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Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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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.”
3
T HE SUB PRESSED SOUTH AND A LITTLE EAST , all four propellers straining just under
“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.”
3
T HE SUB PRESSED SOUTH AND A LITTLE EAST , all four propellers straining just under
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