Ocean on Top

Chapter Eight

It must be obvious from the things I’ve already said that I’m no psychologist, though I’ve read a little about the field. I’ve been told that it’s possible for a person to deny flatly and categorically the evidence of his own senses, if their reports disagree violently enough with what he thinks he knows. In fact I’ve met people who claim that the ability to do this is all that keeps most of us sane. Until that moment, I’d doubted both statements. Now I’m not so sure.

I’d seen us come in from definite, obvious sea-bottom conditions to the place where we now were. I had not seen anything even remotely like a door, valve, or lock either open before us or close behind us, and I had certainly been looking for one. To the best of my knowledge and belief, therefore, my tank was now in a room full of sea water at a pressure corresponding roughly to a mile’s depth.

I had seen the people now in the chamber around me swimming in the sea outside — the same people, for the most part. I had seen them, continually or nearly so, as they brought me in. They, too, were still in high-pressure water and had been all along. I was forgetting for the moment the clarity with which I had been able to see those some faces in the water outside, but even if I’d remembered I probably wouldn’t have seen the relevance just then.

I had seen them remove the helmets, just now, still apparently in high-pressure water. No, I couldn’t believe all of that at once. It was missing something, but I couldn’t believe it was recently an observable fact. I’d been battered around during the storm and had certainly missed the technique which had been used in finding me, but I hadn’t been unconscious, then or later. I was short on sleep, but surely not so dazed by it as to have missed any major happenings. I had to believe that my observations were reasonably complete. Since I was, in spite of that belief, clearly out of phase with reality, there was something I just plain didn’t know. It was time for more education.

I wasn’t too worried about my personal future; if there had been any intent to dispose of me, it could have been done earlier with much less trouble — and as I’ve said before, I couldn’t believe, deep down, that people would dp anything final to me anyway. If you think that doesn’t jibe with the way I’ve admitted I felt a few minutes before, you ask a psychiatrist.

I had a couple of days of breathing still in the tank, and presumably before that time was up my new acquaintances would do something about getting me out — though I couldn’t offhand see what it would be, now that I thought of the problem. Any way I, looked at it, though, the next move seemed up to them. Maybe that shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was.

Apparently they felt the same way — not comforted, I mean, but that they should be doing something. They were gathered in a group between the tank and the door we had come through, apparently arguing some point. I couldn’t hear their voices, and after a minute or two I decided they weren’t actually talking; there was a tremendous amount of gesticulation. They must have a pretty comprehensive sign language, I decided. This was reasonable if they spent much of their time, and especially if they did much of their work, under water. I couldn’t see why they used it now, since my common sense was having trouble admitting that they were still in water.

In any case, they seemed to reach an agreement after a few minutes, and two of them went swimming — yes, swimming— off down one of the smaller shafts.

It occurred to me that even if they couldn’t talk under the circumstances, they should be able to hear.

So I tried tapping on the walls of the tank to get their attention — gently, in view of my experience with tank-tapping so shortly before. Evidently they could hear, though they had the expected difficulty in judging the direction of the sound source and it took them a few minutes to recognize that I was responsible. Then they swam over and gathered around the tank, looking in through the ports. I turned on my inside lights again. None of them seemed surprised at what they saw, though a continuous and animated gesture conversation was kept up.

I tried yelling. It was hard on my own ears, since most of the sound echoed from the walls of the tank, but at least a little should get through. It evidently did; several of them shook their heads at me, presumably indicating that they couldn’t understand me. Since I hadn’t used any words yet, this wasn’t surprising. I tried telling them who I was — not using my name, of course — in each of the three languages in which I’m supposed to be proficient. I attempted to do the same in a couple of others in which I make no claim of skill. All I got was the headshaking, and two or three people swam away, presumably dismissing me as a hopeless case. No one made any obvious attempt to communicate with me by any sort of sign or sound.

Eventually I felt my throat getting sore, so I stopped. For another ten minutes or so nothing much happened. Some more of the crowd swam away, but others arrived. There was more of the gesture talk; no doubt the newcomers were being given whatever there was to tell about me.

All the new arrivals wore coveralls more or less like those I’d first seen outside, but some of these were in fancy colors. I got the impression that it was the difference between work clothes and white-collar suits, though I can’t give any objective reason for the notion.

Then some new swimmers, less completely dressed, appeared from one of the tunnels, and things began to happen. One of them worked his way through what was by now quite a crowd, came up to the tank, and tapped it gently. It was refreshing to have one of them try to get my attention instead of the other way around, but the real jolt came when I recognized the newcomer.

It was Bert Whelstrahl, who had disappeared a year before.