Undersea Quest (7 page)

But I refused to believe that. As I say, I was only seventeen.

I wondered a bit who my unknown partner—the owner of the remaining twenty per cent of the stock—might be. Uncle Stewart had said nothing; and Faulkner had been bafflingly silent.

But all those questions would be answered in time…

I got my passport with no difficulty; since Marinia had become an independent nation under the United Nations trusteeship, many Americans went there as a matter of course, for vacations, for business or just for the trip. The
Isle of Spain
would have a large passenger list of vacationers, I knew; it would touch at Black Camp and little Eden Dome before going on to Thetis. With my passport I gathered together my I.D. card—actually, it was a booklet with my whole life’s history in it—from the Academy, and my birth certificate; I didn’t know what papers I would need to establish my identity as Stewart Eden’s heir, and I didn’t want to be caught short. I packed a small bag; the rest of my belongings I checked in the hotel baggage room.

The desk clerk had another radiogram for me, forwarded from New York:

YOUR COMING TO MARINIA UNNECESSARY AND UNWISE. IMPOSSBLE FOR YOU TO WORK MINING CONCESSION. I WARN YOU IT IS FOOLISH AND SUICIDAL. MY CLIENT MAKES FINAL OFFER OF TWICE PAR VALUE FOR SHARES. MUST BE ACCEPTED BY RETURN RADIO. POSITIVELY CAN SECURE NO BETTER BID.

WALLACE FAULKNER

A hundred and sixty thousand dollars!

I began to feel rich.

If anything had been needed to make me more anxious to get to Thetis at once—and more determined to turn down any offer that might come along—this was it. Why was Faulkner so anxious for me to stay away? What was his reason for harping on the “danger” in Eden Deep?

I repeated my previous radio.

And then, to add my confusion, I discovered I was being followed.

I was on my way downtown, riding the railed passenger express belt, on my way to the Ferry Building.

It was a chill, gloomy day, a dense sea-fog hanging over the city. Though it was still afternoon, the lights were on, gleaming red circles of yellow mist. The beacons from the jet port shone through the cold gray only dimly; the scarlet fog-lights on the low-flying helicopters used for suburban transit were moving red blurs in the gloom.

Coat buttoned high against the misty wind, I stood on the vibrating belt, leaning against a hand-rail, thinking of the trip before me. Quite by accident I noticed a big man lounging on the belt fifty yards behind me. I might have ignored him, but there was something vaguely unhealthy about him; soft, heavy, out of condition. He was dressed carelessly and in bad taste, I thought: White tunic and trousers, close fitting and a little soiled. A long blue cloak; a black cane with a silver head; a wide, high-crowned red felt sombrero on his head.

He looked “somewhat familiar, in the way that a stranger sometimes does. I thought I had seen him before quite casually, it seemed to me; but I couldn’t quite pin down where.

Then I reached my stop on the express belt and got off, dismissing him from my mind…

But not for long.

At the Ferry Building I joined the line at the sub-ship reservations desk and claimed my stateroom on the
Isle of Spain.
When I turned away with the confirmation in my hand, I saw that the man in white had been right behind me.

That was no coincidence!

I was certain of it; but I could prove it beyond any question of doubt if I chose. I made the effort.

The man did not appear to be paying any attention to me. He asked some sort of question of the clerk at the desk and got a short answer; whereupon he nodded and drifted over to a side of the room, staring thoughtfully out the window. His eyes were hidden beneath the broad red brim of his hat; white-gloved fingers were tapping on the window ledge.

But I was morally sure he saw every move I made.

I bought a newstape at the stand in the Ferry Building, and strode out the door. There was no looking back, either the man followed me, or he did not.

I headed down toward the water, walking at a brisk pace. It was now full dark; I had a few hours yet before the
Isle of Spain’s
sailing at midnight, but little time to waste. The sky was a dome of dull yellow light, the city’s lights reflected back from the blanket of fog. Bright, hazy haloes clung to street lamps and beacons. All to the good!

I swung around a dark corner in an almost deserted street, near the docks that once had been so tumultuously busy night and day and now were nearly abandoned, and ducked into a doorway.

The man in the white suit fell neatly into the trap. He came quietly around the corner; I didn’t hear him until he was almost before my doorway. I stepped out, hand in my pocket to make it look as though I had a gun, and said:

“Hold it!”

He showed no surprise. He stared at me from under the red brim for a moment. Then he said evenly, “Don’t shoot.”

His breathing was slow; he was not at all excited. For a moment the thought had crossed my mind: Suppose I was wrong?

Suppose he was a harmless pedestrian—suppose he cried out and the police came? The natural presumption would be that I was a hold-up man; no doubt I could clear myself, but I certainly would miss my ship—and one experience of missing a ship was enough for me!

But this man was no harmless pedestrian. It was almost as though he expected trouble. He didn’t move a muscle as he said:

“Take it easy, boy. Careful with the gun.”

“Careful!” I said angrily. “What are you following me for? Hurry up—talk!”

He said with mock-innocence, “What in the world are you talking about?”

I said hotly, “You know! Don’t waste my time—come across or I’ll shoot!”

Naturally, I had no intention of shooting—even if I had had a gun to shoot with! Whether he knew that I will never know; he turned to face me more squarely, moved his lips as though he were about to speak. His mouth opened a little…

Too late I saw the tiny, glittering metal thing he held between his teeth.

The tiny stream had already jetted from it as he crushed it between his teeth, forced the spurt of its contents. I felt the cold little drops strike my cheek. Instantly the chillness changed to a stabbing sensation of heat. Searing flame flashed over the side of my face; hot needles stabbed into my brain.

I should have known, I told myself dazedly in that split-second of realization—I should have known he would protect himself. The anesthetic-capsule was an old trick; I should have thought of it…

Sheets of blinding light were flickering before my sight. They faded.

Then there was only darkness. I felt myself falling as the anesthetic struck home.

It must have been an hour or more before I came to.

I got stiffly to my feet, muscles aching from the damp ground.

I was in the doorway still; no one was in sight. Leaning against the wall for support, I took quick inventory of my pockets.

I had been searched; that much was obvious. My wallet was on the ground, my passport hanging half out of it.

But nothing seemed to be missing. Not my passport; not my I.D. card; not my money or my watch. It had been no simple robbery, that was certain; I carried quite a lot of money, and not a penny of it was gone.

I tried to brush off my sodden clothing and staggered to the corner. I had no idea of the time; all I could think of was the sailing of the
Isle of Spain
at midnight.

Luck was with me. An empty cab cruised by overhead; I hailed it, and it settled to the curb beside me with a gentle whir of its rotor blades.

I thought briefly of the police; certainly I should report this…

But, by the dashboard clock in the helicab, I had just time to make the sailing.

I ordered the cab pilot to take me to the slip where the
Isle of
Spain
was waiting. Fortunately my bags were already aboard; nothing, at any rate, had been lost by my unfortunate encounter with White Suit.

At least, that is what I thought at the time…

But when I boarded the
Isle of Spain
I forgot all my troubles.

The giant sub-sea liner, more than a thousand feet long, as thick through as a seven-story building, bobbed lightly in the Pacific swell. I boarded her through a covered ramp, but even so, through portholes in the ramp, I saw the gleaming Edenite armor that flanked her whole length, the mighty sweep of her lines, torpedo-shaped, forward and aft.

I was realizing one of the great ambitions of my life! Below this heaving, gray expanse lay the Pacific bottom, sloping off for miles in the shallow continental shelf, then plunging to the mighty Deeps where Marinia lay, three thousand miles away and fifteen hundred and more fathoms down.

In a matter of moments I would be slipping through the water, en route to the cities of the sea!

I almost forgot the Academy—my uncle’s death—the man in the red hat.

Almost… but not quite. I made a covert search of all the other passengers in sight. Vacationers, some of them, using the long sub-sea voyage as a pleasure cruise. Hardbitten sub-sea miners, their skin dark in the Troyon light. Keen-featured ship’s officers and crew, moving efficiently through the crowds, getting ready to get under weigh. Even a group of ensigns and sub-lieutenants—I felt a sharp stab of jealousy—in the dress scarlet of the Sub-Sea Service.

But no one who looked at all dangerous to me; certainly no one as striking as the man in the red hat.

I signed on the passenger list, and waited for the steward to have me shown to my stateroom. I sat looking around at the passengers.

Then it occurred to me. The man in the red hat had been a striking figure; so conspicuous that he might almost be invisible through sheer obviousness, if I hadn’t happened vaguely to recall seeing him.

Perhaps—perhaps whoever it was who was so interested in my doings would try the opposite tack. Perhaps someone so neutral and inconspicuous as to be even less visible would be next.

With new eyes I looked at the crowd in the saloon.

In a moment I had found him; I was sure of it.

He was slumped down, staring at the floor, in the midst of his luggage. A small man, thin, shrunken. His narrow face was expressionless; his pale eyes blank. His garments were a neutral gray, neither neat nor shabby.

He was the sort of individual who could enter a room without being noticed, who had no single characteristic that would stick in the memory.

Of course—I told myself—I might be seeing ghosts.

He might be a perfectly harmless passenger. Perhaps no one on the ship was interested in me at all. Still—the persons who had gone to such lengths to knock me out and search me on the deserted San Francisco streets would likely keep an eye on me still.

At any rate, I was going to keep an eye on him.

A white-clad steward came toward me; I handed my bags over to him, tipped him, and let him go to my stateroom without me. I accompanied him just as far as the entrance to the saloon; there I waited, out of sight, to see what the gray man would do.

In a few minutes he hailed a steward, handed over his bags, and moved off in the same direction as my own steward had gone. I let him get well ahead, then followed.

The steward led the thin little man past the elevator which communicated with the steerage quarters, past the moving stairs that went to the luxurious suites above. Good; his stateroom would be on the cabin deck, with mine.

The steward stopped to unlock a door; and he and the little man went in.

As soon as the steward had left and closed the door, I hurried past.

It was stateroom 335.

And my own stateroom was number 334.

I found a steward to make sure; he led me to the room next to the gray man’s. He was going to be my next-door neighbor!

I no longer thought of coincidences. I knew!

The steward entered the stateroom behind me. He showed me how to adjust the Troyon light, how to regulate the gentle breeze of artificial air, how to work the temperature controls, the ship’s radio, the washstands and equipment. Then he busied himself tidying the towels on their racks, in the ancient custom of his kind while waiting for a tip.

It
might
be an accident…but I knew it was not The man in the red hat, after all, had had plenty of chance to find out my stateroom number—in the line behind me when I confirmed my reservation; or, if by any chance he had blundered enough to miss it then, when he went through my pockets later on. There could be no question that the gray man—assuming they worked together—could easily have arranged to get the stateroom next to mine.

But why?

I dug deep in my pocket to tip the steward.

He gave me a soft salute and started to leave. I stopped him.

“Say,” I said carelessly, “do you know who’s in the next cabin? I thought I recognized him as I came in.”

He looked at me. “If you know him, sir, why not just——-”

I added to the tip, and he gave me a different kind of look. “Can you find his name for me?”

The steward pursed his lips. “Certainly,sir. The passenger list will have it.”

“Please do.” He nodded, half winking, and left. Five minutes later he was at the door again.

“The name is E.A. Smith, sir. No address.” He hesitated. “Purser says it was a last-minute reservation,” he added.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “Guess I was wrong. There are lots of Smiths in the world.”

“And a lot who aren’t named Smith.” He closed the door with a half smile.

When I came out of my cabin the next morning the ship was under weigh. I felt the slight roll of the vessel, not choppy like a surface ship, but gentle and soothing, as the ship slid through the strong undersea currents; that, and the almost imperceptible vibration of the screws, was the only signal that we were racing forward at sixty knots or better.

It was achingly familiar…

I struck up a friendship with a junior officer after breakfast, and he offered to show me around the ship. I was delighted to take him up on it.

First we went to the narrow promenade around the cabin deck, just inside the hull. He opened a metal shutter inside a port and we looked out.