Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea (7 page)

“Just a second, sir . . . ah. Ah!” The speaker roared again, and the roar faded under a signal—a blast of rock-and-roll music. “Pipe that all over the ship,” said the Captain. To Morton he said, “I imagine the rest of the crew will be as glad as I am to know that nothing has happened to the U.S.A.”

“After a rock-and-roll revival, what else should happen?”

They watched the rescue operation for a few moments. Gleason was edging his powered, inflated dinghy in close. He threw the man a rope. The man just looked at it. Crane could imagine the stream of disgusted profanity Gleason was generating.

The Admiral appeared in the after doorway. “Where’s that music coming from?” he demanded.

“Can’t tell yet, sir. Maybe they’ll announce at the end of the number.”

The music slammed and tinkled.

“Of all the times to be broadcasting that,” growled the Admiral.

“It’s a signal,” shrugged Morton.

The music clanked to a close, and a hoarse, static-drenched voice said tiredly, as if repeating a phrase repeated already so often it had become meaningless, “Calling the U.S.O.S. Seaview. This is the Bureau of Marine Exploration, calling Admiral Nelson Come in, Seaview.”

“That’s more like it. Transmit, Sparks. Which mike is hot here? Eh? This one? Good.” Into the mike he said, a little slowly, and enunciating with care, “Admiral Nelson here, aboard U.S.O.S.
Seaview
.” He read the coordinates of their position, and the identity of the satellite on which they were beamed. “We don’t read you too well. Please tighten your beam if you can, and increase power. We would like to contact Inspector Bergen if he is available.” He glanced at the big screen, either to observe the rescue or to permit himself to believe that that incredible sky still roofed them. Then, “
Seaview
, standing by.”

What came over the air then was devoid of officialese, crackling with weary intensity, and carrying an undercurrent of hysteria. It was Bergen himself, special officer in charge of the entire
Seaview
operation, whose cracked tones came out of the speaker: “Nelson! Thank God. Thank God! Have you seen it?”

The Admiral’s eyebrows came up, but without hesitation he answered, abandoning all the identifications, stand-bys, and other rituals of radio. “You mean the sky. What is it?”

“I was afraid you’d ask that,” said Bergen desperately. “I was hoping you’d have an answer . . . sorry, Admiral, but we’ve been depending on you so much . . .” (A ghost of Bergen’s usual humor crept into his voice, got cold, and fled again as he said) “The penalty of your reputation, Admiral. The whole world’s been hunting for real operating geniuses, and I guess you were the only one we know of we haven’t been able to reach. I guess a lot of people felt you could wave your hand and put that fire out . . . or at least tell us what it is.” He paused, but they could hear the hum of his carrier and could sense his conscious, forcible effort to pull himself together. “All right, Admiral, here are the facts. About fifty hours ago it just—happened. That band of fire, or whatever it is, appeared in the sky. As far as we can find out, it appeared first over the Pacific about 4
A.M.
as a glowing yellow-and-red patch. Inside of fifteen minutes it acquired those flame-like streamers and began to stretch out east and west, oh, like a forest-fire in a hurricane wind. And north and south, slower . . . anyway, just over seven hours later the two growing ends of the fire joined together on the other side of the world. The band lies roughly over the equator, though it tends a little south over west Africa and a little north over south-east Asia, around the Cambodian peninsula. Then it began to grow wider, until it averaged about four degrees in width. It stopped widening about twenty-eight hours ago, thank God; for a while we thought it would englobe the planet . . . Are you reading me?”

“Much better now,” said the Admiral, and indeed it was; the boys at the Naval Observatory must have been knocking themselves out over the transmitters. “What’s the altitude of this—ah—phenomenon?”

“Near as we can check it, an average of three hundred miles. The margins shift all the time; some of those flames lick down to two-twenty or closer, and you’ll find about the same variation outwards. It’s all of a hundred and fifty miles thick.”

Nelson pursed his lips. A band of fire nearly 28,000 miles long, a thousand wide, and a hundred and fifty thick, was something to think about slowly, take in small bites. He said, “Any idea what started it?”

“Just theories. There was a certain amount of meteoric activity just then, but we haven’t been able to check on it. I mean, by the time we got to that stage, communications were so garbaged up that it got useless to try. We’re hoping some of the people who first observed it will reach here soon with some data. In the meantime we can only wait and try to think. Communications are really shot—there aren’t many tight-beam set-ups like ours, you know.”

“What’s the public reaction?” asked the Admiral.

“What you’d expect from flood tides on every seacoast, out-of-season heat, and panic. The seismologists are walking around scared. There have been one or two quakes but as yet nothing serious; yet they tell me microseism activity is up five, six per cent. The earth’s beginning to quiver like a bowl of jelly on a motor housing—not much, but all the time. The seismologists are afraid of fault-lines everywhere, that what could slip will slip, what could crack will crack. We haven’t heard from Antarctica for more than a day, but their observations showed a measurable rise of that continent. Which only means the ice load is melting off fast. Too fast. How’s your ice?”

“What there is of it is going fast. We have a boat out now picking up a man off a floe. You’ll have a chart, handy, Bergen. Isn’t Station Delta supposed to be in this area now?”

“I’ll get a check on it. I hope they got everyone off before the planes were grounded.”

“Grounded?”

“Admiral, there’s nothing flying anywhere. Even the birds hardly try. You know what the shade temperature is here? One thirty-one. And thermal winds the like of which you wouldn’t believe. No, nothing’s flying. Nothing.” On the
Seaview
, the listeners shifted and tensed; the tone of hysteria kept coming up and falling off in Bergen’s exhausted voice. “Here’s your information . . . yes, you’re right in the area of Delta’s last known station. Thank the Lord you’re there to pull ‘em out.”

“Pull him out. There’s only one, Bergen.”

“Dear God . . . Admiral, can you get here for the meeting?”

“What meeting?”

“I’m out of my mind; I didn’t tell you. We’ve convened an emergency meeting at the UN. The best scientific brains we can get from all over . . . oh, man, you wouldn’t believe how international politics went by the board; blockades and bottlenecks nobody has been able to solve for years just disappeared. Meshikov is coming by ship, Dobrovny, Itanzio, Pittar, Zucco, Charbier—everyone. Half of them are already here and hard at work. Harriman, you’ve got to get here.”

“When do you start?”

“We’ve started, I tell you! We’ve got all the equipment, computers, staff, everything that any of ‘em name. We’re translating everything, processing all data six ways from the middle of any way anyone can suggest. The one thing we don’t have is ideas, more ideas, new ideas. Admiral, we need you.”

“I’ll be there as fast as the
Seaview
will take me. Meanwhile I wish you’d synthesize whatever you have as soon as you can. Code it for the HS 17 and we’ll set up a schedule so we can surface and receive it when the satellite says we can.”

“I’m one up on you: got a synthesis coded up to an hour ago. Admiral, when I said we have facilities now, I’m not kidding. Kind of thing we used to dream about. Though I’d happily give it all back if I could wake up and find this wasn’t real.”

“Ship me the synthesis,” said the Admiral, and there was a world of encouragement in his tone.

“When shall we schedule another contact?”

“Got it right here.” Suddenly the strained voice uttered what can only be described as a giggle. “I wish you could see me, Harriman. I got six people standing around me while I talk, they’ve practically got their track shoes on. You mentioned schedule, I held up one finger, one of ‘em took off like a Polaris Eight. Here he comes back again. (. . . Thanks.) Admiral? You see, all calculated up: says here you’ll have a usable satellite transit at 14:37.”

“Seven hours . . . but I don’t intend to be around here by then. Correct for 30 knots average, course 173°.”

“Make that one-seven-four and I already did. And your altitude bearing will be 12°, azimuth 94.”

Nelson chuckled. “I see what you mean, Br’er Bergen. More room service than the Waldorf Towers. All right, 174° it is. Be seeing you, fella.” He put down the mike and called, “Stand by for HS transmission, Sparks.”

“Standing by, sir.”

The radio burped the bewildering chatter of HS—highspeed—transmission. Information cascaded onto the ship’s tape recorders, where, slowed down, it would dole out information on call.

Then the tight-beam carrier from the Observatory cut out and was replaced by the random roar of tortured radiations from the burning sky.

“Take her down,” rapped the Admiral, and turned away from the console, to step painfully on the instep of the man behind him. “Eh! Sorry, Emery.”

“That’s all right, Harriman—I got another one,” said the biologist. He had his old pipe in his hands and kept pulling out and replacing the stem. This, like Harriman Nelson’s twisting of his signet ring, was a sure sign of worry, though he might not show it in any other way. His wrinkle-framed eyes were alight and interested, and his smile was always there or about to be. He clapped the older man on the shoulder and together they walked aft, with Cathy Connors bringing up the rear. Behind them in the nose console, then ahead in the main control room, sounded the controlled bedlam of orders and machines which formed a part of undersea navigation—pumps, engines, acknowledgments of virtually encoded shouts.

Emery sang a phrase of an old song about not wanting to set the world on fire, and laughed.

Then, quite soberly, he asked, “And what by the way the hell is it?”

Nelson shook his head. “There’s something about the position of that ring of fire that niggles me way back in here somewhere,” he answered, touching himself on the back of the head.

“Just over the equator . . .?”

“It isn’t just over. It’s canted a little.”

“Magnetic equator,” Emery suggested.

“By God,” said the Admiral in tones of revelation. At this point they stepped into the main control room, just under the conning tower, and paused.

There was a tight cluster of personnel there, those not directly concerned with the dive staring upward. Two submariners were guiding the feet of a man on the ladder; above the man, two others held him from above. “The man from the ice-floe,” said Nelson.

“Easy there.” It was Dr. Jamieson. Nearby stood Dr. Hiller, as always watchfully studying faces.

The man was brought to deck level. He stood wavering for a moment, and they had an impression of heavy brow-ridges making black caves of the eyes, caves in which, far back, small lights like fires burned. The face was flushed and feverish. Dr. Jamison took one of his arms, the CPO Gleason the other, and they turned him aft toward the sick bay. Jamieson looked at Susan Hiller. “Doctor—you might be able to help here.”

“Glad to,” said the psychologist, and followed the castaway as he was led aft.

“How’d it go, Jimmy?”

The redheaded seaman swung around and blinked shyly as he found himself face to face with the Admiral. “All right, sir, fine. He’s in pretty good shape, except . . .”

“Except what, Jimmy?”

“Except he’s buggy, sir.” The young sailor blushed suddenly. “I mean he’s well, buggy.”

“Buggy, like with two wheels and a buggy-whip?” Emery twinkled.

“No sir. I mean, when we threw him a rope he just squatted there and looked at it.”

“He’s not what you might call in the pink of condition.”

“No, sir, he’s not, but he’s well enough to lay hold of a rope. He just doesn’t give a damn, excuse me sir—ma’am,” he added, catching sight of Cathy Connors, who smiled.

“He say anything?” asked Emery.

“Yes sir. He said it was the will of God.”

T
HE SUB PRESSED SOUTH AND A LITTLE EAST
, all four propellers straining just under cavitation point, the invisible eyes of their asdic and sonar gears peering ahead. They kept at a safe thirty fathoms, for though there was far less pack ice, there was correspondingly more berg danger.

They surfaced once to get the latest synthesis from the UN, and although they had closed the gap appreciably, they found reception less than half as good and worsening by the moment.

On the third day the Captain posted double watches on the seeking gear, double lookouts on deck, and proceeded on the surface, where it was possible to squeeze another fifteen knots out of the big submarine. It was quickly found that the deck watches had to be changed every two hours—this was Dr. Jamieson’s recommendation—and then every hour: Dr. Hiller’s. For not only was the air insufferably murky and hot, and the direct radiation from the sky unbearable, but the presence of that great curving bridge of fire overhead was something a man could hardly bring himself to be alone with. Berkowitz, one of the torp men, showed signs of being a problem; his wife was expecting, and the lack of communications was a dreadful burden for him. Admiral Nelson, on their third radio rendezvous with Bergen, was able to get some information about the torpedo man’s wife: that she was in good shape, that she wouldn’t expect the baby for another two, possibly three weeks: a small thing, but enough to smother Berkowitz’s potential explosion and cheer up the whole ship as well. There were times—long hours, even—when routine conquered all, the talk was about shore leave, and things seemed normal. Then a man would come stumbling down the hatch, relieved from lookout, flushed and red-eyed, and fear would tighten itself around morale like a boa constrictor.

It was the morning of the third day when Cathy Connors came stretching and blinking out of her cabin and turned toward the mess, only to meet Cookie carrying a tray.