“I'm glad you feel that way, sir,” replied Bresnahan. “We'll get the messages off as soon as possible. I take it that more of the Company's officials will be coming up here to live, then?”
“Probably all of them, within the next two years or so. Brenda and I will go back and resume surveying now, as soon as we stock up with some food. I'll be back occasionally, but I'd rather she kept away from high weight for the next few months, as you know.”
“Yes, sir.” Bresnahan managed, by a heroic effort, to control his smile — almost. Weisanen saw the flicker of his lip, and froze for a moment. Then his own sober features loosened into a broad grin.
“Maybe another hour won't hurt Brenda,” he remarked. “Let's have a meal together before we go back.”
He paused, and added almost diffidently, “Sorry about what happened. We're human, you know.”
“I know,” replied Bresnahan. “That's what I was counting on.”
“And that,” remarked Silbert as he shed his helmet, “is that. They're aboard and bound for the core again, happy as clams. And speaking of clams, if you don't tell me why that stubborn Finn changed his mind, and why you were so sure he'd do it, there'll be mayhem around here. Don't try to make me believe that he got scared about what he'd nearly done to us. I know his wife was on our side, basically, but she wasn't about to wage open war for us. She was as worried about their kid as he was. Come on; make with the words, chum.”
“Simple enough. Didn't you notice what he wanted before going back to Raindrop?”
“Not particularly — oh; food. So what? He could live on the food down there — or couldn't he? Don't you believe what he said?”
“Sure I believe him. He and his wife can digest cellulose, Heaven help them, and they can live off Raindrop's seaweed. As I remarked to him, though — you heard me, and he understood me — they're human. I can digest kale and cauliflower, too, and could probably live off them as well as that pair could live off the weeds. But did you ever stop to think what the stuff must taste like? Neither did they. I knew they'd be back with open mouths — and open minds. Let's eat — anything but liver!”
The Mechanic
Drifting idly, the Shark tended to look more like a manta ray than her name suggested; but at high cruise, as she was now, she bore more resemblance to a flying fish. She was entirely out of the water except for the four struts that carried her hydroplanes; the air propellers which drove her were high enough above the surface to raise very little spray. An orbiting monitor satellite could have seen the vessel herself from a hundred miles up, since her upper hull was painted in a vividly fluorescent pattern of red and yellow; but there was not enough wake to suggest to such a watcher that the wedge-shaped machine was traveling at nearly sixty-five knots.
Chester V. Winkle — everyone knew what the middle initial stood for, but no one mentioned it in his presence — sat behind the left bow port of his command with his fingers resting lightly on the pressure controls. He was looking ahead, but knew better than to trust his eyes alone. Most of his attention was devoted to the voice of the smaller man seated four feet to his right, behind the other “eye” of the manta. Yoshii Ishihara was not looking outside at all; his eyes were directed steadily at the sonar display screen which was all that stood between the Shark and disaster at her present speed among the ice floes and zeowhales of the Labrador Sea.
“Twenty-two targets in the sweep; about fourteen thousand meters to the middle of the group,” he said softly.
“Heading?” Winkle knew the question was superfluous; had a change been in order, the sonarman would have given it.
“As we go, for thirty-two hundred meters. Then twenty-two mils starboard. There's ice in the way.”
“Good. Any data on target condition yet?”
“No. It will be easier to read them when we stop, and will cost little time to wait. Four of the twenty-two are drifting, but the sea is rich here and they might be digesting. Stand by for change of heading.”
“Ready on your call.” There was silence for about a minute. “Starboard ten.”
“Starboard ten.” The hydroplanes submerged near the ends of the Shark's bow struts banked in response to the pressure of Winkle's fingers, though the hull remained nearly level. The compass needle on the panel between the view ports moved smoothly through ten divisions. As it reached the tenth Ishihara, without looking up from his screen, called, “Steady.”
“Steady she is,” replied the commander.
“Stand by for twelve more to starboard — now.” The Shark swung again and steadied on the new heading.
“That leaves us a clear path in,” said the sonarman. “Time to engine cut is four minutes.”
In spite of his assurance that the way was clear, Ishihara kept his eyes on his instruments — his standards of professional competence would permit nothing less while the Shark had way on her. Winkle, in spite of the sleepy appearance which combined with his name to produce a constant spate of bad jokes, was equally alert for visible obstructions ahead. Several ice floes could be seen, but none were directly in the vessel's path, and Winkle's fingers remained idle until his second officer gave the expected signal.
Then the whine of turbines began to drop in pitch, and the Shark's broad form eased toward the swell below as the hydrofoils lost their lift. The hull extensions well out on her “wings” which gave the vessel catamaran-type stability when drifting kissed the surface gently, their added drag slowing the machine more abruptly; and twenty feet aft of the conning ports the four remaining members of the crew tensed for action.
“Slow enough for readings?” asked Winkle.
“Yes, sir. The homing signal is going out now. I'll have counts in the next thirty seconds.” Ishihara paused. “One of the four drifters is underway and turning toward us. No visible response from the others.”
“Which is the nearest of the dead ones?”
“Fifteen hundred meters, eight hundred forty mils port.” Winkle's fingers moved again. The turbines that drove the big, counter-rotating air propellers remained idle, but water jets playing from ducts on the hydrofoil struts swung the ship in the indicated direction and set her traveling slowly toward the drifter. Winkle called an order over his shoulder.
“Winches and divers ready. The trap is unsafetied. Contact in five minutes?”
“Winch ready,” Dandridge's deep voice reported as he swept his chessboard to one side and closed a master switch. Mancini, who had been facing him across the board, slipped farther aft to the laboratory which occupied over half of the Shark's habitable part. He said nothing, since no order had been directed at him, and made no move to uncage any of his apparatus while the vessel was still in motion.
“Divers standing by.” Farrell spoke for himself and his assistant after a brief check of masks and valves — both were already dressed for Arctic water. They took their places at either side of the red-checkered deck area, just forward of the lab section, which marked the main hatch. Dandridge, glancing up to make sure that no one was standing on it, opened the trap from his control console. Its halves slid smoothly apart, revealing the chill green liquid slipping between the hulls. At the Shark's present speed she was floating at displacement depth, so that the water averaged about four meters down from the hatch; but this distance was varied by a swell of a meter or so. Farrell stood looking down at it, wailing patiently for the vessel to stop; his younger assistant dropped prone by the edge of the opening and craned his neck through it in an effort to see forward.