Undersea Fleet

2 The Looters of the Sea

At the bow, the stubby little sub-sea tugs were puffing and straining at the cables, towing us at a slow and powerful nine knots toward the off-shore submarine slopes. It was full daybreak now, and the sky was a wash of color, the golden sun looming huge ahead of us, wreathed in the film of cloud at the horizon.

Bob Eskow said: “Marinia? You? You’re from—But what are you doing here?”

David Craken said gravely: “I was born near Kermadec Dome, in the South Pacific. I came to the Academy as an exchange student, you see. There are a few of us here—from Europe, from Asia, from South America. And even me, from Marinia.”

“I know that. But—”

Craken said, with a flash of humor: “But you thought I was a lubber who’d never seen the sea. Well, the fact of the matter is that until two months ago I’d never seen anything else. I was born four miles down. That’s why the sky and the sun and the stars seem—well, just as fantastic to me as sea serpents apparently are to you.”

“Don’t kid me!” Bob flashed. “The sea-bottoms have been well explored—”

“No.” He looked at us almost imploringly, praying us to believe him. “They have not. There are a handful of cities, tied together with the tubes. There are explorers and prospectors in all the Deeps, an occasional deep-sea farm, a few miles away from the dome cities. But the floor of the sea, Bob, is three times larger than the whole Earth’s dry-land area. Microsonar can find some things; visual observation can find a few more. But the rest of the sea-bottom is as scarcely populated and as unknown as Antarctica…”

The warning klaxon sounded, and that was the end of our chat.

We raced across the deck toward the hatchways, even while the voice of sea coach Blighman rattled out of the loudspeaker:

“Clear the deck. Clear the deck. All cadets report for depth shots. We dive in ten minutes.”

A dark, lean cadet joined us as we ran. “David,” he called, “I lost you! We must go for the injections now!”

David said: “Meet my friend, Eladio Angel.”

“Hi,” Bob panted as we trotted along, and I nodded.

“Laddy’s an exchange student, like me.”

“From Marinia too?” I asked.

“No, no!” he cried, grinning. His teeth flashed very white. “From Peru. As far from Marinia as from here is my home. I—”

He stopped, queuing up at happening. The working crew was yelling for Sea Coach Blighman.

We turned to look toward the stern. Lieutenant Blighman, his shark’s eyes flashing, came boiling up out of the hatchway. We scattered out of his way as he raced toward the stern.

One of the fathometers was missing.

We could hear the excited cries of the working crew. They had been securing the first of the fathometers on deck, where it would provide a constant record of our dives. The second, still on the landing staring toward the stern. We were the hatchways, but something was stage—was gone. Gone, when no one was looking. Nearly a hundred pounds of sea-tight casing and instruments; and it was gone.

We lined up to get our shots. Everyone was talking about the missing fathometer. “The working crew,” Captain Fairfane said wisely. “They didn’t lash it. A swell came along and—”

“There was no swell,” said David Craken, almost to himself.

Fairfane glowered. “Ten-hut!” he barked. “There’s too much noise in this line!”

We quieted down; but David Craken was right. There had been no swell, no way for the hundred-pound instrument to fall over the side of the landing stage. It was just—gone. And it wasn’t the first such incident, I remembered. The week before, a sub-sea dory, pneumatic powered, big enough for one man, had astonishingly disappeared from the recreation beach. Possibly, I thought excitedly, the two disappearances were connected! Someone in a sub-sea dory could have slipped up behind the gym ship, surfaced while the work crew was busy on deck, stolen the fathometer—

No. It was impossible. For one thing, the dory was not fast enough to catch even the waddling raft we were on; for another, the microsonars would have spotted it. Possibly a very fast skin-diver, lying in wait in our path and vectoring in to our course in the microsonar’s blind spot, could have done it, but it was ridiculous to think of a skin-diver out that far on the Atlantic.

I thought for a moment of the fantastic remark David Craken had made—the sea serpent.…

But that was ridiculous.

The diving bells jangled, and the ungainly sub-sea raft tipped and wallowed down under the surface. Above us, the sub-sea tugs would be cruising about, one of the surface, one at our own level, to guard against wandering vessels and, if necessary, to render emergency rescue service.

We were ready for our qualifying dives.

The injections were a mild sting, a painful rubbing, and that was all. I didn’t feel any different after they were over. Bob was wincing and trying not to show it; but he was cheerful enough as we raced from the sickbay to our diving-gear lockers.

The gym ship was throbbing underfoot as its little auxiliary engines, too small to make it a sea-going craft under its own power, took over the job of maintaining depth and station. I could smell the faint, sharp odor of the ship itself, now that the fresh air from the surface was cut off. I could almost see, in my mind’s eye, the green waves foaming over the deck, and I could feel all the mystery and vastness of the sub-sea world we were entering.

Bob nudged me, grinning. He didn’t have to speak; I knew what he was feeling. The sea!

Cadet Captain Fairfane broke in on us. I had seen him talking excitedly to Sea Coach Blighman, but I hadn’t paid much attention; I thought it might have been about the missing fathometer.

But it was not. Fairfane came aggressively up to me, his good-looking face angry, his eyes blazing. “Eden! I want to talk to you.”

“Yessir!” I rapped out.

“Never mind the sir. This is man-to-man.”

I was surprised. Roger Fairfane and I were not particularly close friends. He had been quite friendly when Bob and I first came back to his class—then, without warning, cold. Bob’s notion was that he was afraid I would go after his place as cadet captain, though that didn’t seem likely; the post came as a result of class standings and athletic attainment, and Fairfane had an impressive record. But Bob didn’t like him anyhow—perhaps because he thought Roger Fairfane had too much money. His father was with one of the huge sub-sea shipping companies—Roger never said exactly what his position was, but he made it sound important.

“What do you want, Roger?” I hung my sea jacket in the locker and turned to talk to him.

“Eden,” he said sharply, “we’re being cheated, you and I!”

“Cheated?” I stared at him.

“That’s right! This Craken kid, he swims like a devilfish! With him against us, we haven’t got a chance.”

I said: “Look, Roger, this isn’t a race. It doesn’t matter if David Craken can take the pressure a few fathoms deeper than you and—”

“It may not matter to you, but it matters to me. Listen, Eden, he isn’t even an American! He’s a transfer student from the sea. He knows more about sea pressure than the coach does! I want you to go to Lieutenant Blighman and protest. Tell him it isn’t fair to have Craken swimming against us!”

“Why don’t you protest yourself, if you feel that way?”

“Why, Jim!” Fairfane looked hurt. “It just wouldn’t look right—me being cadet captain and all. Besides—”

Bob broke in: “Besides, you already did, and he turned you down. Right?”

Roger Fairfane scowled. “Maybe so. I didn’t actually protest, I just—Well, what’s the difference? He’ll listen to you, Eden. He might think I’m prejudiced.”

“Aren’t you?” Bob snapped.

“Yes, I am!” Roger Fairfane said angrily. “I’m a better man than he is, and better than his pet Peruvian too! That’s why I resent being made to look like a fool when he’s in his natural element. We’re supposed to be diving against men, Eskow—not against fish!”

Bob was getting angry, I could see. I touched his arm to quiet him down. I said: “Sorry, Roger. I don’t think I can help you.”

“But you’re Stewart Eden’s nephew! Listen to me, Jim, if you go to Blighman he’ll pay attention.”

That was something Roger Fairfane hadn’t learned, regardless of the grades he got in his studies. I was Stewart Eden’s nephew—and that, along with five cents, would buy me a nickel’s worth of candy bars at the Academy. The Academy doesn’t care who your uncle is; the Academy cares who you are and what you can do.

I said: “I’ve got to get my gear on. Sorry.”

“You’ll be sorry before you’re through with Craken!” Roger Fairfane blazed. “There’s something funny about him. He knows more about the Deeps than—“

He stopped short, glared at us, and turned away.

Bob and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn’t have time to talk by then, the other cadets were already falling in by crews, ready to go to the locks.

We hurried into our diving gear. It was simple enough—flippers for the feet, mouthpiece and goggles for the face, the portable lung on the back.

It was a late-issue electrolung, one of the new types that generates oxygen by the electrolysis of sea water. Dechlorinators remove the poison gases from the salt. It saves weight; it extends the range considerably—for water is eight-ninths oxygen by weight, and there is an endless supply, as long as the strontium atomic battery holds out to provide the electric current.

But Bob put his on reluctantly. I knew why. As the old early lung divers had found, pure oxygen was chancy; for those who were prone to experience “the raptures of the depths,” oxygen in too great strength seemed to bring on seizures earlier and more violently than ordinary air. Perhaps the injections would help…

We filed into the lock in squads of twenty men, our fins slapping the deck. We were issued tight thermo-suits there—first proof that this was no ordinary skin-diving expedition; we would be going deep enough so that the water would be remorselessly cold as well as crushingly heavy above us.

We sat on the wet benches around the rim of the low, gloomy dome of the lock and Coach Blighman gave us our final briefing:

“Each of you has a number. When we flood the lock and open the sea door, you are to swim to the bow super-structure, find your number, punch the button under it. The light over your number will go out, proving that you have completed the test. Then swim back here and come into the lock.

“That’s all there is to it. There’s a guide line in case any of you are tempted to get lost. If you stick to the guide line, you can’t get lost. If you don’t—”

He stared around at us, his shark’s eyes cold as the sea.

“If you don’t,” he rasped, “you’ll put the sub-sea service to the expense of a search party for you—or for your body.”

His eyes roved over us, waiting.

No one said anything. There wasn’t really much chance of our being lost—

Or was there? One of the fathometers was missing. In the hookup as used on the gym ship, it was a part of the microsonar; without it, it might be very hard indeed to locate one dazed and wandering cadet, overcome by depth-narcosis…

I resolved to keep an eye on Bob.

“Any questions?” Coach Blighman rapped out. There were no questions. Very well. Secure face-pieces! Open Sea Valves One and Three!”

We snapped our face-lenses and mouthpieces into place.

The cadet at the control panel saluted and twisted two plastic knobs. The sea poured in.

It came in two great jets of white water, foaming and crashing against the bulkhead. Blinding spray distorted our lenses, and the cold brine surged and pulled around our feet.

Coach Blighman had retreated to the command port, where he stood watching behind thick glass. As the lock filled we could hear his voice, sounding hollow and far away through the water, coming over the communicators: “Sea door open!”

Motors whined, and the sea door irised wide.

“Count and out!”

Bob Eskow was number-four man in our crew, just before me. I could hear him rap sharply four times on the bulkhead as he squeezed through the iris door.

I rapped five times and followed.

The raptures of the depths!

But they weren’t dangerous, they were—being alive. All of the work and strain at the Academy, all of my life in fact, was pointed toward this. I was in the sea.

I took a breath and felt my body start to soar toward the surface, a hundred feet above; I exhaled, and my body dipped back toward the deck of the sub-sea raft. The electrolung chuckled and whispered behind my ear, measuring my breathing, supplying oxygen to keep me alive, a ten-story building’s height below the waves and the sky. It was broad daylight above, but down here was only a pale greenish wash of light.

The deck of the gym ship—all gray steel and black shadow on the surface—was transformed into a Sinbad’s cave, gray-green floor beneath us, sea-green, transparent walls to the sides. The guide line was a glowing, greenish snake stretched tautly out ahead of me, into the greenish glow of the water. There was no sense of being under-water, no feeling of being “wet”; I was flying.

I kicked and surged rapidly ahead of the guide line without touching it.

Bob was just ahead, swimming slowly, fingers almost touching the guide line. I dawdled impatiently behind him, while he doggedly swam to the bow superstructure and fumbled around the scoring rig. Our numbers were there, with the Troyon tubes glowing blue over the signal buttons. They stood out clearly in the wash of green light, but Bob seemed to be having trouble.

For a moment I thought of helping him—but there is an honor code at the Academy, strict and sharp: Each cadet does his own tasks, no one can coast on someone else’s work. And then he found the button, and his number went out.

I followed him with growing concern, back along the guide line. He was finding it difficult to stay with the guide; twice I saw him clutch at it and pull himself along, as his swimming strokes became erratic.

And this at a hundred feet! The bare beginning of the qualifying dives!

What would happen at three hundred? At five?

Finally we were all back inside the lock, and the seapumps began their deep, purring hum. As soon as the water was down to our waists Coach Blighman rasped:

“Eden, Eskow! What were you jellyfish doing? You held up the whole crew!”

We stood dripping on the slippery duckboards, waiting for the tongue-lashing; but we were spared it. One of the other cadets cried out sharply and splashed to the floor. The sea-medics were there almost before the water was out of the lock. I grabbed him, holding his head out of the last of the water; they took him from me and quickly, roughly, stripped his face-piece and goggles away. His face was convulsed with pain; he was unconscious.

Sea Coach Blighman strode in, splashing and raging. Even before the sea medics had finished with him, he roared: “Ear plugs! Theres one in every crew! I’ve told you a hundred times—I’ve dinned it in to you, over and over—ear plugs are worse than useless below a fathom! Men, if you can’t take the sea, don’t try to hide behind ear plugs; all they’ll do is let the pressure build up a little more—a very little more—and then they’ll give in, and you’ll have a burst eardrum, and you’ll be out of the Academy! Just like Dorritt, here!”

It was too bad for Dorritt—but it saved us for the moment.

But only for the moment.

We weren’t more than a yard out of the lock when Bob swayed and stumbled.

I caught his arm, trying to keep him on his feet at least until we were out of range of Coach Blighman’s searching eyes. “Bob! Buck up, man! What’s the matter?”

He looked at me with a strange, distant expression; and then without warning his eyes closed and he fell out of my grasp to the floor.

They let me come with him to the sick-bay; they even let me take one end of the stretcher.

He woke up as we set the stretcher down and turned to catch my eye. For a moment I thought he had lost his mind. “Jim? Jim? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, Bob. I—”

“You’re so far away!” His eyes were glazed, staring at me. “Is that you, Jim? I can’t see—There’s a green fog, and lightning flashes—Jim, where are you?”

I said, trying to reassure him: “You’re in the sick-bay, Bob. Lieutenant Saxon is right here. We’ll fix you up—”

He closed his eyes as one of the sea medics jabbed him with a needle. It put him to sleep, almost at once. But before he went under I heard him whisper: “Narcosis…I knew I’d never make it.”

Lieutenant Saxon looked at me over his unconscious form. “Sorry, Eden,” he said.

“You mean he’s washed out, sir?”

He nodded. “Pressure sensitive. Sorry, but—You’d better get back to your crew.”