Read Online Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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cavitation point, the invisible eyes of their asdic and sonar gears peering ahead. They kept at a safe thirty fathoms, for though there was far less pack ice, there was correspondingly more berg danger.
They surfaced once to get the latest synthesis from the UN, and although they had closed the gap appreciably, they found reception less than half as good and worsening by the moment.
On the third day the Captain posted double watches on the seeking gear, double lookouts on deck, and proceeded on the surface, where it was possible to squeeze another fifteen knots out of the big submarine. It was quickly found that the deck watches had to be changed every two hours—this was Dr. Jamieson’s recommendation—and then every hour: Dr. Hiller’s. For not only was the air insufferably murky and hot, and the direct radiation from the sky unbearable, but the presence of that great curving bridge of fire overhead was something a man could hardly bring himself to be alone with. Berkowitz, one of the torp men, showed signs of being a problem; his wife was expecting, and the lack of communications was a dreadful burden for him. Admiral Nelson, on their third radio rendezvous with Bergen, was able to get some information about the torpedo man’s wife: that she was in good shape, that she wouldn’t expect the baby for another two, possibly three weeks: a small thing, but enough to smother Berkowitz’s potential explosion and cheer up the whole ship as well. There were times—long hours, even—when routine conquered all, the talk was about shore leave, and things seemed normal. Then a man would come stumbling down the hatch, relieved from lookout, flushed and red-eyed, and fear would tighten itself around morale like a boa constrictor.
It was the morning of the third day when Cathy Connors came stretching and blinking out of her cabin and turned toward the mess, only to meet Cookie carrying a tray.
She glanced at the thick china mugs, the traditional tin can of sugar and the other one of evaporated milk. No food. “Don’t tell me they’re still at it.”
“All they eat for twenty-four hours is coffee and pencils,” nodded the cook.
“I fell spang asleep with my chin in my notebook,” said Cathy ruefully. “The Old Old Man booted me out and told me not to report for twelve hours.” (As on all ships, the Captain was the Old Man; here, the Admiral had become the Old Old Man.)
“They doing any good in there?” asked the cook anxiously.
She touched him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cookie. If there’s anyone on earth who can do something about it, it’s Nelson. How’s the little dog?”
The cook smiled widely. “Oh, he’s fine. You’d never guess he’d spent four days floating around lost on an ice floe. Except for his sunburn.”
“A dog with sunburn?”
“Yeah, we noticed he was tender when we patted him. Thought at first it was internal injuries or something. Then I thought to look between his fur, you know, and darn if his skin wasn’t all red, just like sunburn. But he’s getting over it.”
She shook her head in amazement and went aft to the mess. She ordered coffee from the messman, and was just starting on it when Susan Hiller opened the door from the after end and stepped in over the high sill.
“ ’Morning, Sue.”
“Is that what it is?” smiled the psychiatrist. She came and sat opposite. “It gets a little hard to tell, doesn’t it?”
“To some people it doesn’t seem to matter. Do you know the Admiral hasn’t had any sleep since we picked up that castaway?”
“I know,” said Dr. Hiller. “I worry about him.”
“Don’t,” said Cathy positively. “There’s one set of rules that applies to human beings and one to—”
“Admirals?”
“No. Just Admiral Nelson. Proof: B.J. Crawford is trying to keep up with him but all he can do now is sprawl on the Admiral’s settee with one eye closed and grunt ‘Yes’ when Nelson calculates something. The Congressman gave up
They surfaced once to get the latest synthesis from the UN, and although they had closed the gap appreciably, they found reception less than half as good and worsening by the moment.
On the third day the Captain posted double watches on the seeking gear, double lookouts on deck, and proceeded on the surface, where it was possible to squeeze another fifteen knots out of the big submarine. It was quickly found that the deck watches had to be changed every two hours—this was Dr. Jamieson’s recommendation—and then every hour: Dr. Hiller’s. For not only was the air insufferably murky and hot, and the direct radiation from the sky unbearable, but the presence of that great curving bridge of fire overhead was something a man could hardly bring himself to be alone with. Berkowitz, one of the torp men, showed signs of being a problem; his wife was expecting, and the lack of communications was a dreadful burden for him. Admiral Nelson, on their third radio rendezvous with Bergen, was able to get some information about the torpedo man’s wife: that she was in good shape, that she wouldn’t expect the baby for another two, possibly three weeks: a small thing, but enough to smother Berkowitz’s potential explosion and cheer up the whole ship as well. There were times—long hours, even—when routine conquered all, the talk was about shore leave, and things seemed normal. Then a man would come stumbling down the hatch, relieved from lookout, flushed and red-eyed, and fear would tighten itself around morale like a boa constrictor.
It was the morning of the third day when Cathy Connors came stretching and blinking out of her cabin and turned toward the mess, only to meet Cookie carrying a tray.
She glanced at the thick china mugs, the traditional tin can of sugar and the other one of evaporated milk. No food. “Don’t tell me they’re still at it.”
“All they eat for twenty-four hours is coffee and pencils,” nodded the cook.
“I fell spang asleep with my chin in my notebook,” said Cathy ruefully. “The Old Old Man booted me out and told me not to report for twelve hours.” (As on all ships, the Captain was the Old Man; here, the Admiral had become the Old Old Man.)
“They doing any good in there?” asked the cook anxiously.
She touched him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cookie. If there’s anyone on earth who can do something about it, it’s Nelson. How’s the little dog?”
The cook smiled widely. “Oh, he’s fine. You’d never guess he’d spent four days floating around lost on an ice floe. Except for his sunburn.”
“A dog with sunburn?”
“Yeah, we noticed he was tender when we patted him. Thought at first it was internal injuries or something. Then I thought to look between his fur, you know, and darn if his skin wasn’t all red, just like sunburn. But he’s getting over it.”
She shook her head in amazement and went aft to the mess. She ordered coffee from the messman, and was just starting on it when Susan Hiller opened the door from the after end and stepped in over the high sill.
“ ’Morning, Sue.”
“Is that what it is?” smiled the psychiatrist. She came and sat opposite. “It gets a little hard to tell, doesn’t it?”
“To some people it doesn’t seem to matter. Do you know the Admiral hasn’t had any sleep since we picked up that castaway?”
“I know,” said Dr. Hiller. “I worry about him.”
“Don’t,” said Cathy positively. “There’s one set of rules that applies to human beings and one to—”
“Admirals?”
“No. Just Admiral Nelson. Proof: B.J. Crawford is trying to keep up with him but all he can do now is sprawl on the Admiral’s settee with one eye closed and grunt ‘Yes’ when Nelson calculates something. The Congressman gave up
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