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Authors: Frederick & Williamson Pohl
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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
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
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