Undersea Quest (6 page)

Well, that was out, for now.

It was early morning when the orders came to return to Bermuda.
Pocatello
was being provisioned, and couldn’t be ready to leave before night. Bob Eskow and I had liberty for the afternoon, but we were in pretty dismal spirits in the whaleboat.

But our spirits lifted once we were ashore. Neither of us had ever been so far from home; Naples seemed like another world to us, as remote from my New London and Bob’s New York as the moon.

We toured the ancient, narrow streets, walked along the broad boulevard at the water’s edge, stopped for strong, thick coffee in a glass-roofed
galleria
in the heart of the city.

As we sat drinking our coffee, a slim, dark-featured man with a warm smile came over to us.
“Scusi, signori,”
he said. He wore a sea-blue uniform with the fouled anchors of the Italian Sub-Sea command. Bob and I stood up hesitantly. I said:

“Hello. We—we don’t speak Italian, sir.”

The man shrugged. “Perhaps I speak a little of English,” he said, slowly but with very little accent. “I pray that you excuse me for interrupting, but you are of the submarine American, are you not?”

“Why, yes,” Bob said, grinning. “I’m Sub-Sea Cadet Eskow, and this is Cadet Eden.” He stuck out his hand. The Italian took it, beaming.

“I knew!” he said. “Permit me to welcome you to
Napoli,
gentlemen. I am Sotto-tenente Vittorio di Laterani, at your service.”

Both Bob and I realized at the same moment that we were talking to a commissioned officer; we stumbled and flustered and made quick salutes. He returned the salutes with profound courtesy; he expressed his pleasure at the presence of our ship in the harbor, and offered us his services as guide for the remainder of the afternoon.

Bob and I looked at each other. We didn’t have to say a word; we both were delighted with the offer.

Lieutenant di Laterani was very little older than Bob and myself; he was just twenty, and had been commissioned only the year before. He was attached to the Naples base for the time being, his own sub-sea cruiser—the
Pontevecchio
—having been drydocked for major overhaul. His time was pretty much his own until the overhaul was completed; when he suggested that he get his car and take us on a tour of the Base, we were only too quick to accept.

It was a wonderful afternoon. But it had a dismal ending.

The clouds had been piling up around Mt. Vesuvius all through the afternoon. Even now, I can hardly bear to remember it: We were in a tiny hotel on the side of Mt. Vesuvius for one last
cafe-espresso
and a look at the Gulf of Naples when the storm struck.

Tenente di Laterani leaped to his feet at the first rumble of thunder.
“Madre mio!”
he cried. “Come, gentlemen—let us hurry. The road down the mountain, it is impassable when the rain is heavy. And if you must make your sailing…”

We didn’t make it.

We got to the dock where
Pocatello
had tied up less than an hour after sundown; but it might as well have been a year.
Pocatello
was gone.

We tried everything. The
tenente,
covered with shame because he had made us miss our ship, roared with us in his tiny automobile to the Base Headquarters and set about getting us transportation—torpedo boats, aircraft, anything that would get us to
Pocatello
before she got clear of the land and submerged for the long cruise back. But the storm had grounded the aircraft; and by the time di Laterani had wheedled the torpedo-boat commander into agreeing to take us to the ship, the Base radar shack sent over a visual: “American sub-sea cruiser submerged and out of recall range.”

We had missed our ship.

The only thing to do was to report to the American section officer and take our medicine.

It was bitter medicine to take.

I think it would have been all right, under the circumstances, if we had been able to rejoin
Pocatello
even at Gibraltar. But it was not to be. The section officer took pity on us and radioed
Pocatello
our story, with a plea to surface at Gibraltar so that we could fly there and rejoin the craft. It seemed hours before the answer came back:

Request denied. Subject cadets will return to Academy by air.

Brand Sperry, Second Officer

Acting Commander

The next morning we boarded a commercial jet liner for the long, dreary trip back.

When we arrived at the Academy, we met with a flint-faced reception. The commandant himself called us in. We were a disgrace to the service, he said; Eskow’s accident of his first year now seemed, in the light of this new happening, to have been deliberate; I, he said, had been trading on my uncle’s and father’s illustrious reputation. We were given our choice: Resign from the service, or face a court-martial.

I think that my father would have taken the court- martial. But it would have done no good for Eskow to refuse to resign; in view of his first accident, the court was sure to find against him. And I could not accept the possibility of myself staying in the service while Eskow, for the identical fault, was dismissed without honor.

We resigned.

It did not occur to me, even then, that something more than mere discipline was behind our difficulties.

With a heavy heart I sent my uncle a long radiogram to tell him what had happened, and began to pack my bags.

When the answer came, it was simply a radiogram:

ACKNOWLEDGE. CHIN UP. LETTER FOLLOWS. STEWART EDEN.

The letter took a week to follow.

I wish it had been forever.

It was an unfamiliar long, blue envelope, and in the upper left hand corner was the name and address of my uncle’s attorney.

When I ripped it open, three things fell out. A check, for an amount that made my eyes bulge. A narrow yellow card, with my uncle’s scrawl in scarlet: “Don’t worry, Jim. I should have expected this; it isn’t your fault. Come to Thetis. I’ll meet you and explain.”

It was a cryptic note; I read it twice, trying to decide what my uncle had meant. Did he mean he expected me to fail the difficult course? But that didn’t square with “it isn’t your fault.”

Bothered, I turned to the last enclosure.

And I at once forgot the others. It was a letter, precisely typed on tough blue cellutane, beneath a letterhead that said “Wallace Faulkner, Attorney at Law”:

Mr. James Eden

Courtesy of United States Sub-Sea Academy

Class Three, Crew Five

Dear Sir:

I regret to inform you that your uncle, Stewart Eden, is dead.

Shortly after writing you the enclosed note he embarked on a cruise to Seven Dome. The route from Thetis to Seven Dome passes over the Eden Deep; while crossing this deep, cruising at four thousand fathoms and on course, your uncle’s ship was heard to transmit what seemed to be the beginning of distress signal. It was cut off in the middle; and no further contact was made.

The local naval authorities of course made every effort to contact your uncle, but without success. I am advised that there is no possibility that he has survived.

I suppose you are aware that you are the sole heir. I must warn you, however, that your uncle was not a very wealthy man.

The bulk of his estate comprises eighty shares of stock in a corporation known as Marine Mines, Ltd. This is a majority interest, since the corporation issued only one hundred shares. The value of these shares is problematical. Their par value is listed at one thousand dollars, but there is no market for them under ordinary conditions.

Some years ago this corporation filed with the government of Marinia a claim for the exploitation of Eden Deep, giving it full and sole surface and mineral rights. This is the major asset of the firm. While it may well be that the bottom underlying Eden Deep contains mineral deposits of great value, the difficulty of working them is apparent, since existing forms of seacars and sub-sea armor have not been used successfully at any such depths. It is possible that your uncle’s death, indeed, may be due to an attempt to extend the downward range of his equipment sufficiently to exploit the bottom of Eden Deep. If so, the attempt was of course unsuccessful.

To put it plainly, the project of mining this claim is visionary and impractical. Apart from the difficulties imposed by the crushing pressure of thousands of fathoms of water, the Deep is inhabited by many dangerous sea creatures, including benthoctopus and the almost unknown animal called K’Wapti. It is even reputed to be the den of the fabulous sea-serpent, though this is of course speculative.

Fortunately for your interests, however, I have among my clients a person who is willing to invest in this property as a speculation, in the faint possibility that new techniques may make it possible to exploit its presumable resources. There are, as you perhaps know, no such new techniques in sight. Moreover, you may be aware that under Marinian maritime law, claims must be proved within eight years or they revert to the public domain. That is, actual mining operations must begin within that period.

The eight-year period ends on February 1st of next year. You will realize that, even should some new techniques be developed, there would not remain sufficient time to put them to use before the claim expired.

For this reason, I earnestly advise you to accept any offer that may be made for this property. I am authorized to offer you four hundred dollars a share for this block of eighty shares of Marine Mines Ltd., making a total of thirty-two thousand dollars.

There is no possibility that this price can be exceeded.

Please inform me by radio of your acceptance of this offer at once. I have already drawn up the necessary contract of sale and will proceed to execute it as soon as I have your authorization. My client may withdraw the offer at any time, so haste is absolutely essential. I assure you that the stock would not command a fraction of this price in the open market.

The remainder of your uncle’s estate comprises the seacar in which he was lost, which is extremely unlikely to be salvaged, and a few personal items, which are being sent you by sub-sea mail.

You may trust me to care for your interests as zealously as I have those of your uncle.

I shall await your radiogram authorizing me to proceed with the sale of the stock.

With deepest solicitude for you in your affliction,

I remain, faithfully your servant,

Wallace Faulkner

The death of Uncle Stewart was a painful shock to me—all the more since it followed so brutally fast on the heels of my forced resignation from the Academy. But I almost forgot my personal troubles when I read Faulkner’s letter, with its accompanying aching sense of loss. If only I had been able to complete the cruise, I thought; if only we had gone through the plan as scheduled, and I had seen him in Marinia… .

But there was no point in wasting tears over what was too late to mend. I talked it over with Bob Eskow, in New York, where I had flown from the Academy. He agreed with me that Faulkner’s letter raised as many questions as it answered, that perhaps I should not be too quick to accept the offer his unnamed client had made. But that meant so little to me, in comparison with the personal loss of my uncle, my last living relative.

For so many years I had been looking forward to exploring the wonders of Marinia in his company! The Sub-Sea Service would surely have based me near there; we would have been able to see each other often, to do so many things together.

It seemed incredible that he could be dead.

I decided to go to Marinia at once, to see if anything could yet be done to find my uncle’s body, then to take charge of the mining proposition in Eden Deep. “Impossible?” I hardly knew the word. After all, I was just seventeen!

I sent Faulkner a radiogram telling him that the shares of Marine Mines were not for sale, and that I was coming to Thetis at once, to claim the legacy.

His reply was immediate:

NOT NECESSARY FOR YOU TO COME TO THETIS. I WILL CARE FOR YOUR INTERESTS. MY ADVICE TO SELL SHARES AT ONCE. AM AUTHORIZED TO OFFER PAR VALUE FOR MY CLIENT. TOTAL PRICE THEREFORE EIGHTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. RADIO ACCEPTANCE IMMEDIATELY. TRUST ME.

WALLACE FAULKNER.

That was an exciting message. I showed it to Bob and he agreed. Strange that the unknown person who had so “reluctantly”

made the offer of thirty-two thousand dollars should so quickly and easily more than double it!

If it were worth so much to him, it should be valuable to me too. And I felt a vague distrust of Faulkner. If my uncle used him he must be honest, certainly. Still…

His protestations were hard to take. Too much talk of “trust” and “solicitude”; too few explanations. Why had he been in such a hurry for me to sell at thirty-two thousand dollars when, a matter of days later, he could get an offer of eighty?

Bob Eskow said it: “I don’t know whether he’s a crook or a bum businessman. Either way, I’d watch him!”

I replied:

SHARES NOT FOR SALE, ARRIVING ON ISLE OF SPAIN.

And I caught a jet transport to San Francisco to make contact with the giant submarine liner there.

I landed at the San Francisco harbor jet-field in a fog.

I had just time to confirm my reservations on the sub-sea liner,
Isle of Spain,
get my passport and spend a few hours sight-seeing.

The liner was to sail direct for Marinia; it was one of the finest vessels in the Pacific submarine service, and I looked forward to the trip with real joy and excitement. How quickly one can forget!

It was not yet a week since I had learned of Uncle Stewart’s death, only two weeks and a bit since I had suffered the worst disgrace imaginable by being asked to resign from the Academy—but I was already looking forward to adventure. I might as well admit that I was looking forward, too, to being taken seriously by Wallace Faulkner and the others at Thetis. After all, I would be the sole owner of a controlling interest in a corporation! True, the corporation might be as worthless as Faulkner indicated.