up to you." Turning to Markham, he concluded, "Wayne, I urge you to give the matter serious thought. Josh and I have only ourselves to think of. You have a wife and two children."

	Josh and Markham weighed the pros and cons, but not for long.

	"I'm willing," said Markham.

	"You can count on me, Father," said Josh.

	"Thank you," Doctor Sparke said. "I knew I could count on both of you. I only hope you won't regret it." He then stepped to the mouth of the cave and stood there, watching the current flow by until it gradually slowed down and finally came to a stop. Slack water.

	Walking out, he ordered, "Follow me."

	Trailed by his companions, Doctor Sparke walked about a hundred yards across the gravel to the top of the knoll. "Now let's separate," he said, "about fifty feet apart."

	Josh walked the required distance in one direction, Markham in the other; then they awaited further orders.

	"Detach Set A plates" Doctor Sparke ordered, squatting to detach his own.

	Josh and Markham obeyed, and now all three oceanauts were neutrally buoyant.

	"Tread water," Doctor Sparke ordered.

	Kicking their feet and waving their hands in butterfly fashion, the oceanauts rose faster and faster. Looking down, Josh watched the bottom recede and said, "Now I feel like a scuba diver. Wish we all had flippers on our feet. Then we could really shoot up."

	Higher and higher the oceanauts rose from the depths to 10,000 ... 5,000 ... 1,000 feet, a point at which they all relaxed. At least now if the ocean started flowing shoreward, they would not be slammed against the cliffs of the Slope.

	"Stop treading water," Doctor Sparke ordered.

	Motionless and limp, with arms outstretched and legs wide apart, the oceanauts hung like lifeless bodies, remaining at the same elevation and about fifty feet apart. Doctor Sparke turned his head from side to side, seeking some sign of movement in the water. But nothing stirred. Even the sediment remained stationary, glistening like specks of dust frozen in ice. As for luminescent fishes, for some reason they were acting peculiarly, swimming crazily every which way. It was a rare phenomenon and, if Doctor Sparke had not been so concerned with other matters, he would have given Markham time to make some observations. But just now that was the least of his concerns.

	Gaping at the still water in his laser cone, Josh said, "We're becalmed like a sailing ship caught in the doldrums on the high seas."

	Again the oceanauts treaded water until they reached a depth of five hundred feet where Doctor Sparke ordered, "Stop here. This is high enough." He checked his chronometer. 1030 hours. After some quick mental calculations, he estimated that if the water started flowing soon they might reach the coast in a little more than an hour—that is, between 1130 and 1200 hours. He also calculated that if the water carried them in a northeasterly direction they might finish up on the coast of Portugal; if in an easterly direction, on the coast of Spain; if southeast, on the coast of North Africa.

	"Homer, have you any idea," Markham asked, "how soon this water will start moving?"

	"None at all," Doctor Sparke replied. "If only I had a seismograph reading, I could then determine the precise center of that earthquake, estimate the time it took the water to reach that point, and determine roughly how long it would take to return to where it started. But since I don't have that information, I can't say."

	"But ..." Josh started to say.

	"This is not time for buts," Doctor Sparke snapped. "There's nothing more I can tell you so you'll just have to be patient and wait."

	Still hanging limp and neither rising nor falling, the oceanauts continued turning their heads, trying to catch some sign of movement. But the water remained at a dead standstill, motionless as a stagnant lake, giving them the eerie feeling that the earth itself had ceased rotating on its axis. They waited ... and waited. Still no movement. Finally Doctor Sparke exploded, "Hang it all! Why in tarnation doesn't something happen?"

	Watching his father closely, Josh knew what was disturbing him. He felt responsible for the lives of his two companions, and he knew that the success or failure of his idea depended on what happened from here on. This, added to the increasing tension caused by waiting for something to happen, made him all the more irascible.

	Moments later Doctor Sparke pointed above and said, "Wayne, look at those sharks up there."

	About seventy-five feet away, Markham sighted three blue sharks swimming in a zigzag fashion, as though confused. "Well, that is strange," he said. "I've never seen sharks behaving like that before."

	"Neither have I," said Doctor Sparke. Then hopefully he asked, "Is it possible that some sixth sense warns them of impending danger?"

	"It's possible, but I've never observed sharks in slack water. Nevertheless, I will admit they are behaving in a rather strange and unique ..."

	"Father, Father, look!" Josh suddenly cried out, peering around "I think we're moving ... horizontally. And so are all the plankton and fishes. Or is it my imagination?"

	Doctor Sparke looked then squinted. "Yes, yes," he said cautiously. "I believe we are moving, ever so slowly and imperceptibly, but nevertheless moving." To make certain, he looked around and around, then rejoiced, "No doubt about it, by Jove. We are moving. At last! I was beginning to think it would never happen."

	Markham, also noticing signs of the water coming to life, grinned broadly. "Yes, we are moving horizontally ... and toward shore."

	"Take ball positions," ordered Doctor Sparke, pulling his knees up under his chin and clasping his hands tightly around his ankles. "Keep your head low and never relax your grip around your ankles if you want to reach shore without having every bone in your body broken. And one last warning: if we are lucky enough to reach shore alive, we will communicate with one another immediately."

	Josh and Markham follow his instructions, and now they and Doctor Sparke slowly drifted forward in the massive current flowing toward shore, transported along with its cargo of fishes, plankton, and sediment.

	At first the current inched ahead as slowly as a glacier, but gradually it picked up speed and rushed on at speeds of twenty, thirty, forty, and fifty miles an hour. The oceanauts, their lasers flickering through the black water as they rotated like balloons in a wind, experienced hardly any sensation of forward movement since everything about them also was moving in the same direction and at the same speed. It was similar to what a train passenger experiences watching another train alongside move in the same direction and at the same speed.

	Traveling at a speed of one hundred miles an hour, Doctor Sparke lifted his head slightly and looked to either side, watching his companions. All was going along as planned. Now and then Josh and Markham dropped or rose to a lower or higher level, or lagged behind or shot ahead, but on the whole their relative positions remained the same. If possible they must remain within earshot or eyeshot of one another because before long they would be catapulted across the bottom with tremendous force; and if one or two of them were disabled, the other would be able to help. Of course, if all three were disabled or washed up on shore ...

	Now they were being hurtled ahead at a speed of two hundred miles an hour, still rotating over and over. "Is all well with you two?" Doctor Sparke asked.

	"So far," Markham replied, head low and face set hard.

	"I'm just fine," said Josh, tightening his grip around his ankles. "But this part of the ride does not worry me. What I'm really worried about is what's going to happen when we hit shore."

	Like driftwood caught up in onrushing rapids, the oceanauts were driven mile after mile at ever-increasing speed. And now for the first time they had some idea of how near shore they were when their flickering lights fell on the mile high cliffs of the Continental Slope below. Minutes later they caught sight of the rugged terrain of the Continental Shelf as it rolled backward, like a landscape seen from a low-flying airplane. "I estimate," Doctor Sparke said, "that we are traveling between 400 and 450 miles an hour. We should start slowing down soon."

	"I only hope," said Markham, "that when we do hit bottom, it will be soft sand or mud."

	"So do we all," said Doctor Sparke, "but from what I know of the Shelf here, more likely we'll land on something hard or jagged—like a boulder encrusted with barnacles or a solid mound of shellfish."

	"I was hoping for a nice soft bed of seaweed," muttered Josh.

	Doctor Sparke checked his fathometer. "Depth still five hundred feet."

	Here each time the lasers hit bottom, the oceanauts could see it in sharper definition and greater detail. Very much like the Continental Shelf of the coast of the United States, it undulated like a roller coaster, changed color from black to gray to brown, and was studded with hummocks and boulders and pitted with holes. For the first time in many a unit. Markham sighted only nonluminescent fishes: cod, skates, stingrays, tuna, and others also being swept shoreward, all confused and frantically waving tails and fins in an effort to maintain horizontal positions. "If those fishes are washed up on shore," he said, "they're doomed."

	Later Doctor Sparke said, "This tsunami is running true to form. The rate of speed is decreasing."

	Knowing that before long they would hit bottom, each oceanaut became more and more tense, more and more fearful. Markham was certain that even at this slower rate of speed they would be washed all the way up on land. Josh was just as certain they would be slammed up against a rock or other hard surface or at best land in some isolated spot under water. As for Doctor Sparke, he was thinking none of these thoughts. His mind was tormented by doubt. Had he been right in asking his son and Markham to take this great risk?

	Nearing shore the oceanauts could now see the bottom racing swiftly back in blurred patches of seaweed, stretches of speckled sand, and clumps of animal life.  They saw mullets,  amberjacks,  bream,  and other fishes heading in the same direction—against their will. They also saw the water change color gradually from black to grey to green and finally to tints of orange and yellow and red. In a matter of minutes their mad ride would come to an end.

	"Lasers out," Doctor Sparke cried. "Heads down, knees high, clasp hands tightly around ankles, and don't let go if you can possibly help it. Good luck."

	"Good luck to you," said Markham, bracing himself.

	"Happy landing," said Josh, squeezing his body into as small and round a ball as possible. "This is it ..."

	Like tiny specks of sediment caught in a tidal wave, the oceanauts were driven nearer and nearer shore. Now they could see the bottom rising rapidly as if at any moment it would hit them with devastating force. Still rotating slowly and still within sight of one another, on and on they surged. But about a mile from shore, for some reason the current divided, then catapulted the oceanauts in three different directions—Markham far to the left, Doctor Sparke straight ahead, and Josh far to the right—all out of sight of one another.

-

21 – Three Beacons of Light

	As Josh hit bottom he landed with a thud on a patch of seaweed, bounced, rolled head over heels several times, shot up an incline of gray sand, careened to the right, and came to a stop beside a mound of black mussels—where he lay unconscious. How long he lay there Josh himself did not know, but when he regained consciousness his head pounded and his body felt as if it had been shot out of a cannon. Groaning in pain, he slowly moved his legs and arms, then struggled to a sitting position and peered around. The water, made murky by particles of sand and rising tufts of seaweed, was thick with hundreds of dead fishes drifting shoreward, belly up. The bottom, resembling a bombed-out battlefield, was littered with dead crabs and lobsters and sea cucumbers. Still feeling giddy, he looked for some sign of his companions, but saw nothing. "Father, Wayne," he called out feebly. "Father, Wayne!" No answer.

	He staggered to his feet and called out once more. "Father, Wayne! Where are you?" Still no answer.

	Standing on wobbly legs, he looked around then limped down the Shelf to deeper and deeper water, wandering in and out of holes, up and down heaps of sand, calling and listening and searching until he heard a faint voice. Excited, he turned his head this way and that and called repeatedly, "Father! Wayne! Speak up! Speak up! Where are you?"

	Just then he heard a voice. "Here I am, son. Over here."

	"Where? Where? Keep talking, Father," cried Josh, stumbling forward through a mass of eelgrass to the brink of a deep hole. Looking down, he saw his father lying at the bottom with both arms wrapped around a clump of seaweed. He glided down and squatted beside Doctor Sparke. "Are you all right? Were you hurt?"

	"A bit battered, son," panted Doctor Sparke, releasing his grip on the seaweed, "but I'm all right now, I think. I had a pretty rough landing, but I'm still alive and in one piece. I'm mighty grateful for that much."

	"You're unhurt and alive," Josh sighed with relief. 'That's all that matters."

	"And you, son?"

	"Oh, I had a pretty rough time myself. Now I know how a football feels bouncing across a gridiron. How I ever survived I'll never know."

	"And Wayne. Have you seen any sign of him?"

	"Not yet, but he can't be far away," Josh replied, then cried out, "Wayne! Wayne!"

	Gazing through the still murky water, he waited for an answer—but there was not a sound. "Wayne!" he called again, raising his voice. "Can you hear me? Can you ..."

	"Wait," interrupted Doctor Sparke, lifting his head, "I think I hear something."

	Josh listened. Now he heard it, a low moan. "Yes, yes," he said, "I hear it too."

	Another low moan.

	"That's Wayne, all right," said Josh, pointing to the left. "He must be over there somewhere."

	Though still tired and battered from their harrowing experience, the two oceanauts got to their feet, limped across the churned-up sea floor, and finally found Markham—lying beside a boulder, his left leg bent and twisted grotesquely, obviously broken below the knee. They hurried over and squatted beside their companion.

	"Don't move," Doctor Sparke said, as he gently lifted Markham's head and shoved some seaweed under it. "Don't move. We'll make you more comfortable."

	"Yes, he still," urged Josh, wiping sand from his companion's faceplate and pushing two dead crabs off his chest.

	"I landed against that boulder," Markham gasped, his face etched with pain. "My leg... it hurts."

	"Yes, we understand," said Doctor Sparke, "but don't move it." Then he added, "We're not far from shore, Wayne. We should get help soon."

	"Of course," Josh nodded, even though he knew in his heart that, except for a stroke of sheer luck, help would not come soon ... if at all.

	Having made their companion comfortable, Josh and Doctor Sparke got to their feet and surveyed their new environment. Both were stunned by what they saw. Only a short while ago^ they were 17,000 feet down in the cold depths of the ocean, lacking all plant life and only sparsely inhabited by animal life. Now, as though they had been swiftly transported from one planet to another, they found themselves at a depth of about three hundred feet where the sun warmed the water and gave it light, where the sea floor sprouted with abundant species of plant life, and where the water abounded with species of animal life. They also found it hard to believe that only a few hundred yards toward shore was the air world, the world of sun and sky and land, dry land where grass and trees grew, where cottages stood, where people walked about and worked and lived. A feeling of nostalgia crept over them, but it quickly subsided. In spite of die different surroundings, in spite of the nearness of the air world, they were still creatures of the sea. And since they were without any means of communication with the air world, they might just as well be back in the abyss 17,000 feet down.

	"Father," Josh asked, "have you any idea at all where we are?"

	Doctor Sparke glanced at his chronometer. "Judging by the rate of speed we traveled and the time it took us to reach this point, I would guess we are either off the coast of Spain or Portugal—more likely Portugal. But I'm not certain."

	Markham opened his eyes, looked up, and said feebly, "Judging by the dead fishes I've seen drifting above, I would also say we're off the coast of Portugal."

	"Wayne, please," Doctor Sparke begged, "don't talk. Just lie quietly. You'll need what strength you have until someone finds us."

	Josh stared at his father. Finds us? Who 'knew they were still alive? Who could possibly have any idea where they were?

	Unable to stand idly by as Markham lay suffering, realizing that time was running out, Josh said, "Father, just standing here and waiting won't get us anywhere. I'm taking a walk toward shore. Maybe I'll see someone, something. Anything's better than doing nothing."

	"A good idea, son, but you've been through a punishing ordeal. Do you think you're up to it?"

	"Oh, I'm all right," replied Josh, rubbing his side, "except for a pain here and there. M manage."

	"Go ahead then," said Doctor Sparke, peering upward, "but I doubt that it will do any good. Since we've been here, we haven't seen or heard a single boat or any other sign of life. We must be in an isolated area. Furthermore, if any villages happen to be nearby, their dwellings must have been destroyed and the inhabitants drowned. The survivors, if any, will be busy for days clearing away the rubble and burying their dead. But son, you're right, it is better than just waiting. Go ahead, I'll stay here and watch over Wayne."

	Josh set out and walked toward shore until he was within twenty-five yards of it—as far as he dared. Standing in seven feet of water, he gazed ahead and for the first time in almost a year caught a glimpse of the air world. A blinding sun glared down from a cloudless sky upon scrub-dotted sand dunes that rolled back for miles as spent waves topped with foam seeped into the sand and pebbles and vanished. Dead fishes and a long black mound of seaweed washed up by the waves stretched to the right and left for hundreds of yards. How Josh yearned to place a foot on that dry land! But he dared not raise his head out of the water even for an instant. Wistfully he looked around but saw not a sign of life: no human, no animal, not even a seagull. In a final effort to find someone, something, he walked parallel to the shoreline in one direction for about a hundred yards then in the opposite direction. He saw nothing save the wreckage of a lone fishing trawler that had been washed up on shore, hurled against the dunes and smashed to splinters. Discouraged, he reluctantly returned to his companions.

	"Well?" asked Doctor Sparke hopefully, "did you see anything?"

	Josh shrugged. 'Nothing but a wrecked trawler."

	A long silence followed. Finally Markham said, "Wouldn't it be ironic if after traveling nearly 4,000 miles we should be stranded here, only a stone's throw from land."

	"Hm," scoffed Josh, "ironic is an understatement. I'd say the Atlantic Ocean has played a cruel joke on us."

	His face- flushed with anger, Doctor Sparke snapped, "I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk. We're still alive, aren't we? And we are only a short distance from land. There is no reason at all for giving up hope." He glanced at his chronometer. "Eighteen-thirty hours. No doubt Tracking Station 73, because of the tsunami, was forced to leave the last rendezvous point. But by now it has returned and, on failing to contact us, has sent out signals to all ships at sea and radio stations on land within a radius of five hundred miles. I'm sure a well-planned search has already been launched. That offers some hope, doesn't it?"

	Josh and Markham did not reply. Of course distress signals had been sent out. Of course the search had begun. But with the thousands of square miles of water between the last rendezvous point and here, the probability of their being found was almost nil. And if they were fortunate enough to be found, when? Markham was badly in need of medical attention. Still more critical, they had only enough fuel to keep them alive for two more units.

	Sensing what was troubling his companions, Doctor Sparke softened his tone. "Josh, Wayne, listen to me. I know what little chance we have of being rescued, but our predicament is not entirely without hope, not yet. Meanwhile, for the remaining two units we won't sit twiddling our thumbs. First let's get some sleep. We all need rest badly. At 0400 hours you and I, Josh, will take turns scouting the shoreline. Perhaps we'll attract someone's attention, a fisherman, a man or woman on shore, even a child."

	"I doubt it very much," said Josh, "I've already looked. There's not a sign of life for miles along the shore."

	'That doesn't necessarily mean it will remain so. Remember, only a short while ago mountainous waves struck shore, and it's only natural that any natives living nearby have fled inland. Now that the storm's over, they may be returning."

	As the sun in the air world sank below the horizon and a blanket of darkness settled over the ocean, Josh and his father switched on their lasers, sat up, and gazed toward the surface, hoping to see the light or hear the screw of a fishing boat. They sat hour after hour until utterly exhausted, then switched off their lasers, lay down, and fell into a deep slumber, never awakening until 1500 hours of Unit 359.

	The first thing they did was look at Markham, who had slept fitfully, tossing and groaning. His knee had swollen, and the constriction caused by the suit made the pain all the more severe. Unable to sit and watch his companion suffer so, Josh got to his feet and said, "Father, I'll scout first. Wish me luck."

	"Of course, of course. Good luck, son," Doctor Sparke said, his hand resting gently on Markham's shoulder. "I'll go out when you return."

	Throughout the entire unit, Josh and his father took turns scouting the shoreline. Standing in shallow water near shore, they scanned the beach and the dunes beyond; they also kept a sharp eye on the surface of the sea, but not a sign of life did they see or hear. Indeed, all remained as it was the previous unit, except that a school of sardines swam about in the now calm clear water.

	At 1900 hours, as the sky above once more darkened, the oceanauts took their places on either side of their injured companion, dejected, doing their best to ward off the feeling of despair creeping over them.

	"Father," Josh said, "there's not much time left."

	"I'm afraid not, son."

	"I can't believe it," said Josh, in frustration, "I just can't believe that help can be so near yet out of reach."

	"Yes, yes," said Doctor Sparke, racking his brain, "I can well understand how you feel. But there must be some way for us to communicate with the air world. There must be."

	"Too bad the range of our aquaphones is so limited," said Josh. "At least we ..."

	"Please, please do something," Markham moaned, "I can't bear this pain any longer. I can't."

	Doctor Sparke looked down at him and said soothingly, "Just bear with us a little longer, Wayne. We're doing all we can. We'll think of something; we'll ... wait, I have an idea." "What is it?" asked Josh anxiously. "When night falls," Doctor Sparke explained, "we'll switch on our lasers as usual, but instead of switching them off at 2200 hours, we'll stay awake and keep them burning all night. The three cones projecting up through the water and high above the surface of the sea will look like three beacons of light, similar to lighthouse beacons."

	"Sounds good to me," said Josh, regaining hope. "And if anyone's within miles those beacons should attract their attention."

	Late that unit all three oceanauts lay on the bottom, their laser cones jabbing high into the June night sky and resembling three gray marble columns. As time passed Josh and Doctor Sparke stayed awake, straining to catch some sign of life. But nothing. At 0400 hours, as the first rays of the morning sun streaked down through the water, they switched off their lasers and stared at each other. This was Unit 360. Only twenty hours of fuel remained. The swelling in Markham's leg had spread and now he writhed in agony continuously. Josh watched him for a moment, then, as a feeling of anger and helplessness welled up within him, he jumped to his feet and stared up at the surface, searching, searching. Still no sign. Frustrated by his inability to contact the air world so near, he viciously kicked a clump of seaweed. "Hang it all!" he raged. "Why the devil doesn't help come?"

	Unknown to him, at that very moment help was on the way. Just as Doctor Sparke had predicted, a vast well-organized rescue operation was being carried out. After Tracking Station 73 had sent out distress signals, a mighty armada began scouring thousands of square miles of ocean both on the surface and on the sea floor. The armada consisted of several United States cruisers and destroyers, scores of aircraft—including helicopters—tracking stations, bathyscaphs, and frogmen, altogether involving about 10,000 men. Besides all that, Portuguese and Spanish Coast Guard vessels also had joined the search. Townspeople and fishermen living along the shore voluntarily took off in launches, trawlers, sailboats, tugs, and rowboats, scanning the coastline and the ocean surface. Day and night skin divers and scuba divers searched the shallow waters. Even men and women and children at the beaches were on the lookout.

	In spite of the tremendous efforts, however, little hope was held out for the oceanauts. One Navy captain summed it up: "Trying to find them in this ocean is like trying to find three grains of sand on a long beach."

	By now people all over the world, shocked by the tragic turn of events, eagerly awaited news of the rescue. Newspapers ran banner headlines OCEANAUTS LOST! and VAST SEARCH ON! and LITTLE HOPE HELD OUT FOR OCEANAUTS! Radio and television stations frequently interrupted programs with the latest bulletins. Oceanographers, submariners, divers, and other experts appeared on the air, broadcasting their opinions of what may have befallen the oceanauts and their chances of being found. Americans in their homes, on the streets, in stores, at work, on buses, trains, and subways, discussed nothing but the loss of the oceanauts. Once more millions prayed for their rescue. Of course, as usual there were the calamity howlers who condemned the entire project. One grumpy senator scoffed, T knew they would, not succeed." Another, "The journey should not have been attempted in the first place."

	Meanwhile, down at the bottom, Josh and his father spent the few remaining hours and minutes scouting the shoreline, but with the same discouraging results. Except for a few more species of fishes-such as mackerel, wrasse, and turbot—all was the same, the beach and the dunes—empty. Later when evening shadows again fell they lay down beside their companion, who now was in a coma, and switched on their lasers. Tense and alert, they watched and listened and waited, the dim flame of hope in their hearts flickering.

	Sixteen hundred hours ... 1700 hours. At 1800 hours Doctor Sparke said in a flat and lifeless voice, "By now I was certain a fishing boat would have seen our lights. We must be in a very isolated spot."

	Josh said nothing. Words were meaningless now. Time was rapidly running out, and their fate was no longer in their hands.

	Indeed, at that moment their fate was in the hands of a lone Portuguese fisherman in a small village a few miles from the Portuguese city of Lagos. Eager to go out after the tsunami, he took his two oars, placed them on his shoulder, and headed toward the sea. On the way he happened to spot three fights rising from the surface of the ocean. Thinking they were the result of an unusual ocean phenomenon, he paid little attention to them. Moments later, however, he recalled hearing reports of the lost oceanauts. Immediately, he faced about, returned to the village, and notified the authorities who in turn communicated with the Portuguese Coast Guard. Soon the air off the coast crackled with a radio message that was repeated over and over: "Urgent! Urgent! Three beacons of light sighted at 36° 5C 7" North and 8° 50' 4" West."

	Within minutes every ship, airplane, helicopter, and all other craft at sea changed course and headed for that point.

	Josh and Doctor Sparke, still lying on the bottom and now resigned to their fate, often glanced at their chronometers. Nineteen hundred hours. Except for an occasional groan, Markham lay quietly. At 2000 hours Doctor Sparke, stricken with grief, said, "Joshua, I'm afraid my colleagues were right. The idea of crossing the sea on foot ...

	"Father," Josh broke in, cocking his head, "hold it! I think I heard something."

	Doctor Sparke also cocked his head. "Yes, son," he cried, "I think I hear it too ... or is it my imagination?"

	Sitting up stiff and not moving, Josh listened. "No, I still hear it. No doubt about it!"

	It was a whine, a whine that grew louder and louder until it changed to a muted roar. Hearts thumping and nerves tingling, Josh and Doctor Sparke jumped to their feet and gazed straight up. Within minutes, in their beacons of light they sighted a helicopter hovering directly above ... then another. What a welcome sight! Even Markham, hearing the commotion, opened his eyes and managed a grin.

	By now Doctor Sparke was so excited he could not stand still. He could not speak.

	Josh, however, his eyes fixed on the helicopter, had no trouble talking. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" he shouted, pointing up. 'That's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen in my whole life."

-

22 – Journey's End

	Not long after the helicopters had located the oceanauts, a tracking station ship lay anchored directly above and immediately began rescue operations. A bathyscaph, its water compartment filled, was lowered into the sea and guided by frogmen to a spot beside the oceanauts. As fast as possible, one by one —first Markham, then Josh, and finally Doctor Sparke—were placed in the bathyscaph, brought to the surface, and transferred to water tanks on board ship. All three oceanauts plucked safely from the sea, the ship steamed full speed to Project Oceanaut Surgery near Sagres.

	At POS Markham was the first to undergo the Reversal Process after which he was rushed to the operating room where the bones in his leg were set and pinned. The surgeon remarked that he could not understand how Markham had withstood the pain and survived the ordeal. Once Josh and Doctor Sparke had undergone the Reversal Process, all three oceanauts were kept in the recovery room and isolated from everyone but the medical staff. It was necessary that they be watched over closely while the incisions in their throats healed, while their bodies adjusted to the breathing of air and digesting of solid foods, and while they rested and recovered from their arduous journey, especially the harrowing ordeal of the last few units.

	During the recovery period, the first pleasure the oceanauts enjoyed was the simple matter of breathing air through their noses and mouths. Inhaling deeply, Josh chuckled, "I never knew air could smell so good."

	Doctor Sparke smiled, "Ironic, isn't it? Some of the best things in life we enjoy only after we've been forced to do without them for a while."

	The second pleasure was the taste of food, fresh-cooked hot meals. The oceanauts gorged themselves on juices, cereals, bacon and eggs, vegetables, and meats. To the surgeons and nurses' amazement, during one dinner Josh devoured two big steaks and topped it off with a quart and a half of ice cream.

	The third pleasure was the feeling of freedom and lightness. No helmets, no suits, no weighted boots no Homeostats, and no feeling of resistance of the air around them. "I feel," said Josh, "that at any minute now I could take off and fly."

	By now messages of congratulations were pouring in by telephone, radio, cable, and air mail from all over the world. The first was from President Halloway who spoke over the telephone to Doctor Sparke and his companions.

	All America salutes you. Your magnificent success will go down in the annals of history as one of the greatest achievements of all time. Thanks to you, man now stands on the brink of a new era. Your bold crossing of the Atlantic Ocean on foot shows the way to mankind to take further steps in the science of oceanography, opens up new regions of almost inexhaustible natural resources, and provides knowledge that will be helpful toward the future exploration and colonization of the sea floors around the world. All America waits to greet you on your glorious return. My heartiest congratulations and good wishes. May God bless you.

	The second message, a jointly signed cablegram from NISA, praised the oceanauts highly for their ingenuity, courage and resourcefulness, and especially for their unique contribution to the advancement of oceanography.

	Doctor Sparke and his companions also were swamped with congratulations from kings, presidents, prime ministers, and many other dignitaries in the fields of politics and science. Invitations came from nations and cities, asking the oceanauts to visit and be honored. Newspapers—which compared the oceanauts to Marco Polo, Columbus, and the first astronauts who landed on the moon—competed for the story of their journey. Book and magazine publishers offered astronomical sums of money for the right to publish their biographies and the story of their adventures. Television producers vied with one another to have the oceanauts as guests on their programs. Motion picture companies clamored for the right to produce a film based on their exploits.

	The congratulatory messages and financial offers thrilled the oceanauts, but one message in particular thrilled Josh. It read:

	I'm proud of you, so very proud. Can hardly wait to see you again. Love, Louise

	After three days of intensive questioning by NISA, the oceanauts were flown by helicopter from Sagres to Portela Airport in Lisbon, where President Halloway's private plane awaited them. Following an interview by reporters, they were escorted by a Portuguese honor guard across the landing field to the plane. And here, for the first time, they received a taste of the acclaim in store for them. Thousands and thousands of Portuguese crowded in close, waving American flags and hailing them as heroes. The police could hardly hold the throng back as they cheered and applauded and shoved to get in close enough to touch or shake the oceanauts' hands. For a few moments Josh thought they were in greater danger of being crushed to death here than at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

	From the moment they were plucked from the sea, the oceanauts never enjoyed a moment of privacy until they boarded the President's plane. And even that privacy would be short-lived, for within a few hours they would land at Dulles Airport in Washington where they would be welcomed by even larger and wilder crowds of Americans. And that would be only the beginning. Later would follow parades, receptions, speeches, luncheons, honorary degrees, interviews, and radio and television appearances.

	With all this in mind, NISA had arranged that during the flight home the oceanauts were not to be questioned or interviewed or bothered in any way. They were to be left alone to enjoy a period of quiet and relaxation. Winging homeward at an elevation of 50,000 feet, all of them found themselves unconsciously gazing down at the white-capped surface of the Atlantic Ocean glistening in the sun. That was the water world. Only a few days ago they were part of it, and for almost a year they had derived life-giving oxygen from it, survived on its plankton, adapted themselves to its environment, and lived among its fishes. Curiously, it no longer seemed strange or alien or even hostile.

	At ease now, each oceanaut's thoughts carried him back to the journey they had just completed. Markham, his leg in a cast, thought mostly of the ocean's animal life, particularly the nonluminescent and luminescent fishes off the coasts of the United States and Europe and in the abyss. Thanks to his photographic memory, he still retained in his mind vivid pictures of the dense phytoplankton and zooplankton that sparkled in the water as dust in the sunlight. He remembered the whale and sharks and scores of other fishes he knew so well and had studied. More important, he was able to recapture images of the unknown species he had discovered. Upon his return he would include many detailed sketches in his report to NISA and in articles he would write for ichthyology journals. Then fondly, he thought of the different parts of the ocean to which he planned to return in the future to do intensive research.

	Doctor Sparke, in his mind, reviewed the entire journey from Drop-Off Day to the tsunami and rescue. He thought of the delays and of the mistakes and how they might have been avoided. Over and over he mulled the thought: Suppose we were to make the same journey again, what would we do the same? Different? In his mind he also planned the report he would submit to NISA upon his return. It would be detailed and take months to write. More convinced now than ever that the ocean offered man the greatest opportunities for exploration and science, the richest source of yet undiscovered knowledge, Doctor Sparke, with his brilliant mind and fertile imagination, envisioned future journeys, ideas his fellow scientists would no longer scoff at as "wild." He wondered. Across the bottom of what ocean should man walk next? The Pacific? The Indian? By what routes? How many oceanauts should make the next journey? What equipment should be provided? How could the Homeostats be improved to sustain life longer than 360 units? Once Doctor Sparke's imagination took wing, he went on and on, dreaming of all the new horizons that now lay within reach of science and man.

	As for Josh, the experience of walking across the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, of living as an oceanaut for almost a year, had made a deeper impression on him than he realized. He had always loved the sea, but, now that he understood it better, he felt a greater attachment to it than ever. The journey across man's last frontier on earth had more than satisfied his curiosity, and at the same time whetted it for further exploration. The journey had more than fulfilled his craving for adventure, and at the same time convinced him that the world's oceans still held countless mysteries for man to probe and unveil. He would go down to the depths again.

The End

* * * * * *
Book information

VANISHED!

Somewhere in the deep, the huge sea creature had located them. Now it stalked them,_ watching, waiting ...

And then it struck with a swiftness that hurled the mind into chaos. Doctor Sparke stood talking to his two companions; the next instant he was gone—without a trace to show where he had been.

Doctor Sparke had vanished into the black and lethal belly of a creature as all-consuming as the sea itself!

About the Author

Louis Wolfe has written seventeen books, most of them on scientific subjects, for children and adults. In addition, he has been an editor of science books for children, has written for educational films, and has written a syndicated newspaper series on current scientific developments.

He received his undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and pursued further studies at New York University, College of the City of New York, New School for Social Research, and Columbia University. He retired after thirty years of teaching in the New York Public School system and now devotes all of his time to writing magazine articles and books, and to his favorite hobbies, golf and travel. The latter hobby has led him to visit nearly every country on the globe.

He is a member of the International Oceanographic Foundation, The American Littoral Society, and The Marine Technology Society.

JOURNEY OF
THE
OCEANAUTS

LOUIS WOLFE

PYRAMID BOOKS	•	NEW YORK

To the memory of my brother, Herman

JOURNEY OF THE OCEANAUTS

A PYRAMID BOOK
Published by arrangement with W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.

W.W. Norton & Company edition published September 1968 
Pyramid edition published September 1970

Copyright© 1968 by Louis Wolfe

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 68-22725

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America
PYRAMID BOOKS are published by Pyramid Publications
A Division of The Walter Reade Organization, Inc.
444 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10022, U.S.A.

* * * * * *
Back cover

"MAN HAS REACHED THE MOON. ,TOMORROW HE WILL JOURNEY TO THE PLANETS, THE STARS, AND BEYOND. BUT YOU, GENTLEMEN, ARE ABOUT TO EMBARK ON THE SUPREME ADVENTURE ..."

THE OCEANAUTS: Three brave men on a trek no man has dared attempt before. Inching their perilous way across 4,000 miles of unexplored ocean bed-on foot-manmade mutants who sleep, eat, breathe, move in the sea's depths as naturally as its own creatures. They encounter the unexpected, the unknown, the unbelievable.

The Oceanauts plunge deep into the mysteries of Inner Space—on the most vital mission of all time: to find a final refuge for mankind!

"Filled with adventure and suspense"
— The New York Times

A PYRAMID BOOK   75¢	Printed in U.S.A.