Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

BRACKISH WATERS

by

RICHARD A. LUPOFF

DELBERT MARSTON, JR., Ph.D., D.Sc., was the youngest tenured professor on the faculty of the University of California. He was widely regarded as a rising academic star, not only on the University’s premiere campus at Berkeley but throughout the huge multi-campus system and, if the truth be known, throughout the national and international community of scholars.

Tall and dark-haired with a touch of premature grey at the temples, he was regarded as a catch by female faculty members who competed vigorously for his attention. He dressed conservatively, held his tongue in matters of both public and campus politics, drank single-malt scotch whiskey exclusively, and drove an onyx-black supercharged 1937 Cord Phaeton. Perhaps it was Marston’s otherwise thoroughly conventional lifestyle that caused his vehicular preference to be regarded as a sign of high taste and acceptable self-indulgence rather than one of eccentricity.

He had the Cord serviced regularly at an exclusive garage on the island of Alameda, the owner of which establishment catered to fanciers of the three marques formerly built in Auburn, Indiana— the Auburn, the stately Duesenberg, and the tragically short-lived Cord. The Auburn Motor Car Company, or what was left of it, was now producing Lycoming aircraft engines and B-24 Liberator bombers for the Army Air Forces. Once the war was over there was no predicting the future of the discontinued automobiles, but in Marston’s estimation their prospects were poor.

On the night in question—the night, at any rate, that would initiate the series of events destined to lead to Delbert Marston’s apotheosis— the sky above the San Francisco Bay Area was black with a cold storm that had swept down from the Gulf of Alaska and attacked the Pacific Coast with fierce winds and a series of hammering downpours of pelting rain laced with occasional hints of sleet. Such weather was not uncommon in Northern California during the winter months, and the winter of 1943-44 was no exception; the onslaught of wind and water was regarded as anything but freakish. The Bay Bridge was swept by an icy gale but the Cord held the roadway with a steadiness unmatched by vehicles of lesser quality.

Professor Marston was accompanied by an older colleague, one Aurelia Blenheim, Ph.D. Grey-haired and dignified, Professor Blenheim had served for some years as Marston’s mentor and sponsor. It was her spirited championing of his cause that had persuaded the Tenure Committee to grant him its seal of approval despite what was regarded as his almost scandalous youth. Marston’s intellectual equal, Aurelia Blenheim had found in the younger academic the friendship and platonic camaraderie that her lifelong celibacy had otherwise denied her.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into spending an evening with this squad of eccentrics, Aurelia.” Marston braked to keep his distance behind a superannuated Model A Ford that looked ready to topple over in the gale.

“Why, for the sheer pleasure and mental stimulation of bouncing off some people with unconventional ideas. Besides, the semester’s over, most of the kiddies who have managed to stay out of the service have gone home to Bakersfield or Beloit or wherever they came from. What else did you have to do?”

“You’ve got to be kidding. The Oakland Symphony is doing an all-Mahler program, the San Francisco Ballet has a Berlioz show, and the opera is offering The Marriage of Figaro. And we’re going to meet a bunch of wackos who think—if you can call it thinking—as a matter of fact, Aurelia, what in the world is it that they do think?”

Aurelia Blenheim shook her head. “Come now, Delbert. They have a lot of different ideas. That’s the fun of it. They don’t have a body of fixed beliefs. Attending one of their meetings is like sitting in on a First Century council of bishops and listening to them debate the nature of the mystical body of Christ.”

“I can’t think of anything less interesting.”

They had reached the San Francisco end of the bridge now and Marston manoeuvred the Cord through merging traffic and headed south. A rattletrap Nash sedan full of high school kids pulled alongside the Cord. The driver lowered his window and yelled at Aurelia, “Why don’t you put that submarine back in the water where it belongs, grandma?”

Aurelia Blenheim turned to face the heckler and mouthed some words that remained unheard and unknown to Delbert Marston. The expression on the face of the heckler changed suddenly. He raised his window and floored his gas pedal. The Nash sped away. Three kids in the backseat stared open-mouthed at the grey-haired professor.

“Aurelia,” Marston asked, “what did you say to them?”

“I just gave them a little warning, Delbert. Best keep your eyes on the road. I’ll get us a little music.” She reached for the radio controls on the Cord’s dashboard. Although the radio had added to the price of Marston’s Cord he had ordered it installed when he purchased the Phaeton.

The sounds of Franz Liszt’s ‘Mephisto Waltz’ filled the Cord’s tonneau.

A particularly dense sheet of rain mixed with a seeming bucketful of hailstones crashed against the Cord’s roof and engine hood, adding the sound of an insane kettle drum concerto to the music.

“There’s our exit sign,” Aurelia Blenheim shouted above the din.

Delbert Marston edged into the exit lane and guided the Cord off the highway and onto a local thoroughfare. Aurelia Blenheim navigated for him, giving instructions until she finally said, “There it is. You can park in the driveway.”

The house stood out like an anomaly. Curwen Street and its environs—still known as Curwen Heights—had once been among San Francisco’s more fashionable neighbourhoods. Victorian homes had reared their turrets and cupolas against the chilly air and damply cloying fog. Families who claimed the status of municipal pioneers, direct descendants of the leaders of the Gold Rush and survivors of the earthquake and fire of 1906, had erected gingerbread-encrusted mansions and filled them with children and servants. Carriage-houses and stables were discreetly placed behind the family establishments.

But the passing decades had brought changes to Curwen Street and Curwen Heights. Urban crowding had driven the wealthiest families to Palo Alto, Burlingame and other lush, roomy suburbs. The construction of the Golden Gate Bridge and Bay Bridge in the 1930s had opened the unspoiled territories and sleepy villages of Marin and Alameda Counties for the use of daily commuters. Key Route trains brought workers from Oakland and Berkeley into the city each day.

Marston switched off the engine and half-blackened headlights, and climbed from behind the steering wheel. He exited the car and helped Aurelia Blenheim to do the same. He carefully locked the vehicle’s doors and escorted her to the front entrance of the house. In the darkened street and with storm clouds blackening the sky it was difficult to see anything. Even so, the house had the appearance of a one-time showplace, long since fallen into disrepair. Blackout curtains made the windows look like shrouded paintings. Marston searched for a doorbell and found none. Instead, a heavy cast-iron knocker shaped like a gargoyle signalled their arrival.

The door swung open and they were greeted by a rotund individual wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He peered owlishly at Marston, then dropped his gaze to Aurelia Blenheim.

“Dr. Blenheim!” He took her hand in both of his and pumped it enthusiastically. After he released her she introduced Marston. The rotund youth identified himself as Charlie Einstein, “No relation,” subjected Marston’s hand to the same treatment Aurelia Blenheim’s had received, and ushered them into the house.

Voices were emerging from another room, as was the odour of fried food. In the background a radio added to the din.

Charlie Einstein led Marston and Aurelia Blenheim to a high-ceilinged parlour. Men and women sat on worn furniture, each of them holding a plate of snack food or a beverage or both.

Einstein clapped his hands for attention and conversations wound down. The radio continued to play. Einstein said, “Ben, would you mind?” He gestured toward a Philco console. “You’re the closest.”

A painfully thin and painfully young-looking man in a Navy uniform reached for the Philco and switched it off. “Nobody was paying attention anyhow,” he said. He turned toward Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. “Aurelia, hello. And you must be Professor Marston.”

Del Marston nodded.

“Ben Keeler,” the sailor said. His spotless winter blues bore the eagle-and-chevron insignia of a petty officer. He shook Marston’s hand. “We’ve been hearing about you for weeks now, sir. I’m so pleased that you could finally make it to a meeting.”

Charlie Einstein set out to fetch beverages for Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. Keeler pointed out the others in the room, giving their names. Marston nodded to each.

One of them was a thirty-ish woman whose mouse-brown sweater was a perfect match for her stringy hair. She was sitting next to the fireplace, where a log smouldered fitfully. “This is Bernice,” Keeler announced. “Bernice Sanderson.”

The woman looked up at Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. It was obvious that she knew Blenheim; they exchanged silent nods. “So you’re the famous professor.” She glared at Marston. “The sceptic who doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see for himself. You’ve got a lot to learn, Professor.”

She turned away.

Keeler took Marston by the elbow and steered him away. “Sorry about that, sir.”

Marston interrupted. “Please just call me Del.”

“Fine.” The sailor grinned. “You know, I was an undergrad at Cal until we got into this war. I’m accustomed to calling professors, Sir.” He reddened. “Or, Ma’am, Professor Bleinheim.”

“Aurie.”

“Yes.” Keeler turned a brighter shade of red. “Anyway, once the war is over I plan to go back and finish up my degree.”

Marston nodded. He saw that Keeler wore an engineer’s rating on his uniform sleeve. “Good for you,” he said. “There will be plenty of need for good engineers in the post-war world.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Keeler. “In fact—”

He was interrupted by Charlie Einstein carrying a tray with two steaming cups on it. “I know Aurie likes these things and she told me that you did, too, Professor.”

“Del.”

“Right. Hot rum toddies. Good for a night like this.”

When Einstein went on his way, Ben Keeler resumed. “I’d hoped to have you as my faculty adviser when I get to grad school. If I’m not being too pushy, that is.”

Marston shook his head. “I’m flattered. Sure, come and see me when the war’s over. I envy you, Ben, serving in the Navy. You just went down and enlisted when Pearl Harbor was attacked?”

“I thought it was the right thing to do. In fact, I’d have thought that a man with your credentials would have a commission. If you don’t mind my saying so, Professor. Del.”

Marston sipped at his rum toddy. “They turned me down. Said I couldn’t march right, and besides, they wanted me to hang around and lend my expertise when they had problems for me to play with. Said I was more valuable as a civilian than I would be in the Navy.”

Keeler nodded sympathetically.

Marston breathed a sigh of relief. The rum couldn’t be that strong and fast-acting, it was just careless of him to mention not being able to march right. He’d been born with minor deformities of both feet. They’d never kept him from normal activities, in fact he felt that they helped him as a swimmer. But the Navy doctors had taken one look at his feet and told him to go home and find a way to contribute to the war effort as a civilian.

Still, the Navy had accepted him as a consultant, calling upon his expertise as a marine geologist and hydrologist. He’d received a high security clearance and worked with naval personnel whenever he wasn’t busy teaching. He looked around, observing that nearly everyone in the room was young. Aurelia Blenheim had persuaded Marston to attend a meeting, but this looked more like a party. There were plates of snack food scattered around the room and bottles of soft drinks. There was a low, steady hum of conversation. Marston spotted only two girls among the crowd, discounting the acerbic Miss Sanderson. Outnumbered as they were by males, they were twin centres of constant attention and manoeuvring.

A fireplace dominated one end of the room. A young man of neurasthenic appearance wearing a baggy suit and hand-painted necktie had stationed himself in front of it. He held a brass bell and miniature hammer above his head and sounded the bell.

“The twelfth regular meeting of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific will come to order.” He looked around, clearly pleased with himself. Conversation had ceased and he was the target of all eyes. “We have a distinguished guest with us tonight, Professor Marston of the University of California. If anyone can shed light on the problem of the Deep Ones, I’m sure Professor Marston can.”

Now attention shifted from the young man to Del Marston. What a farce this was turning into. Marston mulled over suitable forms of revenge against Aurelia Blenheim.

“Professor Marston,” the young man was babbling on, “perhaps you’ll be willing to address our little group?”

Marston was holding a thick sandwich in one hand and a soft drink in the other. He put them on a table and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite prepared for that. Maybe you’ll tell me a little bit about your group, starting with your name.”

“Albert Hartley, Dr. Marston. I’m the President of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific. Our members are dedicated to unravelling the mystery of the Deep Ones. Hence our name.” He giggled nervously, then resumed. “And Dr. Blenheim says that you’re the leading marine geologist in the region.”

“Dr. Blenheim flatters me. But tell me about your New Deep Ones Society. Does the name refer to the fact that you are all deep thinkers?”

“Now you flatter us,” Hartley replied. They had settled onto chairs and sofas by now, the boys clustering around the girls while Albert Hartley tried to hold their attention. “The Deep Ones,” (Marston could almost hear the capital letters) are strange creatures who live on the sea-bottoms of the world. People have known about them for thousands of years. They’re in Greek mythology, Sumerian mythology, African mythology. And in modern times authors keep writing about them. But nowadays they have to disguise their books as fiction.”

“Why?”

Hartley looked startled. The room was silent.

Then somebody else made an ostentatious demand for the floor. Del Marston recognised the new speaker as Charlie Einstein. The ponderous Einstein blew out a breath. “There are people in the government who don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. People in every government. You wouldn’t think that the Nazis in Germany and the Reds in Russia and the Democrats in Washington could agree on anything while they’re fighting this huge war and all, but they have secret meetings in Switzerland, you know. The Japs are there, too.”

“You mean the war is a front for something else?” Marston asked. “Cities getting blown up, soldiers dying in foxholes, aerial and naval battles, people suffering all over the world—it’s all a put-up job?”

Einstein shook his head, his too-long, dirty-blond hair falling across his face. “Oh, the war is real enough, okay. My brother is in the Army, he was at Tobruk in North Africa and was wounded and he’s back in England now, in the hospital. The war is real, you bet, Dr. Marston. But the big shots who are running things still have their secret agreements. You’ll see, when it ends, nothing much will change. And they really don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. Lovecraft wrote about them, too. In fact, he was writing about them even before that Czech guy, Karel Capek, wrote his book War with the Newts. They’re everywhere. Lovecraft was a New Englander and he knew about them, they have a big base at Innsmouth, in Massachusetts.”

“But that was just fiction.” Marston tried to calm the excited youngsters. “Foolish stories about monsters. As silly as Orson Welles’ radio play about Martians. There are problems enough in this world without having to invent more.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Einstein shook his head. His fleshy jowls shook with emotion. “And another thing. There’s the 1890 Paradox.”

“The what?” Marston could barely keep from laughing.

“The 1890 Paradox,” Einstein repeated. “Karel Capek was born in 1890 in Bohemia, in what is now Czechoslovakia. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born in Rhode Island. And Adolf Hitler was born in Linz, Austria. You can’t call that a coincidence, can you?”

“Of course I can.” Marston frowned. “Millions of people are born every year. You can pick any year out of history and find musicians, authors, politicians, scientists, generals, philosophers, all born that year. Of course it’s a coincidence.”

“Then what about their deaths? Lovecraft and Capek both wrote about the Deep Ones, both exposed their intentions, and both died within a matter of months! Explain that for me, if you can, Dr. Marston.”

“I can’t explain it. There’s no explaining to do. Out of all the millions of people born in 1890, I imagine that tens or hundreds of thousands would have died in—what year was it that your two writers passed on?”

“Lovecraft died in 1937, Capek in 1938.”

“And Hitler?”

“You know he’s still alive. That’s because the stars were right for those births in 1890, and they were right for the two deaths in 1937 and ’38. As for Hitler—he’s no menace to the Deep Ones. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in league with them. Malignant beings have a long history of making alliances with humans willing to sell out their species for personal gain, like vampires offering their sort of undead immortality to their human servants. And the Deep Ones have a lot to offer their allies. Long, long life for one thing. And incredible pleasures obtained through their unspeakable rites. That’s what the Deep Ones have to offer.”

“And we believe they’re here, Dr. Marston.” This from Albert Hartley, taking back the centre of attention. He was interrupted by a middle-aged woman who entered the room wearing a housedress and apron. “There’s coffee and cocoa on the stove for anybody who wants them,” she announced.

Hartley looked exasperated. “Thanks, Mom. Not right now, please.”

The woman withdrew.

“They’re out in the Bay, even as we speak,” Hartley resumed. “They have a whole city down there. When people disappear, when you hear about people jumping off the new bridge to Marin, the Deep Ones are involved in that.”

Marston frowned. It was hard to take these kids seriously but he had promised Aurelia Blenheim and he was going to do his best. “I think the jumpers are suicides.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to think. The Deep Ones, they’re amphibians. Lovecraft said so in his writings. They look like regular people at first. They grow up among us, they could be anybody. Then as they get older they start to show their true nature. It’s called the Innsmouth Look. They start to resemble frogs or toads. Eventually they have to go back to the sea, to live with their own people.”

Marston picked up his abandoned sandwich and took a bite. Mom Hartley made good snacks, anyway. The sandwich was spiced salami and crisp lettuce with a really sharp mustard, served on hard-crusted sourdough. Marston had a good appetite, and besides, chewing earnestly away at Mom Hartley’s salami sandwich gave him an excuse not to answer young Albert Hartley’s wild assertions.

Now a girl sitting surrounded by boys spoke up. “My name is Narda Long, Dr. Marston.”

Del Marston nodded.

“We don’t think that there has to be war with the Deep Ones.” Narda wore her medium-brown hair in curls. Her face would be pretty, Marston decided, in a few years when she shed her baby fat. It would help her figure, too. For now, she filled her pink blouse and plaid skirt a bit more amply than she might, but in this crowd anyone young and female would get all the attention she wanted.

The room was filled with a buzz. Apparently the New Deep Ones Society was divided between those who thought they could make league with the wet folk and those who considered the amphibians the implacable enemies of land-dwellers.

“If we’d just make friends with them, I’m sure they’d leave us alone. Or even help us. Who knows what treasures there are in the sea, on the sea bottom, and we probably have things here on land that would help them.”

“That’s right.” The boy sitting next to Narda Long agreed. “We have these battles and we go shooting torpedoes around and we set off depth charges, we’re probably ruining their cities. No wonder they’re mad at us.”

“What can you tell us about the Deep Ones, Dr. Marston?” The only other non-hostile girl in the room, a freckled redhead, asked.

Marston shook his head. “I think you invited the wrong person to your meeting. You need a folklorist or maybe a mystic. Somebody from the Classics Department might be good. I’m just a marine geologist. I study things like underwater volcanism and seismology, and their effect on shore structures and the way bodies of water behave. It’s all pretty dry stuff.”

Nobody got the joke.

The debate went on, the let’s-be-friends-with-the-frogs group versus the it’s-a-fight-to-the-finish group. Finally Del Marston looked at his watch and exchanged a signal with Aurelia Blenheim.

“I’m sorry but I have to teach an early class tomorrow,” she announced. “You know, we old folks can’t stay up as late as we used to, not if we’re going to go to work in the morning.”

* * *

“Thanks for getting us out of there,” Marston addressed Aurelia Blenheim. “Another five minutes and I was about ready to take a couple of those young blockheads and knock their skulls together.”

Aurelia Blenheim laughed. “They weren’t that bad, Delbert. They’re young, they can’t help that, and a certain amount of foolish passion goes with the territory.”

“I suppose so,” Marston grumbled. “And a couple of them even seemed moderately intelligent. The only one who seemed sensible was the young sailor—what was his name?”

“Ben Keeler. You weren’t just impressed by his hero-worshipping attitude, by any chance.”

“Not in the least. Sincere and merited admiration is never misplaced and is always appreciated.”

“What a lovely aphorism.” Aurelia Blenheim leaned forward and switched on the Cord’s radio. The Phaeton had cleared the Bay Bridge, the structural steel and giant cables of which would have interfered with reception. A late-night broadcaster was rhapsodising about the progress of General Clark’s forces in Italy and the successes of Admiral Nimitz’s fleet against the Japanese. The announcer must have been local because he went on to talk about Nimitz’s pre-war connection with the University of California in Berkeley.

When the news broadcast ended Marston switched to a station playing a Mozart clarinet piece. “You don’t really think those kids have something, do you?” he asked his companion.

“I try to keep an open mind.”

Marston asked, not for the first time, how his friend had first encountered the New Deep Ones. As usual she referred to a vague relationship between herself and Mrs. Hartley. “We went to school together a million years ago. I was in her wedding. Poor Walter, her husband, was on a sub that went down in the Pacific. She carries on and I try to keep her spirits up.”

“And you really do have a class in the morning,” Marston commented. He drove through Berkeley, dropped her at her home on Garber Street and returned to his home on Brookside Drive.

He refused further invitations to attend meetings of the New Deep Ones. His feet were bothering him and walking had become difficult and uncomfortable if not downright painful. And he was having problems with his jaw and teeth. He consulted his dentist and his medical doctor alternately. Each reported that he could find no source for Marston’s difficulties and referred him to the other.

Marston worked at his office on campus, solving problems brought to him from local naval installations. He reduced his social schedule until he was a near recluse, moving between his bachelor’s bungalow and his office on the university campus. He met requests for his company with increasing abrasive refusals until the day he realised he was excluded from faculty cocktail parties and all but the most compulsory of campus events.

The conversation he had in part overheard, in part contributed to, at the meeting of the New Deep Ones preyed on his mind. Several times he sought out Aurelia Blenheim, by now not only his longest-enduring acquaintance but virtually his only friend. Over a cup of coffee or a glass of wine he queried her about Selena Hartley, young Albert’s mother. At least Aurelia Blenheim had revealed her friend’s first name.

Her maiden name had been Curwen. She was a native San Franciscan, descended from the founder of Curwen Heights. She had married Walter at the height of the tumultuous Roaring Twenties and had struggled at his side through the years of the Depression to preserve their relationship and to keep the old house, built by the original Eben Curwen during the previous century, in the family.

Beyond that, Aurelia Blenheim had no information to share with Delbert Marston.

Naval Intelligence had ferreted out Japanese plans to send submarines against the West Coast of the United States. To Marston this made no sense. Earlier in the war, after the Japanese had decimated the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor and had conquered the Philippines and Wake Island, it would have made sense. But the Japanese were being forced back by General MacArthur’s island-hopping campaign and General LeMay’s fire-bombing of the home islands.

An anti-submarine net had been strung across the Golden Gate in 1942, when a direct attack by Admiral Yamamoto’s forces seemed imminent. The attack had never come, but the Navy had been spooked by their intelligence and Marston was called on to help design a new and improved underwater defence line. Knowing the Navy, the war would be over before the new defences were built and the defences would be outdated before another war could make them useful, but Marston was not one to shirk his duty.

He spent his days touring the Bay and the Golden Gate in naval motor launches, alternating the excursions with long days at the desk calculator and the drawing board. His nights he spent in his living room, looking out over Brookside Drive, listening to music, and drinking scotch whiskey. It was almost impossible to find good single malt nowadays, far more difficult than it had been during the laughably ineffective Prohibition of Marston’s youth. He shuddered at the thought of having to switch to blended swill.

As walking became increasingly painful he spent more hours in the University pool. Even sitting in an easy chair or lying in bed he had to deal with discomfort, and the ongoing changes in his jaw and teeth made eating a nasty chore. He was losing his teeth one by one, and new ones were emerging in their place. He’d heard of people getting a third set of teeth, it was a rare but not-unknown phenomenon. His own new teeth were triangular in shape and razor-sharp. Only when he had slipped into the waters of the pool did the pain in his extremities ease, and even his mouth felt less discomfort.

Yet he was drawing unwelcome glances in the changing area at the pool. He altered his routine, suiting up at home and wearing baggy clothing over his trunks until he reached the locker room. There he would doff his outer costume and plunge into the water, staying beneath the surface as long as he could before rising for air. As time passed he found himself able to stay under for longer periods. He ascribed this to the practice of almost daily swims.

One day he stayed under for a period that must have set his personal record. When he surfaced he was the centre of attention. One of the other swimmers muttered, “Say, you must have been down there for five or six minutes. How do you do that?”

Marston growled an answer, then hastened to his locker, pulled his baggy clothing on over his wet body and dripping suit, and headed for home.

That night he drove to the Berkeley Marina. He parked his Cord, looked around and ascertained that he was alone. He walked to the water’s edge, disrobed, and slipped into the Bay. The water was icy but somehow it eased the now-constant ache in his legs and feet. His hands, too, seemed to be changing their shape in some small, subtle way. They were uncomfortable, as well. He wondered if he was developing arthritis.

He swam out toward Angel Island. He had no way of knowing just how far he had gone or how long he had remained submerged, but he felt that it must have been fifteen or twenty minutes. He broke surface and realised that he was not out of breath. In fact, he had to force himself to inhale the fog-drenched night air. His neck itched and he rubbed it with his hands, feeling horizontal ridges of muscle that he had never noticed before.

He looked around, searching for landmarks, but the enforced wartime blackout precluded the use of bright lights in the cities that lined San Francisco Bay. He made out the silhouette of Bay Bridge against the sky, then that of the Golden Gate Bridge. He turned in the water, recognising the forbidding fortifications of Alcatraz. Without inhaling again he ducked beneath the surface and swam back toward the Berkeley shoreline. In time he waded from the cold, brackish waters of the Bay. By contrast, the night air felt warm against his body. He shook like a dog to rid himself of water, pulled on his clothing, and drove home.

In the Brookside Drive cottage he drew a polished captain’s chair to an open window. Through the window he could hear the soft gurgle of the nearby stream that gave the thoroughfare its name. Odd, Marston thought, that he had never noticed this before. The sound brought with it a melancholy, pleasant feeling. He thought of putting a record on the turntable, had even selected Handel’s ‘Music for the Royal Fireworks’, and pouring himself a scotch while he listened to the recording, but instead brought a pillow from his bedroom and placed it on the living room carpet.

He lay down in darkness and closed his eyes, letting the sound of the stream fill his consciousness. He fell asleep and dreamed of dark waters, strange creatures and ancient cities beneath the sea. He awoke the following morning and staggered to the mirror in his bedroom. He brushed water from his hair.

* * *

By the end of May, in normal times, the university’s spring semester would have ended and the students departed, leaving Berkeley a quiet suburb of Oakland instead of the bustling community of scholars it became during the academic year. But in wartime the military had set up accelerated programs for the education of junior officers, and the University of California was on a year-round schedule.

Delbert Marston’s assignments from his naval superiors had changed as well. The computations and design of the anti-submarine defences were completed and construction was well under way. The data provided to Marston now was peculiar and the requested analytical reports were more peculiar than ever. In Europe the long-anticipated cross-channel invasion had taken place and Allied forces were pushing the Wehrmacht back toward Germany. In the Pacific Japanese troops were resisting with fanatical dedication, whole units dying to the last soldier rather than raise the flag of surrender.

But as the Office of War Information reminded the American public, the conflict was far from over. The Germans had developed flying bombs and rocket weapons and were using them against Allied forces in France and Belgium, and sending them to wreak havoc in England. If they could develop longer-range models, even the US would be in danger. A Nazi super-scientist named Heisenberg was rumoured to be developing a weapon of unprecedented power that could be delivered to New York by a jet-propelled flying wing bomber. The whole thing seemed like a scenario from a Fritz Lang movie.

Still, Marston made his way to his office each morning, labouring on feet that sent agony lancing up his increasingly deformed legs. Once at work he found it hard even to hold a pencil, relying on an assistant to take dictation rather than try to write up his own notes. He seldom spoke with anyone save his naval superiors and assistants.

His only pleasures were his solitary, nocturnal excursions beneath the surface of the Bay. He no longer bothered with the fiction of breathing air once he entered the Bay, relying on water inhaled through his now wide mouth and expelled through the gill slits in his neck once his body had extracted its oxygen content.

He saw shapes beneath the water now, sometimes dark, sometimes sickly luminescent. At first he avoided them, then he began to pursue them. He couldn’t make out their appearance well, either, although as time passed he began to develop more acute vision in the dark medium. From time to time one of the shapes would swim toward him, then flash aside when he reached out to touch it.

One night he found one of the creatures drifting aimlessly a few feet beneath the surface. He swam to it and saw that it was more or less human in outline but clearly not human. He reached for it and it did not flash away. Once he grasped it he realised that it was dead, its flesh horribly torn as if it had been caught in the propeller of a passing ship. Even as he studied the strange cadaver two more shapes flashed into sight and snatched it from his grasp, moving first out of his reach and then out of his sight.

But he had touched the remains. The flesh was white and stringy, the skin as smooth and slick as that of a giant frog.

Despite the changes he was undergoing he managed to maintain the pretence of normality, taking his meals, filling his Cord Phaeton with precious, rationed gasoline, sending his laundry out to be done, keeping his modest lodgings in order.

Late one Saturday afternoon he nearly collided with Aurelia Blenheim while pushing a shopping cart in the aisle of the grocery store nearest his home. He was shocked at her haggard appearance. How long had it been since their last meeting? How could she have aged so badly? He thought of his own changed appearance and wondered if he looked as worrisome to Aurelia as she to him.

The expression on Aurelia Blenheim’s face showed shock and deep concern. “Delbert,” the elderly woman exclaimed, “are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“But you look so—are you certain?”

“Yes,” he growled. He should have turned and left the store the instant he spotted Blenheim, but he had failed to act and now he was caught. “I’m just a little tired,” he explained. “Very tired, in fact. The war. So much work.”

“I’m coming to your house,” Blenheim asserted. “I’m going to make dinner for you. You’re not taking care of yourself. You’re headed for the hospital if you don’t get yourself together. You should be ashamed!”

When they reached Marston’s cottage he turned his key in the door lock and stood aside to let Aurelia Blenheim enter first. Marston carried the bag of groceries Blenheim had helped him select. She had even loaned him a few ration stamps and tokens to complete his purchase.

The selection of foodstuffs was far more extensive than the Spartan diet Marston had been living on in recent months. In fact he occasionally supplemented his nourishment during his nocturnal swims in the Bay. That body was densely populated with marine species that throve in its cold, brackish waters. Marston became ravenous when he came upon the abalone, eels, crabs, clams and small octopods that lurked in the silted seabed. When he came upon one he would devour it raw, fresh, and sometimes living. His new teeth could pierce the shell of a living crab as if it were paper.

Just inside the doorway Aurelia Blenheim bent over and picked up a buff-coloured envelope. “Here’s a telegram for you, Delbert.”

He took the envelope from her and opened it. The message was typed in capital letters on strips of buff paper and glued to the message form. The telegram came from a Captain Kinne, commanding officer of the Naval Weapons Station at Port Chicago, a village on the shore of Suisun Bay, an extension of San Francisco Bay fed by the Sacramento River.

The message itself was terse. It directed Marston to report to the commanding officer’s headquarters first thing Monday morning. In traditional naval fashion Marston was told to show up at or about 06:00 hours, on or about July 3, 1944. Marston had never heard of anyone in the Navy arriving after the designated time and date with the excuse that he had arrived “about” the indicated time.

Aurelia Blenheim steered Marston into an easy chair and carried the bag of groceries into his kitchen. She had visited the Brookside Drive cottage before, although months had passed since her last visit. Marston put some light music on the turntable, an RCA Red Seal twelve-inch recording of ‘Vltava’ by the tragic Bohemian madman Bedrich Smetana.

With astonishing speed Blenheim produced a tempting bouillabaisse. The odour coming from the kitchen was mouthwatering and the flavour of the marine stew proved delicious. The only problem, for Marston, was that everything seemed overdone. He would have preferred to consume the aquatic creatures uncooked.

After dinner they relaxed in Marston’s living room with glasses of pre-war brandy. Jokingly, Aurelia Blenheim asked why Marston’s mother hadn’t taught him to take better care of himself. When he reacted to the question with frowning silence the older woman set down her glass and took his free hand between both of hers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Marston drew away. Of late his arthritis had become worse. The last joints of his fingers and toes had curled downwards and his finger- and toenails seemed to be turning into claws. He worked to keep them trimmed but they grew back rapidly. The small triangles of flesh between the bases of his digits were growing, also, a change that proved helpful in water but embarrassing in public.

Desperate to draw attention away from his increasing physical abnormalities, Marston said, “No, I’m afraid she didn’t.”

Blenheim frowned, “Who didn’t what?”

“My mother. She never taught me to take care of myself. She never taught me anything. I never knew her. My father told me that she loved to swim. They lived in Chicago and she would swim in Lake Michigan all year round. She joined a group, they called themselves the Polar Bear Club, and they would plunge into the lake every New Year’s Day, no matter how cold it was, even if it was snowing. But that was just a stunt. They used to get their picture in the Chicago Times and the Tribune and the Sun. But Mother took it all very seriously. The photographers loved her, she was the only female Polar Bear.”

He took a deep draught of golden liqueur.

“She was an immigrant,” he resumed. “I never knew where she was born. Father just said it was a cold country. I was born on December 25th, you know,” he changed the subject. “I was a Christmas baby.” He said it with bitterness. “Father brought Mother and me home from the hospital on New Year’s Eve. The next day Mother insisted on her annual plunge with the other Polar Bears. They used to run out into the lake, throw themselves into the surf, frisk for a few minutes and then come running back out of the water. But Mother swam out. Snow was falling, Father told me, and visibility was poor. Mother just swam out into the lake. They sent search parties after her but they never found her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aurelia Blenheim said. She started again to reach for his hand, then drew back, avoiding a repetition of his previous withdrawal. After a moment she said, “Did your father ever re-marry?”

Marston shook his head. “He raised me alone, as best he could, until he was gunned down when I was six. I had no other relatives and I wound up bouncing from one orphanage to another until I went out on my own.”

“But you’ve made such a success of yourself, Delbert. I never knew about your childhood. How sad. But look at you now, a tenured professor, a respected member of the community. I’m so proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.”

She insisted on clearing the dishes and cleaning up Marston’s kitchen. She returned to the living room and said, “You know I live nearby. I’ll just walk home, it’s such a warm evening. Please promise me you’ll take better care of yourself. And let me know how things work out at Port Chicago. As much as the Navy lets you tell me, of course.”

He stood on his lawn and watched until she disappeared. He returned to his house and filled another snifter of brandy, then sipped until it was gone. The summer evening was long and he was in agony by the time full darkness descended. Then he left the house and drove to the marina. He parked, disrobed at the water’s edge and slipped into the Bay.

* * *

Monday morning he rose early and drove to Port Chicago. The naval base consisted mainly of warehouses and barracks. A railroad spur ran onto a pier that extended into the Bay. Even at this early hour he could see crews of coloured stevedores in Navy fatigues working to move munitions from railroad cars to the hold of a ship moored to the side of the pier. The stevedores were supervised by white men in officers’ uniforms.

A guard had demanded to see Marston’s identification and the telegram summoning him to the base. Once satisfied, the guard directed Marston to the headquarters building, a wood-frame structure badly in need of fresh paint. Once inside he was escorted by a smartly uniformed WAVE into the commander’s office.

Captain Kinne looked as if he had stepped out of bandbox. Every crease in his uniform was knife-sharp, every button glistened.

Marston of course wore civilian garb, the academic uniform of tweed jacket, flannel slacks and button-down shirt. He had replaced his customary striped necktie with a scarf that concealed his gill-slits and added a pair of oversized dark glasses. He stood in front of Captain Kinne’s desk wondering whether he was expected to salute or shake hands. The WAVE introduced him and Kinne looked up at him. “You’re Marston, eh?”

He said, “I am.”

“All right, I just wanted to get a look at you. Tell a lot about a man with one look. You’ll do. What happened to your hands, Marston? Some kind of tropical disease? Jungle rot?”

Marston started to answer but Kinne went on.

“Jaspers,” he addressed the WAVE, “take Mr. Marston down the hall. Give him to Keeler.” He turned back to Marston and nodded curtly. “Go with Jaspers. Keeler will tell you what to do. Thanks for coming.”

The WAVE, obviously Jaspers, led Marston to another office. She halted and knocked at the door, then turned the knob and opened the door a few inches. “Mr. Marston is here, sir.”

She gestured and Marston stepped past her into the office. He heard Jaspers close the door behind him. He found himself in a smaller office now, surrounded by charts and manuals. The man who stood up to greet him wore a set of summer khakis with the twin tracks of a Navy lieutenant on the collar.

“A real pleasure to see you again, Dr. Marston. After that little party in Curwen Heights I was afraid you wouldn’t want anything to do with us.”

“Ben Keeler?” Marston said. “You’ve certainly risen fast. You were a junior petty officer the last time I saw you.”

Keeler grinned. “Petty Officer Third Ben Keeler, Lieutenant Benjamin Keeler, same fellow. ONI put me in that EM’s uniform to check out the New Deep Ones Society. They were pretty worried at one point, those kids were getting too close to the truth and the Naval Intelligence wanted them steered off. That was my job. I still attend their meetings, by the way. If you ever want to come by again, I’d love some moral support. Just don’t blow my cover.”

“All right,” Marston smiled. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Naval Intelligence.”

“And they’re just a bunch of harmless eccentrics, you know,” Keeler added. He walked around the desk and put his arm on Marston’s shoulders. “Take a walk with me, Dr. Marston. There are some things you need to see, and then some questions I’ll want to ask you.”

Marston acceded, determined not to show the pain that he knew he was in for. At Keeler’s side he made his way along the pier. A freighter stood in the middle of Suisun Bay, black smoke pouring from its stacks. It would clear the Golden Gate before noon, Marston knew, en route to the soldiers and marines fighting the Japanese in the Pacific. An empty ship had already taken the place of the freighter on one side of the pier, while another, opposite it, received pallets and crates of munitions.

As they moved past work gangs Keeler took salutes from ensigns and petty officers supervising the stevedores. The latter continued to work as Marston and Keeler passed.

At the end of the pier they halted. A breeze had kicked up and the surface of Suisun Bay had turned choppy.

Marston gestured back toward the work gangs they had passed. “All of the stevedores are Negroes, all of the officers are white,” he commented. The question was implicit.

“That’s Navy policy,” Keeler said. “Not very long ago the Navy was trying to get rid of all its Negroes, even though they were just mess-men and laundry workers. Filipinos make better workers. But there’s too much pressure from Washington, finally the service gave in. And these coloured stevedores are pretty good, as long as you keep a close eye on them.”

They turned to face the buildings of Port Chicago. “What we’re concerned about, Del, is a very special cargo that we’re going to ship out this month.”

Marston nodded, then waited for Keeler to continue.

“It’s a very special bomb. It’s coming in by train next week, and Captain Kinne wanted to get your help in handling it.”

Marston shook his head. “What do I know about bombs?”

“Oh, we have plenty of people who know about bombs,” Keeler grinned. “We need somebody who knows hydrology and submarine geology to keep this baby safe.”

“What is it, something bigger than the ones LeMay is dropping on Japan? The closer we get to the home islands, the easier it’s’ going to be to hit ’em.”

“No,” Keeeler shook his head. “This is something different. Look, everybody knows that we’re close to finishing off the European war. Ike took a big risk with the Normandy landings but that was a big success and Patton and Montgomery are rolling through France. Italy’s out of the game. And the Russians are closing in on the Nazis from the East. It’s just a matter of time now.”

“And in the Pacific, too, don’t you agree, Benjamin?”

“But we’re taking terrible losses. The President is up for reelection this November and those casualties are going to hurt him. He’s put pressure on the War Department and the Navy Department to give him this bigger, better bomb. We figure once we drop a couple of these babies on Japan, maybe one on Tokyo and one on Kobe, even the fanatical Nips will cave in. Washington doesn’t want to have to invade the home islands, don’t you see. That’s what this is all about, Del.”

There was a moment of silence as a zephyr swept in from the Bay, bringing the smell of brine and brackish waters with it. Then the wind shifted and the clatter of tools, the sound of voices, the roar of donkey engines came to them from the ships and the railroad cars.

“And there’s another thing,” Keeler added. “You know Uncle Sam didn’t much care for the Bolshies when they first took over Russia twenty-five years ago. President Wilson even sent some troops over there. The government doesn’t like to talk about that any more now that Joe Stalin is our buddy but you know we took sides in their civil war and we picked a loser.”

“That was a long time ago,” Marston put in.

The combination of the choppy Bay and the increasingly brisk breeze whipped up a spray of salt-flavoured water that pelted onto the pier and onto Keeler and Marston. Keeler pulled a bandanna from his uniform trousers pocket and wiped his face, frowning. Marston licked his lips. He felt hugely refreshed.

“The US wouldn’t even recognise the new government in Russia until Roosevelt came in, and there are still a lot of powerful men in Washington who don’t trust Stalin and his gang. They want to get this new bomb and use it before the war is over as a warning to the Reds not to get too big for their britches.”

He hooked his arm through Marston’s and the two men strolled back along the pier, returning finally to Keeler’s office. Keeler said, “Will you get to work on this, Del? Captain Kinne has already worked it out with his counterparts, you’ll be excused from your other duties until the special bomb is safely out on the ocean, on its way to a bomber base in the islands. We need your analysis and your recommendations about the seabed and waters from here to the Farralons. And we need your report before that ship moves. The bomb is coming in next week, and we need to get it out of here on the Quinalt Victory. Our Negroes will be working on the Bryan most of the time, that will serve as cover for the bomb going out on the Quinalt.”

Keeler opened a safe and extracted a pass for Marston. “This will get you anywhere on the base,” he said. “Guard it, Del, it could be dangerous if it got away from you.”

Marston accepted the pass, slipped it into his pocket and left.

* * *

He spent the next few days alternating between Port Chicago and the University campus in Berkeley, studying the physical layout at Suisun Bay and existing charts and studies of the area. He could hardly hold himself back from examining the seabed in person, but he resisted the temptation until he felt ready.

Then he drove from Berkeley to Port Chicago after dark, parked the Cord, and walked out to the pier. The work here went on around the clock, seven days a week. There was no way he could use the pier without being observed, so he informed the young officer supervising the loading work of his intentions.

At the end of the pier he left his clothing, climbed down a ladder, and slipped into the water.

The Bay water was cold and dark and as it welcomed him he felt the aches leave his body and limbs. He had always been a strong swimmer; now, the webbing between his fingers and between his toes turned him into a virtual amphibian. His eyes, too, had developed a sensitivity that permitted him to manoeuvre in the dark, brackish water.

He spotted a huge dark-green crab scuttling toward a large rock on the seabed. The creature didn’t have a chance. Marston’s new, powerful jaw and strong, triangular teeth crunched through its shell. The living meat was sweet and the juices of the crab were more delicious than the finest liquor.

Marston saw human-like forms swimming nearby and pursued them. Ever since his encounter with the dead creature he had wondered about these beings. They might be a species of giant batrachian hitherto unknown to science, far larger than any recorded frog or toad; perhaps they were survivors of a species of amphibian that had evolved aeons ago only to disappear from most of the world.

He swam after them and they permitted him to approach them but not to establish direct contact. They swam with the current created by the waters of the Sacramento River as it emptied into Suisun Bay. They looked back from time to time as if to encourage Marston to follow them, but the speed and stamina with which they swam far exceeded even his enhanced abilities.

Finally he gave up and swam back toward the loading pier and the two ships at Port Chicago.

He climbed the ladder, then drew himself onto the pier. The young ensign he had spoken with earlier greeted him with a shake of his head. “I was getting pretty worried,” the ensign said. “Do you know how long you were gone, sir? And do you realise how cold the Bay is, and how tricky the currents can be?”

Marston didn’t feel like talking with this youngster but he managed a few polite words. Yes, he knew exactly what he was doing, he had never been in danger, there was nothing to worry about but he appreciated the ensign’s concern.

During the brief conversation he had been pulling his clothing back on. He had purchased new shoes, as wide as he could find, to accommodate his newly altered feet. Even so, it was fiercely painful to force his feet into them.

He repeated his activities each night. The underwater creatures gradually grew accustomed to him, permitting him to approach ever more closely, permitting him to accompany them farther and farther from Port Chicago. It was clear to Marston that they communicated with one another, mainly by means of subtle gestures made with their broad, webbed, clawed hands. Marston inferred that they had a language as sophisticated and complex as any spoken by land-dwellers.

Now that he was affiliated with the Port Chicago base Marston had discontinued all contacts with his former associates in Berkeley. He did not worry about running into Aurelia Blenheim at the grocery as he now relied entirely on a diet of creatures he encountered during his nocturnal explorations of the Bay’s waters.

He maintained a relationship with Lieutenant Keeler and though him with Captain Kinne, furnishing reports and recommendations as required of him. He resented every meeting he had to attend, every conversation he had to conduct; in fact, he found himself living for his submarine excursions and suffering through each hour he spent walking on land, breathing with his gradually atrophying lungs instead of his gills.

On Friday, July 14, Keeler demanded that Marston attend a meeting with Captain Kinne. Also present were two high-ranking officers, one from the Navy and the other from the Army, the latter with Army Air Force insignia on his uniform blouse, and the commanders of the Negro stevedoring gangs.

Captain Kinne’s WAVE secretary, Jaspers, ushered Marston into the commanding officer’s area. When the meeting participants were assembled they were joined by a pair of armed shore patrolmen and the doors were securely locked.

“The bomb will arrive in forty-eight hours,” the Army officer announced. A major general’s paired silver stars glittered on his uniform shoulders. “We will deliver it to the loading pier, then we need a sign-off from the Navy and our job is finished.”

“And ours begins,” the naval officer took over. His uniform sleeves bore the broad gold stripes of a rear admiral. “Captain Kinne, are your men ready to get the bomb stowed in Quinalt Victory Monday evening? ONI insists that we do the loading at night, but it must be finished in time to catch the late tide out of the Golden Gate.” The admiral cast a sharp look at Marston. “Dr. Marston has provided all the information we’ll need to get Quinalt Victory safely out of the Bay and on her way by midnight?”

The utterance was worded as a statement but spoken as a question.

“We have everything, sir,” Keeler furnished.

“All right. Let’s go over the complete plan again,” The admiral growled. “There must be no slip-ups, I can’t emphasise that too much.”

They spent the rest of the day going over the details of unloading the special bomb from its railroad car and loading it into the hold of the Quinalt Victory without a hitch. A squad of white-jacketed mess-men served coffee and rolls at mid-morning and a full meal at noon. No one left the meeting for any reason. Marston was able to pass up the coffee and rolls but by lunchtime he was forced to consume a few sips of beverage and half a sandwich. This disgusted him.

When the meeting ended he drove into Port Chicago. He had seen the town fleetingly each day but today for the first time he parked his Cord and walked through the streets. He found a motion picture theatre and purchased a ticket. They were running a long program, the dramatic film Lifeboat with Tallulah Bankhead and Canada Lee, the lightweight Bathing Beauty with Esther Williams, a newsreel and a chapter of “Crash” Corrigan’s old serial, Undersea Kingdom.

Once inside he settled into a seat and unlaced his shoes, finding a modicum of relief for his aching feet. He leaned back and studied the neon-ringed clock mounted high on one wall of the auditorium. Most of the patrons were servicemen in uniform, whiling away their off-duty hours. None of them were coloured, of course. Negroes were excluded from the theatre and from the town’s plain restaurants. They had to find their own entertainment, or make it.

Marston ignored the images on the screen and closed his eyes. Images of undersea life swam through his mind, the peace and serenity of the submarine world contrasting with the pain and violence that dominated the world of the land-dwellers.

After a while he opened his eyes and glanced at the illuminated clock-face. Even in the long July evening, darkness would have fallen by now.

He drove back to the naval base, showed his pass to the gate-guard, and parked as near to the water’s edge as he could. He carefully locked the Cord and walked to the base of the pier. A special guard had been placed there, and even Marston’s special pass could not gain him access to the pier.

Instead he walked back to his car, unlocked the door and climbed inside. He disrobed, left the car again, and walked undiscovered to the edge of the Bay. He slipped into the Bay and swam away from the shore.

He made his way to the cold, flowing water that he knew came from the Sacramento River. The river water had less flavour than the Bay water. With a start Marston realised that he had never experienced the richness of the Pacific. He turned to swim with the current. His anticipation of the new experience filled him with an almost sexual excitement.

When he reached the submarine net at the mouth of San Francisco Bay he paused briefly, then pulled himself through it into the ocean. He was terrified but soon calmed himself. He had undergone a rite of passage, he felt, had experienced a sea change. He would explore farther in later days, he decided, but for now he felt emotionally drained and physically exhausted.

He turned and began the long swim back to Suisun Bay.

He had seen fewer of the human-like creatures than usual on this night, but as he approached Port Chicago they became more numerous. He was beginning to learn their language and felt eager to converse with them, find out who or what they were, but they kept their distance from him this night, and instead of joining them he continued on his solitary way.

In time he recognised the submerged landmarks that told him he was at his destination. He had been swimming along the sea bottom, insulated by fathoms of brackish water from the world of men, immune from the noisome companionship of air breathers and land dwellers. He rose slowly toward the top of the water. He was shocked as he breached to realise that he had spent the entire night under water. The brilliant sun now blasted down from a bright blue sky.

He made his way to his Cord, drove home and slept around the clock. He awoke Sunday morning and spent the day in seclusion, sustaining himself with alcohol and music. After dark he made his way to the nearby stream and stood in it, letting its waters soothe his feet. He went home and slept, dreaming once more of an undersea city, and rose late on Monday. He hadn’t realised how far he had swum on Friday night, or how exhausted the effort had left him. Still, the experience had been an exhilarating one and he looked forward to spending even more time beneath the surface, to travelling farther into the ocean.

When he reached Port Chicago on Monday the transfer of the bomb from railroad freight car to the hold of Quinalt Victory was well under way. Marston’s expertise had been of immense value, he would be told. He encountered Captain Kinne himself on the pier and the usually stern Kinne recognised him and thanked him for his assistance.

Powerful electric vapour-lights had been rigged to illuminate the operation once the sun had set and their peculiar glare gave the faces of the men on the pier, both white and coloured, a ghostly look.

Marston walked to the end of the pier. When he turned back toward the centre of activity he saw that all eyes were fixed on the delicate work at the Quinalt Victory. He checked his wristwatch and saw that it was ten o’clock. Bright moonlight was reflected off the surface of the Bay.

Instead of climbing down the ladder to the water’s surface, Marston left his clothing in its usual neat pile, stood on the edge of the pier, and dived into the Bay. He swam to the seabed, taking delicious water in and passing it through his gills, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the faint phosphorescence that provided illumination in this world.

He turned to observe the hull of the Quinalt Victory. He was astonished at the number of human-like forms moving around the ship, gesturing meaningfully to one another, attaching something, something, to the metal hull of the Quinalt Victory.

Marston swam toward the ship, curious as to what the creatures were doing. This was the first time he had seen them using anything that looked like machinery. As he drew closer several of the creatures turned and swam toward him. As they approached he realised that they were like him in every way. The wide mouth and triangular teeth, the splayed limbs, the webbed hands and feet, the hooked claws, the oversized eyes and flattened noses.

How had he managed to pass among men until now? How had his alienness gone undetected? The scarf and dark glasses had helped but surely he would be caught out soon if he tried to continue his masquerade as human. He raised a hand and gestured, showing these aquatic beings that he was one of them, telling them in their own language, a language which he was just beginning to comprehend, that he was not a human, not a land-dweller.

He was not the enemy.

He was shocked by a brilliant flash from the Quinalt Victory, a glare that seemed as bright as the sun. Marston felt a shock wave, felt its unimaginable, crushing pressure as it reached him. Then, even before he could react, there was a second flash, this one brighter than a thousand suns, and a second shock wave infinitely greater than the first. But he felt it for only the most fleeting of moments, and then he felt nothing more.

HISTORIC NOTE

At 10:20 p.m., Monday, July 17, 1944, a huge explosion occurred at Port Chicago, California. Two ships were moored at the loading pier of the naval station there. The E.A. Bryan was fully loaded and ready to leave for the Pacific theatre of operations with a huge cargo of high explosives and military equipment. The Quinalt Victory, a brand-new vessel built at the Kaiser Shipyard in nearby Richmond, California, was preparing to take on its own cargo.

Some 320 individuals were killed in the explosion, most of them African-American stevedores. An additional 400 persons were injured. A common form of injury was blindness caused by flying splinters of window-glass in naval barracks. The main explosion was preceded by a rumble or smaller explosion, reports differing, which drew many off-duty stevedores to the windows to see what had caused the sound.

The brilliant flash, the roar of the explosion, and the shaking of the earth that resulted, were seen, heard, and felt as far away as the cities of Berkeley, Oakland, and San Francisco.

The Bryan, the Quinalt Victory, the loading pier, the railroad spur running along the pier, and the ammunition train that was parked on the pier at the time, were all totally destroyed. The town of Port Chicago was obliterated and a visitor to its site today will find only a few forlorn street markers to show where

once a community thrived.

While official statements about the disaster aver only to the high explosives which had been loaded in the E.A. Bryan, critics in later years suggested that the explosion was nuclear in nature. In the summer of 1944 the atomic bomb was top secret and the very existence of the Manhattan Project was shrouded in layers of security. But once the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, speculation began that more than dynamite had been involved in the Port Chicago disaster.

If the Port Chicago explosion was indeed nuclear in nature, further speculation is divided between those who believe the explosion was accidental in origin, or was in fact a test by the United States government to measure the effects of a nuclear bomb. Certainly the weapons base at Port Chicago would have made a fine test subject, with ships, a railroad spur, temporary and permanent buildings, and many hundreds of expendable human subjects.

Perhaps the Port Chicago explosion was a nuclear accident? If so, it represented a major setback to the American nuclear weapons project. The successful Alamogordo test did not take place until July 16, 1945, one day short of a year after the Port Chicago explosion. Nuclear weapons were exploded in the air over Hiroshima and Nagasaki the following month, bringing about the end of the Second World War and providing an object lesson for Josef Stalin.

Where the Port Chicago naval weapons depot once stood, there is now the Concord Naval Weapons Station, a major loading area for the United States Pacific Fleet. The storage of nuclear weapons in barrow-like bunkers at the naval weapons station, while not officially acknowledged by the US government, is one of the most ill-kept secrets of our era.