Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea by Theodore Sturgeon

Author:Theodore Sturgeon [Sturgeon, Theodore]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pyramid Books

5

IN THE CONTROL ROOM, ADMIRAL NELSON and the Captain stood by the control, where the oblivious O’Brien was coaxing the big craft along inches above the channel floor. Dr. Hiller stood back by the main corridor, watching—waiting and watching.

Berkowitz appeared. He held his stocky young figure erect. His smooth face was pale.

“Torpedoman Berkowitz reporting, sir.”

The Admiral reached out a foot and touched a heavy, compact rubber package with his foot.

“Hang that on you.”

Berkowitz, swallowing his surprise and joy, picked up the package, a folded one-man inflatable dinghy, oars, and inflator, and hung it by its strap over his shoulder. “Take your gear,” said the Admiral coldly, looking down at the immaculate seabag as if it were something a dog had left there.

Berkowitz shouldered the bag. The Admiral pointed to the main control console, where one of the TV repeaters showed a periscope view of the famous lower harbor of New York. The view swung to point out a nearby shoreline, crowned with granite walls over which poked old 105-mm. cannon. “Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. You could make that without a boat.”

He signaled with a finger, and the Captain moved a control, swinging the view aft. It showed the prow of a harbor police boat, its bow-chaser like the admiral’s grim pointing finger, the wings of spray it threw up turned pink, light diluted blood, by the glare of the fire-belt. “The metropolitan police,” said the Admiral. “They have no jurisdiction, of course, but they’re hanging on anyway. Whether they will let you go is something I neither know nor care. Up you go.”

Berkowitz stood at tight attention. His eyes glinted, and just once, and fractionally, his face twisted: the Captain knew as clearly as if the man had made a speech that sudden tears had long been an affliction with him, and that he hated them and himself for showing them. He said hoarsely,

“Thank you, sir.”

“That,” said the Admiral, “is just like a gangrenous foot saying thank you when you cut it off. Get out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Berkowitz whispered, and, clumsy with his burdens, he began inching up the ladder.

It seemed to take forever. When he reached the top, the amazing O’Brien, apparently unaware all this time of what was going on in the chamber, made one efficient motion and hauled back the hatch control. Pink light spilled down, patterning the floor and the inkblot of Berkowitz’s shadow, which humped itself to one side and then was gone. O’Brien’s hand struck again, snakelike, at the control and the hatch boomed down, blacking out the patch of light and thumbing their eardrums. Admiral Nelson found himself, quite by accident, glaring at Dr. Hiller’s face.

“Surgery,” said Dr. Hiller.

“An emetic,” said the Admiral. “What are you doing here?”

“Dr. Hiller volunteered her services,” said the Captain, “which I—my God!”

They followed his shocked stare, and saw, on the periscope repeater, which was still trained aft, the curved, whale-like back of the Seaview, mostly awash, and behind it, the police launch. On the deck,

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