The little five-berth sports cruiser was still forty miles off the outer edge of the reef, feeling her way in from the Pacific. Of course, it was risky operating so near the Capricorns, right in enemy territory as it were. But the biggest fish were here, just because they were the best protected. You had to take a chance if you wanted to keep your clients satisfied…
Captain Bert had worked out his tactics carefully, as he always did. There were never any patrols out at night, and even if there were, his long-range sonar would spot them and he could run for it. So it would be perfectly safe creeping up during darkness, getting into position just before dawn, and pushing his eager beavers out of the air lock as soon as the Sun came up. He would lie doggo on the bottom, keeping in touch through the radios. If they got out of range, they’d still have his low-powered sonar beacon to home on. And if they got too far away to pick up that, serve “em jolly well right. He patted his jacket where the four blood chits reposed safely, absolving him of all responsibility if anything happened to Messrs. Smith, Jones, Robinson, or Brown. There were times when he wondered if it was really any use, considering these weren’t their real names, but the agency told him not to worry. Captain Bert was not the worrying type, or he would have given up this job long ago.
At the moment, Messrs. S., J., R., and B. were lying on their respective couches, putting the final touches to the equipment they would not need until morning. Smith and Jones had brand-new guns that had obviously never been fired before, and their webbing was fitted with every conceivable underwater gadget. Captain Bert looked at them sardonically; they represented a type he knew very well. They were the boys who were so keen on their equipment that they never did any shooting, either with the guns or their cameras. They would wander happily around the reef, making such a noise that every fish within miles would know exactly what they were up to. Their beautiful guns, which could drill a thousand-pound shark at fifty feet, would probably never be fired. But they wouldn’t really mind; they would enjoy themselves.
Now Robinson was a very different matter. His gun was slightly dented, and about five years old. It had seen service, and he obviously knew how to handle it. He was not one of those catalogue-obsessed sportsmen who had to buy the current year’s model as soon as it came out, like a woman who couldn’t bear to be behind the fashion. Mr. Robinson, Captain Bert decided, would be the one who would bring back the biggest catch.
As for Brown — Robinson’s partner — he was the only one that Captain Bert hadn’t been able to classify. A well-built, strong-featured man in the forties, he was the oldest of the hunters and his face was vaguely familiar. He was probably some official in the upper echelons of the state, who had felt the need to sow a few wild oats. Captain Bert, who was constitutionally unable to work for the World State or any other employer, could understand just how he felt.
There were more than a thousand feet of water below them, and the reef was still miles ahead. But one never took anything for granted in this business, and Captain Bert’s eyes were seldom far from the dials and screens of the control board, even while he watched his little crew preparing for their morning’s fun. The clear and tiny echo had barely appeared on the sonar scanner before he had fastened on to it.
“Big shark coming, boys,” he announced jovially. There was a general rush to the screen.
“How do you know it’s a shark?” someone asked.
“Pretty sure to be. Couldn’t be a whale — they can’t leave the channel inside the reef.”
“Sure it’s not a sub?” said one anxious voice.
“Naow. Look at the size of it. A sub would be ten times as bright on the screen. Don’t be a nervous Nelly.”
The questioner subsided, duly abashed. No one said anything for the next five minutes, as the distant echo closed in toward the center of the screen.
“It’ll pass within a quarter of a mile of us,” said Mr. Smith. “What about changing course and seeing if we can make contact?”
“Not a hope. He’ll run for it as soon as he picks up our motors. If we stopped still he might come and sniff us over. Anyway, what would be the use? You couldn’t get at him. It’s night and he’s well below the depth where you could operate.”
Their attention was momentarily distracted by a large school of fish — probably tuna, the captain said — which appeared on the southern sector of the screen. When that had gone past, the distinguished-looking Mr. Brown said thoughtfully: “Surely a shark would have changed course by now.”
Captain Bert thought so too, and was beginning to be puzzled. “Think we’ll have a look at it,” he said. “Won’t do any harm.”
He altered course imperceptibly; the strange echo continued on its unvarying way. It was moving quite slowly, and there would be no difficulty in getting within visual distance without risk of collision. At the point of nearest approach, Captain Bert switched on the camera and the U.V. searchlight — and gulped.
“We’re rumbled, boys. It’s a cop.”
There were four simultaneous gasps of dismay, then a chorus of “But you told us…” which the captain silenced with a few well-chosen words while he continued to study the screen.
“Something funny here,” he said. “I was right first time. That’s no sub — it’s only a torp. So it can’t detect us, anyway — they don’t carry that kind of gear. But what the hell’s it doing out here at night?”
“Let’s run for it!” pleaded several anxious voices.
“Shurrup!” shouted Captain Bert. “Let me think.” He glanced at the depth indicator. “Crikey,” he muttered, this time in a much more subdued voice. “We’re a hundred fathoms down. Unless that lad’s breathing some fancy mixture, he’s had it.”
He peered closely at the image on the TV screen; it was hard to be certain, but the figure strapped to the slowly moving torp seemed abnormally still. Yes — there was no doubt of it; he could tell from the attitude of the head. The pilot was certainly unconscious, probably dead.
“This is a bloody nuisance,” announced the skipper, “but there’s nothing else to do. We’ve got to fetch that guy in.”
Someone started to protest, then thought better of it. Captain Bert was right, of course. The later consequences would have to be dealt with as they arose.
“But how are you going to do it?” asked Smith. “We can’t go outside at this depth.”
“It won’t be easy,” admitted the captain. “It’s lucky he’s moving so slowly. I think I can flip him over.”
He nosed in toward the torp, making infinitely delicate adjustments with the controls. Suddenly there was a clang that made everybody jump except the skipper, who knew when it was coming and exactly how loud it would be.
He backed away, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Made it first time!” he said smugly. The torp had rolled over on its back, with the helpless figure of its rider now dangling beneath it in his harness. But instead of heading down into the depths, it was now climbing toward the distant surface.
They followed it up to the two-hundred-foot mark while Captain Bert gave his detailed instructions. There was still a chance, he told his passengers, that the pilot might be alive. But if he reached the surface, he’d certainly be dead — compression sickness would get him as he dropped from ten atmospheres to one.