Complete Short Fiction, page 172
VII
I was awakened by being tossed around; the storm was still on. More specifically, I was awakened by being cracked on the head by a corner of the control panel.
It wasn’t hard enough to damage either the panel or my skull, but it was uncomfortable. So was the whole situation. Riding up and down on fifteen-foot waves is bad enough in a stable boat, but in a nearly spherical container which has practically no preference for a definite up and down it is infinitely worse. I’ve been in free fall in space, which is no joke, but I’ll take it again any time before being a human volleyball in the middle of even a modest-sized Pacific storm. That was one thing they hadn’t bothered too much about when they designed the submarine escape shells. The idea was to get to the surface rather than to be comfortable afterward. All I could do was turn on the rescue broadcaster and try to keep my stomach in place.
I couldn’t even be sure anyone was receiving it—the broadcast, I mean. It was a good bet that they were, since my return was certainly expected. But several good bets had failed to pay off already.
I couldn’t even sleep. Fortunately I’d had enough sense not to eat when the idea had occurred a while back, so I couldn’t do what my stomach wanted most to do just then. I couldn’t do anything. The whole situation was as bad physically as the original descent had been mentally.
But there’s no point trying to make it any clearer; I might succeed.
I did wish I’d taken the trouble to find out how long the storm was due to last. Then I might have gotten some comfort from an occasional glance at the clock. As things were, I quickly found that it was better not to look at it; the time since the last look was always so much less than I’d guessed. As it turned out, I should have watched some of the other instruments, though their reading would have been no comfort either—and there would have been nothing to do about them.
I would never have believed that the end of that motion could have been anything but a relief. If anyone had told me that it would make me feel worse, I’d have used violence on him for fear he might convince me. Unfortunately, he’d have been perfectly right. The end came much too suddenly.
The first motion to stop was the rolling. The tank still bobbed up and down, but seemed to have acquired a definite top and bottom. Then the vertical oscillation also decreased, and finally stopped. By that time there was nothing more the pressure gauge could tell me, but I looked at it anyway.
I was right. The tank was going down again.
There was one thing I didn’t have to worry about; it wasn’t a case of ordinary sinking. The only hollow space which gave the tank its buoyancy was the one I was in, and if that had been leaking I’d have known it already. No, I was being pulled down; and granting that there are such things as giant squids, I didn’t for an instant think that one of them was responsible. The sonar monitor was dark now, but maybe it hadn’t been for the last hour or so—I wouldn’t have—known.
There was only one reasonable explanation. I looked down, not knowing what I really hoped to see and didn’t see very much; the sub wasn’t bothering with lights. I turned on my own, but could see only the single line, taut now, leading from the net which was now thoroughly tangled around me to a vague bulk just on the edge of visibility.
The line, it may be remarked, was quite strong enough for what it had to do; we were descending much faster than my original ballast had carried me down. If the owners of that rope were prepared to trust it under such stress, I saw no point in doubting their judgment. I didn’t even bother to hope it would break. I calculated that I’d be on the bottom in twenty minutes or so, and let it go at that.
At least, I could eat now. I began to absorb a dextrose pill with such calmness as I could collect. There was nothing else to do; they had me.
We were still several hundred feet from the bottom when company showed up. Two more subs, brightly lighted, hove into view. They were work machines similar to the one I’d had trouble with a few hours before. If they were in communication with the one which had me in tow, it was by means of something none of my instruments could pick up. They probably were, since their maneuvers were perfectly coordinated. First one and then the other newcomer swung close beside me, and each used its ‘hands’ to hang several hooked slugs of metal into my net. These weights took nearly all the stress off the tow rope and removed any hope there might have been of its breaking at the last moment.
Then a swimmer slipped out of each boat and took station beside me, saving themselves work by holding onto the net too. I flicked my lights on for a moment, but couldn’t recognize either face. I began to wonder about the fellow I’d hit and what his friends might think about it if I’d hurt him really seriously. The human mind sometimes goes off on funny sidetracks; I never once, while I was being towed, thought about their reaction to my having discovered their obviously secret installation. If I had, I’d probably have told myself that if they really wanted to do anything final any of their subs could have cracked the tank with no trouble at all.
Eventually the bottom came into view in the range of my own lights.
It wasn’t luminous this time. I thought at first that they must have turned their lights off; then I realized that the storm must have carried me some distance, and there was no reason to expect to be very near the tent. This was ordinary sea bottom complete with crab burrows; I could tell, because after reaching it the sub reeled in most of the tow line and left me only about twenty feet up. This gave me a good look at the boat itself, too, and I could see that it wasn’t my former antagonist. For one thing, it was about twice as big.
It wasn’t very different in general design, though. There was still plenty of equipment on the outside—more, if anything. It was meant for work, not travel. Even without the drag of my tank it wouldn’t have made very good speed over the bottom, but I could see that we were moving. I had no doubt we were heading either for the entrance I’d seen earlier or for some other one and kept looking ahead for its lights.
As it turned out, we reached a different one. We were a couple of hours getting there, though that’s an academic point since I didn’t know where we’d started from anyway. This pit was smaller than the other, and the lighted tent roof was nowhere in sight when we reached it.
This entrance was only about twenty-five feet across, much too small for the sub that was towing me and borderline for the other two. It was perfectly cylindrical, with vertical sides, and opened from the bottom of a shallow bowl just as the other had. It was very well lighted, so I had no trouble making out details.
There were many ladders around the rim. At first they led down out of sight, but as I came closer I found I could see the bottom ends of those on the farther side of the opening. The pit was apparently a hole in the roof of a chamber something like forty feet deep.
There were several more swimmers in and above the hole who seemed to be waiting for us. As we approached, they paddled out rather casually and gathered around the tank as the sub that was towing me settled to the bottom just beside the entrance.
My tank drifted upward and slightly forward until the tow rope was vertical. One of the swimmers waved a signal, and an escort sub swung back in and hung another slug of ballast onto my net. That took the rest of the tension off the rope, and I began to sink.
The swimmer signaled again, and the tow line came free of the big sub. Several men grabbed it; the rest took hold of the net, and they all began to work me toward the pit as I settled. This seemed to be the last lap. Unless they had the stupidity to leave me right under their hole in the roof, which would be too much to expect even in twentieth-century realistic literature, the most remote chance of my getting back without their consent and assistance would vanish once I was inside that entryway.
I was nearly frantic. Don’t ask me why I felt so scared at one time and so calm and steady at another; I can’t tell you. It’s just the way I am, and if you don’t like it you don’t have to live with it, at least.
I don’t know what I did or thought in those few minutes, and I’d probably not want to tell anyone if I did remember. The fact was that there was nothing whatever I could do. I had all the power of a goldfish in his bowl, and that sometimes upsets a man—who, after all, is used to having at least a little control over his environment.
I was a little more calm as I reached the edge of the pit; I don’t know the reason for that, either, but at least I can report the incident. There was a pause as we reached the tops of the ladders, and the subs and swimmers both clustered around and began hanging more ballast onto my net, adding insult to injury. The swimmers also picked up what looked like tool belts from hooks near the ladder tops and buckled them around their waists, though I couldn’t see why they should have more need of these inside than out. At least, I couldn’t see any reason at first; then it occurred to me that tools might be useful in opening up my tank. I decided not to think of that just yet.
From inside, the pit looked even more like a hole in a ceiling. The chamber below was much larger than I had realized, fully a hundred feet on each side. The entrance was simply a black circle above me, and as I watched it ceased to be above me. The swimmers were pushing me toward one of the walls.
I thought for a moment that rolling across the ceiling would at least be easier than the same action on the sea bottom, but dismissed the point as irrelevant and academic. My morale was rising, but was still pretty low.
At least, I was still alive, and in a way I’d done some of my job. I’d dropped-the transponder near one entrance, and there seemed a decent chance that it hadn’t been found. My pick-me-up broadcast had been going for several hours at the surface, and the chance that it had been received was excellent. The Board would know I’d done something, and would certainly be moved to check up on what had become of me. If they swept the bottom with high-resolution sonar they could hardly miss the smooth surface of the tent, even if the transponders didn’t work. In fact, considering how big the tent seemed to be, it was rather surprising that ordinary depth-meter records hadn’t picked it up some time or other.
I should have given more thought to that point, though it would have sent my morale downhill again. As it was, I could believe that this installation would be found fairly soon, even if I myself wasn’t.
The big room had little detail to mention. I assumed at first that it would turn out to be a pressure lock or the vestibule to one, but the big tunnel opening from it had no door. There were smaller panels on the walls which might have been locks—some of them were big enough to admit a human figure.
The swimmers towed me toward the tunnel mouth and into it. It was fully twenty feet in diameter, much more than large enough for the tank, and was lighted almost as well as the chamber we had just left. I found myself getting angry again at this bunch who were being so free with their energy. I was also beginning to wonder where they got so much of it. I’d run into power-bootleggers before in the course of business, naturally, but never an outfit with so much of it to throw around.
We went only a few yards—twenty or so—down the tunnel before coming to another large room which opened from it. They towed me into this. It had several much smaller tunnels—maybe I should say shafts—opening from its floor; I counted eight in my first glance. None of these openings had lids or doors either. Apparently a large part of the installation was flooded and under outside pressure. Maybe it was a mine; that would account for the energy, if the product were uranium or thorium, and it would not be practical to try to keep all the windings and tunnels of a submarine mine free of water.
I had just about time to run that thought through my mind while the swimmers were putting me and my tank down on the floor. It started to roll a little, and I put out three legs to prop it. Luckily all three got through the meshes of the net which was still around me without being jammed.
With that settled, I looked at the bunch of people around me to see what they’d do next. It was clearly up to them.
I’m used to it now, but I still don’t like the memory of what they did and what it did to me.
They took off their helmets. A mile under the sea, in pressure that would crush sponges, metal into foil, they took off their helmets.
TO BE CONTINUED
Ocean on Top
These people couldn’t be breathing water a mile under the sea—but the facts were clear. They were!
What has gone before
Three of my friends had disappeared in a single small area of the Pacific, just north of Easter Island. Like me, all worked for the Power Board, the group which was responsible for rationing man’s severely limited supply of energy and which was, because of that fact, practically the world government.
Bert Wehlstrahl had vanished a year before, and Joey Elfven ten months later. Marie Wladetzky had gone two weeks after Joe, presumably in search of him, and I was principally interested in finding Marie. (Don’t ask for my name; it’s bad enough to have to listen to it occasionally, and I’m certainly not going to put it in print.) Since the two men were police workers of a sort, it was likely that their disappearance was not accidental, so my first step was to search the ocean bottom in the key area from a camouflaged vantage point—actually one of the spherical escape tanks used in ordinary cargo submarines, somewhat modified for my purpose.
I found evidence of rationing violation the moment I reached the bottom—I almost landed on it. A mile down there was an area actually lighted artificially and apparently concealed under a flat, translucent surface which I interpreted as some sort of fabric. Seeing energy wasted to light the outside of a tent roof was bad enough; the sight of a swimmer in what looked like ordinary scuba gear under five thousand feet of sea water was far worse. The technological capacity so demonstrated suggested something much more serious than an ordinary black-market energy gang.
My tank was not very maneuverable, but I managed to get myself “captured” and towed to an entrance to the undersea base. Here I dropped to sonar transponder, which should guide Board enforcement forces to the spot, released my ballast and headed for the surface with the comfortable certainty that the swimmers could not follow far because of the pressure gradient.
This belief proved wrong. One of them hung onto my tank and by pounding on it was able to guide a sub to the scene. After doing my best to get the nearly helpless tank away, I was really captured and dragged back to the bottom.
The tank was brought to a lighted pit in the ocean floor. There were no door or air locks. The swimmers, who had loaded my tank with enough ballast to keep it down even if they lost hold again, towed me into a tunnel which led from the entrance pit, along it for a short distance, and into a flooded room. Then they removed their helmets.
VIII
It must be obvious from the things I’ve already said that I’m no psychologist, though I’ve read a little about the field. I’ve been told that it’s possible for a person to deny flatly and categorically the evidence of his own senses, if their reports disagree violently enough with what he thinks he knows. In fact I’ve met people who claim that the ability to do this is all that keeps most of us sane. Until that moment, I’d doubted both statements. Now I’m not so sure.
I’d seen us come in from definite, obvious sea-bottom conditions to the place where we now were. I had not seen anything even remotely like a door, valve, or lock either open before us or close behind us, and I had certainly been looking for one. To the best of my knowledge and belief, therefore, my tank was now in a room full of sea water at a pressure corresponding roughly to a mile’s depth.
I had seen the people now in the chamber around me swimming in the sea outside—the same people, for the most part. I had seen them, continually or nearly so, as they brought me in. They, too, were still in high-pressure water and had been all along. I was forgetting for the moment the clarity with which I had been able to see those some faces in the water outside, but even if I’d remembered I probably wouldn’t have seen the relevance just then.
I had seen them remove the helmets, just now, still apparently in high-pressure water. No, I couldn’t believe all of that at once. It was missing something, but I couldn’t believe it was recently an observable fact. I’d been battered around during the storm and had certainly missed the technique which had been used in finding me, but I hadn’t been unconscious, then or later. I was short on sleep, but surely not so dazed by it as to have missed any major happenings. I had to believe that my observations were reasonably complete. Since I was, in spite of that belief, clearly out of phase with reality, there was something I just plain didn’t know. It was time for more education.
I wasn’t too worried about my personal future; if there had been any intent to dispose of me, it could have been done earlier with much less trouble—and as I’ve said before, I couldn’t believe, deep down, that people would dp anything final to me anyway. If you think that doesn’t jibe with the way I’ve admitted I felt a few minutes before, you ask a psychiatrist.
I had a couple of days of breathing still in the tank, and presumably before that time was up my new acquaintances would do something about getting me out—though I couldn’t offhand see what it would be, now that I thought of the problem. Any way I, looked at it, though, the next move seemed up to them. Maybe that shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was.
Apparently they felt the same way—not comforted, I mean, but that they should be doing something. They were gathered in a group between the tank and the door we had come through, apparently arguing some point. I couldn’t hear their voices, and after a minute or two I decided they weren’t actually talking; there was a tremendous amount of gesticulation. They must have a pretty comprehensive sign language, I decided. This was reasonable if they spent much of their time, and especially if they did much of their work, under water. I couldn’t see why they used it now, since my common sense was having trouble admitting that they were still in water.
