From the Ocean from teh Stars (7 page)

There were snorts of disbelief at this statement, and someone asked:

"Have you tried any tricks on him yet?"

"No, but I'm going to soon. I've thought up a nice one. Will let you
know how he makes out."

"Five to one he panics."

"I'll take that. Start saving up your money."

Franklin knew nothing of his financial responsibilities when he and Don left the garage on their second torpedo ride, nor had he reason to
suspect the entertainment that had been planned for him. This time they
headed south as soon as they had cleared the jetty, cruising about thirty
feet below the surface. In a few minutes they had passed the narrow
channel blasted through the reef so that small ships could get in to the Research Station, and they circled once round the observation chamber
from which the scientists could watch the inhabitants of the sea bed in
comfort. There was no one inside at the moment to look out at them
through the thick plate-glass windows; quite unexpectedly, Franklin
found himself wondering what the little shark fancier was doing today.

"We'll head over to the Wistari Reef," said Don. "I want to give you
some practice in navigation."

Don's torpedo swung round to the west as he set a new course, out
into the deeper water. Visibility was not good today—less than thirty
feet—and it was difficult to keep him in sight. Presently he halted and
began to orbit slowly as he gave Franklin his instructions.

"I want you to hold course 250 for one minute at twenty knots, then
010 for the same time and speed. I'll meet you there. Got it?"

Franklin repeated the instructions and they checked the synchronization of their watches. It was rather obvious what Don was doing; he had
given his pupil two sides of an equilateral triangle to follow, and would
doubtless proceed slowly along the third to make the appointment.

Carefully setting his course, Franklin pressed down the throttle and
felt the surge of power as the torpedo leaped forward into the blue haze. The steady rush of water against his partly exposed legs was almost the
only sensation of speed; without the shield, he would have been swept
away in a moment. From time to time he caught a glimpse of the sea
bed—drab and featureless here in the channel between the great reefs—
and once he overtook a school of surprised batfish which scattered in
dismay at his approach.

For the first time, Franklin suddenly realized, he was alone beneath
the sea, totally surrounded by the element which would be his new do
main. It supported and protected him—yet it would kill him in two or
three minutes at the most if he made a mistake or if his equipment

failed. That knowledge did not disturb him; it had little weight against
the increasing confidence and sense of mastery he was acquiring day by day. He now knew and understood the challenge of the sea, and it was a
challenge he wished to meet. With a lifting of the heart, he realized that
he once more had a goal in life.

The first minute was up, and he reduced speed to four knots with the
reverse jet. He had now covered a third of a mile and it was time to
start on the second leg of the triangle, to make his rendezvous with Don.

The moment he swung the little joy stick to starboard, he knew that
something was wrong. The torpedo was wallowing like a pig, completely
out of control. He cut speed to zero, and with all dynamic forces gone
the vessel began to sink very slowly to the bottom.

Franklin lay motionless along the back of his recalcitrant steed, try
ing to analyze the situation. He was not so much alarmed as annoyed that
his navigational exercise had been spoiled. It was no good calling Don,
who would now be out of range—these little radio sets could not es
tablish contact through more than a couple of hundred yards of water.
What was the best thing to do?

Swiftly, his mind outlined alternative plans of action, and dismissed
most of them at once. There was nothing he could do to repair the torp,
for all the controls were sealed and, in any event, he had no tools. Since
both rudder and elevator were out of action, the trouble was quite funda
mental, and Franklin was unable to see how such a simultaneous break
down could have happened.

He was now about fifty feet down, and gaining speed as he dropped
to the bottom. The flat, sandy sea bed was just coming into sight, and for
a moment Franklin had to fight the automatic impulse to press the button
which would blow the torpedo's tanks and take him up to the surface.
That would be the worst thing to do, natural though it was to seek air
and sun when anything went wrong under water. Once on the bottom,
he could take his time to think matters out, whereas if he surfaced the current might sweep him miles away. It was true that the station would
soon pick up his radio calls once he was above water—but he wanted to
extricate himself from this predicament without any outside help.

The torp grounded, throwing up a cloud of sand which soon drifted
away in the slight current. A small grouper appeared from nowhere,
staring at the intruder with its characteristic popeyed expression. Frank-
fin had no time to bother with spectators, but climbed carefully off his
vehicle and pulled himself to the stern. Without flippers, he had little
mobility under water, but fortunately there were sufficient handholds for him to move along the torpedo without difficulty.

As Franklin had feared—but was still unable to explain—the rudder and elevator were flopping around uselessly. There was no resistance when he moved the little vanes by hand, and he wondered if there was any way in which he could fix external control lines and steer the torpedo manually. He had some nylon line, and a knife, in the pouch on his harness, but there seemed no practical way in which he could fasten the line to the smooth, streamlined vanes.

It looked as if he would have to walk home. That should not be too difficult—he could set the motor running at low speed and let the torp pull him along the bottom while he aimed it in the right direction by brute force. It would be clumsy, but seemed possible in theory, and he could think of nothing better.

He glanced at his watch; it had been only a couple of minutes since he had tried to turn at the leg of the triangle, so he was no more than a minute late at his destination. Don would not be anxious yet, but before long he would start searching for his lost pupil. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to stay right here until Don turned up, as he would be bound to do sooner or later. . . .

It was at this moment that suspicion dawned in Franklin's mind, and almost instantly became a full-fledged conviction. He recalled certain rumors he had heard, and remembered that Don's behavior before they set out had been—well, slightly skittish was the only expression for it, as if he had been cherishing some secret joke.

So that was it. The torpedo had been sabotaged. Probably at this very moment Don was hovering out there at the limits of visibility, waiting to see what he would do and ready to step in if he ran into real trouble. Franklin glanced quickly round his hemisphere of vision, to see if the other torp was lurking in the mist, but was not surprised that there was no sign of it. Burley would be too clever to be caught so easily. This, thought Franklin, changed the situation completely. He not only had to extricate himself from his dilemma, but, if possible, he had to get his own back on Don as well.

He walked back to the control position, and switched on the motor. A slight pressure on the throttle, and the torp began to stir restlessly while a flurry of sand was gouged out of the sea bed by the jet. A little experimenting showed that it was possible to "walk" the machine, though it required continual adjustments of trim to stop it from climbing up to the surface or burying itself in the sand. It was, thought Franklin, going to take him a long time to get home this way, but he could do it if there was no alternative.

He had walked no more than a dozen paces, and had acquired quite

a retinue of astonished fish, when another idea struck him. It seemed too
good to be true, but it would do no harm to try. Climbing onto the
torpedo and lying in the normal prone position, he adjusted the trim as
carefully as he could by moving his weight back and forth. Then he tilted
the nose toward the surface, pushed his hands out into the slip stream
on either side, and started the motor at quarter speed.

It was hard on his wrists, and his responses had to be almost in
stantaneous to check the weaving and bucking of the torpedo. But with a
little experimenting, he found he could use his hands for steering, though
it was as difficult as riding a bicycle with one's arms crossed. At five
knots, the area of his flattened palms was just sufficient to give control
over the vehicle.

He wondered if anyone had ever ridden a torp this way before, and
felt rather pleased with himself. Experimentally, he pushed the speed
up to eight knots, but the pressure on his wrists and forearms was too
great and he had to throttle back before he lost control.

There was no reason, Franklin told himself, why he should not now
make his original rendezvous, just in case Don was waiting there for him.
He would be about five minutes late, but at least it would prove that he
could carry out his assignment in the face of obstacles which he was now
quite sure were entirely man-made.

Don was nowhere in sight when he arrived, and Franklin guessed
what had happened. His unexpected mobility had taken Burley by sur
prise, and the warden had lost him in the submarine haze. Well, he could
keep on looking. Franklin made one radio call as a matter of principle, but there was no reply from his tutor. "I'm going home!" he shouted to the watery world around him; still there was silence. Don was probably
a good quarter of a mile away, conducting an increasingly more anxious
search for his lost pupil.

There was no point in remaining below the surface and adding to the difficulties of navigation and control. Franklin took his vehicle up to the
top and found that he was less than a thousand yards from the Maintenance Section jetty. By keeping the torp tail heavy and nose up he was
able to scorch along on the surface like a speedboat without the slightest
trouble, and he was home in five minutes.

As soon as the torpedo had come out of the anticorrosion sprays
which were used on all equipment after salt-water dives, Franklin got to
work on it. When he pulled off the panel of the control compartment, he
discovered that his was a very special model indeed. Without a circuit diagram, it was not possible to tell exactly what the radio-operated relay
unit he had located could do, but he did not doubt that it had an interest-

ing repertory. It could certainly cut off the motor, blow or flood the
buoyancy tanks, and reverse the rudder and elevator controls. Franklin
suspected that compass and depth gauge could also be sabotaged if re
quired. Someone had obviously spent a great deal of loving care making
this torpedo a suitable steed for overconfident pupils. . . .

He replaced the panel and reported his safe return to the officer on
duty. "Visibility's very poor," he said, truthfully enough. "Don and I lost
each other out there, so I thought I'd better come in. I guess he'll be along later."

There was considerable surprise in the mess when Franklin turned
up without his instructor and settled quietly down in a corner to read a
magazine. Forty minutes later, a great slamming of doors announced
Don's arrival. The warden's face was a study in relief and perplexity as
he looked around the room and located his missing pupil, who stared
back at him with his most innocent expression and said: "What kept you?"

Burley turned to his colleagues and held out his hand.

"Pay up, boys," he ordered.

It had taken him long enough to make up his mind, but he realized
that he was beginning to like Franklin.

☆
CHAPTER FIVE

The two men leaning on the rails around the main pool of the aquarium did not, thought Indra as she walked up the road
to the lab, look like the usual run of visiting scientists. It was not until
she had come closer and was able to get a good look at them that she
realized who they were. The big fellow was First Warden Burley, so the
other must be the famous mystery man he was taking through a high-
pressure course. She had heard his name but couldn't remember it, not
being particularly interested in the activities of the training school. As a
pure scientist, she tended to look down on the highly practical work of
the Bureau of Whales—though had anyone accused her outright of such
intellectual snobbery she would have denied it with indignation.

She had almost reached them before she realized that she had already met the smaller man. For his part, Franklin was looking at her
with a slightly baffled, "Haven't we seen each other before?" expression.

"Hello," she said, coming to a standstill beside them. "Remember me? I'm the girl who collects sharks."