Undersea City

16 The Intruder in Station K

Krakatoa Dome had taken a pounding. But there was plenty of reserve strength to meet it; the city had been shaken up, but no more.

We finally managed to get a detachment of Sub-Sea Marines up from Fleet Base to take charge of the nucleonic fuses in my uncle’s safe, and ourselves hurried back to the Base and to Station K to check the results of the quake.

“Force Four,” said Lt. Tsuya, frowning. “Odd! More than that, it’s amazing! We simply can’t be that far off in our forecast.”

Lt. McKerrow, red-eyed, surly from lack of sleep—he had been single-handed in Station K all the long while we had been away—snapped: “See for yourself, Tsuya. I guess we blew that forecast!”

But Lt. Tsuya was not convinced. “Get the geosonde crew out,” he barked. “I need a new sounding. Check the instruments, start a new set of charts—I want a forecast within thirty minutes. Because I don’t think that that was the quake we forecast!”

Sleep. It was the thing I wanted most in the world. But there was no time for it. Exhausted as we were, Lt. Tsuya was right; we had to know what was coming next. If it was true that the most recent quake was man-made, then there was every chance that the big quake, the one we had spotted coming up in our charts, was yet to come. Force Four had been only a teaser…if the big one hit us, lack of sleep wouldn’t make any difference at all!

While I was spotting in the converted readings on the sonde run a detachment of Sub-Sea Marines marched in. The commanding captain clicked his heels and reported formally: “Lt. Tsuya, we are bringing in the nuclear devices you found for storage here. Base Commandant’s orders.”

“Here?” repeated Lt. Tsuya, dazed. Then he rallied. “Get those things out of here!” he yelled. “Don’t you think I’ve got enough on my mind, without a bunch of loose atomic bombs cluttering up my station?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” The Marine captain was faintly amused. “Commandant’s orders.” Then he unbent enough to add: “After all, in unsettled quake conditions you can’t expect him to leave those things anywhere inside the Dome. They might go off!”

We looked at each other as the detachment of Marines began staggering in under the weight of the heavy golden balls.

But there was logic and truth in what he said. Here, at least, we were down in bed rock. Station K was likely to be the first and most permanent casualty of a really severe quake—but it would be drowned out, destroyed by flooding, much more probably than by the force of the quake itself. And flooding wouldn’t set off the nuclear fuses, while a shock well might.

We continued with our work, and as the last of the Marines came in with their deadly cargo I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a black-robed figure in a clerical collar.

I sat up and stared.

“Father Tide!” I cried.

“The same,” he nodded. “Hello, Jim. Good evening, Lieutenant Tsuya. I trust you won’t object to my breaking in on you like this.”

Lt. Tsuya got up from his stool at the forecasting table and wrung Father Tidesley’s hand.

“Believe me, sir,” he said, “nobody could be more welcome. You see, our forecasts—”

“I know,” said Father Tide, almost cheerfully. “Oh, yes. I know. You forecast Force Twelve and had to settle for Force Four, eh? But you doubt that the quake you got was the one you had forecast.

“Well, I think you’re right. And if you don’t mind, I’ll help you check out the figures.”

“Certainly,” said Lt. Tsuya. “We can use all the help we can get.”

By then I had my converted figures plotted on the charts; Harley Danthorpe had completed his microseismometer readings; we were all ready to begin.

We began our individual computations, all of us—the two lieutenants, Harley Danthorpe, Father Tidesley and myself. It wasn’t hard, for I think that each one of us knew the answer before we began.

Father Tide was the first to finish. He laid down his pencil, nodding slightly, and waited.

Then Lt. Tsuya looked up. “I make it Force Ten,” he said.

“Force Eleven is what I got,” spoke up Harley Danthorpe.

Father Tide agreed. “But we are all agreed on one thing, eh, gentlemen? And that is that a very severe quake is still ahead of us, probably not more than twelve to twenty-four hours away. Is that correct?”

We all nodded.

“Which,” he droned in professorial style, “proves that the recent quake is not the one you forecast.

“Which leads me, at least, to believe that it was manmade—probably by Stewart Eden, and those working with him.”

Lt. Tsuya nodded.

Lt. McKerrow nodded.

Harley Danthorpe, glancing at me, said almost inaudibly: “That’s the way it looks.”

And I—

I don’t know what I would have done.

But I was spared the necessity. For on that instant, without warning, the second quake struck.

Maybe it was less severe than the first. The instrument readings showed Force Four, but barely; but perhaps it was only our location. Buildings sway and amplify a quake’s vibrations; down in Station K we were deep in solid mother rock. But at any rate the grinding, roaring shudder only made me queasy for a moment, and none of us lost our footing.

But Lt. Tsuya, as soon as he had caught his breath, roared: “That settles it! Those maniacs will bring the dome down on top of us yet. Father Tide, I’m going to the City Council to demand instant evacuation. Do you want to come along?”

Father Tide said soberly: “Try to keep me away.”

Once again we left Lt. McKerrow, red-eyed, in sole charge of the station, while Lt. Tsuya, Father Tide, Harley Danthorpe and I hurried up to the city hall. There was raw terror in the streets of Krakatoa Dome now. Damage was still astonishingly light, but the wreckage of public morale was visible on every face. More than once we had to detour and find another way of crossing a radial or getting through a congested central square, as milling mobs blocked our way.

But we made it.

And the Council—fewer than half of them present; perhaps they had decided on personal evacuation in spite of the brave face they presented to the ordinary citizens of Krakatoa Dome—was a shouting, yelling catfight more than a sober parliamentary meeting. Each member seemed determined to outshout every other; the accusations hurled around that room ricocheted and drew blood from every person present.

Barnacle Ben Danthorpe was there, rasping: “You’re the mayor. Bill! Shut these lubbers up so we can hear what the Fleet boys have to say.”

And the mayor, pink and perspiring under the colorful murals of sub-sea life, murmuring: “Gentlemen, gentlemen! This is a crisis. We must all be calm…”

And the other council members, squabbling among themselves—

Father Tide took one look around and then, like Daniel entering the den of beasts, walked gravely to the front of the council chamber. He picked up the mayor’s gavel from the floor, bowed courteously to His Honor, rapped lightly on the podium and said, in his soft, clear voice, “Order!”

Magically the hubbub stopped.

Every face turned to look at him.

Politely Father Tide bowed his thanks. He said gently, “Lieutenant Tsuya has something to say to you. Please remain quiet until he has finished.”

The lieutenant needed no urging. He bounded forward and, in few words, told the council the exact situation. “We don’t know how many artificial quakes are yet to come,” he finished. “We have reason to believe there may be at least half a dozen more. But one thing we do know—the big one hasn’t happened yet.

“When it does, it is the end of Krakatoa Dome.”

“Thank you.” Father Tide nodded politely to the lieutenant. “And now, gentlemen,” he said clearly, “it seems to me that there is only one thing to do. With His Honor’s permission—” he bowed to the pink and unhappy man slumped beside him—”I shall ask you all to vote. The motion is to evacuate every possible human being from Krakatoa Dome at once. All those in favor, please raise your hands.”

Hypnotized, nearly every hand in the room went up—even the mayor’s, even Harley Danthorpe’s and mine, though we certainly had no vote in that assembly!

But a loud, harsh voice cut in.

“Wait!” bellowed Barnacle Ben Danthorpe, lunging forward. “You’re out of order, Father Tide! You have no place here!”

Father Tide turned to meet him. “I ask your pardon,” he murmured, still polite, still calm. “It seemed to me that a vote needed to be taken.”

“Vote?” sneered Danthorpe. “Oh, sure. Why not? Take a vote. Decide to evacuate Krakatoa Dome! And then, for the next fifty years, not one single piece of property in the whole Dome will be worth a holed sea-penny, because every investor will be scared off. ‘The Dome they keep evacuating,’ they’ll think—and buy elsewhere.

“No, Father Tide. I don’t care who you are, you aren’t going to ruin my investments in Krakatoa Dome!

“As for you lubbers—go ahead and vote. Go ahead! But remember, every man who votes in favor of evacuation is going to have to answer to me!”

There was a moment’s silence.

Then, as though nothing had happened, Father Tide said softly: “All those in favor, please raise your hands.”

Two hands went slowly up—three—then one of them came down again, and another.

And then the third.

There was not one single vote for evacuating the Dome, in spite of everything.

Father Tide sighed.

He laid down the gavel, very quietly, before him. He bowed to the mayor.

He said:

“May God have mercy on your souls.”

The third quake hit us as we were almost back to Fleet Base.

“Force Four,” whispered Father Tide, clinging to a slidewalk rail with one hand and bracing Lieutenant Tsuya with the other.

The lieutenant pulled himself erect. His face was haunted. “Yes,” he said, “Force Four.

Always Force Four! Can’t they give us the final blow and get it over with?” His voice was thin and tight; he was on the ragged edge of hysteria.

“Calm yourself, my boy,” advised Father Tidesley. He stood up experimentally, and then released the railing.

“The worst is over,” he said. “And now I must leave you.”

“Leave us?”

Father Tidesley said wearily: “I’m afraid we’ve done everything we can do here in Krakatoa Dome, Lieu tenant. It’s time for me to board my sea-car and go out into the deeps. This is not the epicenter of the quake, you know. You’ve seen it on your own charts. I’ll go out, as close to the epicenter as I can, and make measurements—Make measurements…”

He said forcefully: “I only wish there was something I could do but make measurements!”

And then he passed a hand over his face. “Naturally,” he said, “I will take as many refugees with me as my sea-car will hold. But I fear it will be a long voyage to a safe harbor if the Dome fails.”

Lieutenant Tsuya stood up and saluted formally.“Cadet Danthorpe,” he rapped, “you will escort Father Tide to his sea-car. Good-by, sir.”

“Good-by,” echoed Father Tide. He shook Lt. Tsuya’s hand, then mine. He said one thing to me. It didn’t seem to mean anything to me at the time, but I know what it meant to Father Tide; it was a general injunction, a rule for action in every case. He said: “Have faith.”

And later it meant something very particular in this particular case, as well. Have faith. I should never have lost it.

As we were entering the Fleet Base approaches, Lt. Tsuya gripped my shoulder. “Look!” he cried.

We were at the Fleet landing basins. There were viewports in the Dome, and through them—

The Fleet was coming in.

In clouds and clusters, scores of sub-sea vessels of the Fleet were homing in on Krakatoa Dome. Whatever the mayor and city council might vote, the Fleet had its own orders, and was moving in to put them into force. We could see half a dozen squadrons, drawn in by radio and microsonar from their cruising ranges, vectoring in on the Dome. Not enough. Not nearly enough. I remembered the figures: More than half a million citizens would remain trapped in the Dome when the great quake struck, no matter what steps were taken toward evacuation in the time that remained. But oh, what a great sight that was, to see those lean, long, edenite-armored ships, shimmering in the pale light of their hulls, coming in toward the Fleet base!

But it was not enough, as I say.

Wearily, almost beyond hope, we went back to Station K to make more readings and more forecasts.

Canned dance music was on the Dome P.A. systemcanned dance music and reassuring statements from the City Council. In disgust, Lt. Tsuya finally turned it off.

We had completed another forecast, and what it showed was the same as always. The time varied slightly, the exact amplitude of the quake was off a few points—

But the big quake had yet to strike. All our forecasts agreed.

The shocks we had already suffered had damaged our instruments. There was no help for that; they had to be built to record the tiniest movements of the rock, and the severe jarring of even a Force Four shock was bound to knock them awry. Yeoman Harris, with a hastily gathered crew of instrument technicians, was busily checking and readjusting them while we made our forecasts.

When we were through, Lt. Tsuya demanded: “What about it, Harris? Is everything working right now?”

The yeoman scratched his head. “I’m not sure, Lieutenant,” he admitted. “Everything checks out, but—Well, see for yourself.”

Lt. Tsuya trotted over to the microseismograph. He took one look, then blazed:

“Ridiculous! You’ve got something wrong here. These readings—”

Then he paused.

He stared for a long time at the microseismograph trace, frowning. Then, in a different tone: “McKerrow. Eden. Come and see what you make of this.”

We hurried over to look.

The amplitude and distance trace was all wrong to begin with. It showed a small, steady, nearby vibration—too rapid and regular to be a rock movement, too strong and powerful to be any machine vibration. That was preposterous; no such vibration should exist. And then the direction shown—why, that was utterly out of the question! For the epicenter of this little disturbance was not down in the magma or at the plotted faults—it wasn’t down at all—it was, if anything, up higher than Station K itself!

McKerrow said bluntly: “The machine’s all wet. Get busy, Harris. You’ve messed it up.”

“No, wait,” said Lt. Tsuya. He scowled. “Watch the direction vector,” he commanded. “It isn’t constant. I’ve seen it change in the past few seconds.”

We watched.

And it was true! Whatever the cause of this small, steady disturbance was, it was not fixed in one place. It was moving, slowly but perceptibly; the readings changed under our eyes; while we watched the direction showed an azimuth change of three or four degrees, and an elevation change as well. The source of the disturbance dipped until it was level with the depth of Station K—then lower; and on the distance and amplitude trace it clearly showed that, whatever it was, it was coming closer.

“What in the world!” cried Lieutenant McKerrow. “Tsuya, have you got a pet earthquake coming to call on us?”

Tsuya shook his head.

He said solemnly: “Unless I’m crazy, I know what that is.

“It’s the MOLE! It has come back from the depths—and it’s cruising around right now, under Krakatoa Dome!”

For long minutes we stood there watching it—it was incredible! In spite of everything, I had hardly believed that any man-made machine could cruise through solid rock. I had seen our geosondes drop down into basalt, and hadn’t believed; I had seen the ship in the pit, and hadn’t believed; in spite of all reason and the evidence of my senses, the whole thing had just seemed too crazily ridiculous for belief.

But now—now I had to believe! For nothing else could explain what we were seeing. In the rock beneath us a machine, probably bearing my uncle and Bob Eskow, if not others, was swimming about as casually as a herring in the sea’s shallows!

The door to the outer shaft opened and Harley Danthorpe, looking pale and with a haunted misery in his eyes that I didn’t understand, came wearily in. “Cadet Danthorpe,” he said, with a tragic effort at briskness, “reporting for duty, sir!”

“At ease,” said Lieutenant Tsuya absently, glancing at him. Then he stiffened. “Danthorpe!” he barked. “What’s the matter with you!”

Harley’s eyes were bulging now, staring in horror at something beyond us. He pointed and tried to speak, strangling. “The—the rock!” he cried.

We turned and stared.

Under my hand the microseismograph pen was scratching wildly, trying to record vibrations far huger than it was ever meant to scribe.

In the wall a long crack split open, and water cascaded from it.

Earthquake?

No—there was no earthquake. It was something far stranger! For from that crack came a grinding, tearing, ripping, crunching sound, and the whine of high-speed engines.

A bright gleaming edenite nose poked out of that crack.

Spiral ortholytic drill elements, whirling and coruscating, flared into life behind it.

A shuddering, rattling crash of rock opened a pathway—

And into the lowermost room of our Station K, like a ferret blundering into a rabbit’s warren, came crunching the long mechanical body of a Manned Ortholytic Excavator—a MOLE—the stolen MOLE that Bob Eskow had entered in the drainage sump, that had since caused the quakes that seemed to be shaking Krakatoa Dome down around our ears!