Read Online Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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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
“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
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