Cooke had written a software programme, using the mathematics of fuzzy logic that had always been ‘Greek’ to men like Francesini. Cooke had once explained to him that fuzzy logic was like extrapolating a point, or a position, in a logical step, to another position often before that second position was known.
“You amaze me,” Francesini had said to him when Cooke had explained the theory. “What are you talking about?”
“Well,” Cooke said, warming to his subject, “when you are about to make a move, like take a step in another direction or reach out for something, the movement you make will put you into an indeterminate position relative to the position you are in at the moment, unless it was a planned and purposeful move; like taking a step. Clear?”
“As mud!”
“But it may be to the left, the right, forward or back. What isn’t known at the time is the reason for you making the move. But if we know the reasons, like you were about to cough or were about to leave the room, excitement, melancholy, anything; we could feed that information into a mathematical expression and determine exactly where you are moving to or what you are about to do.
Cooke had gone on further to leave Francesini even more confused and thanking his lucky stars he was not as clever as young Cooke. But on reflection, he mused, perhaps if he had have possessed the young man’s gift of higher intelligence, he would not have been as deep into the dark as he was now.
He laid the photograph of the Taliba on Cooke’s desk. The picture was taken from a distance of about 150 feet. The Taliba was in close up and several of the crew could be seen on the deck.
“I need a favour,” Francesini told him.
“Fine,” he answered. “How can I help?”
Francesini pointed to a figure in the photograph leaning on the ship’s rail looking across to the Coast Guard cutter. The man’s features were very grainy, which made it difficult to determine the face and the nationality.
“Can you tell me who that is?” Francesini asked.
“Sure, you got his birth certificate?”
Francesini laughed. “Sorry Bob, I meant can you enhance that for me. I really need to identify the guy.”
“And you haven’t got a negative, have you Remo?” he said. Francesini shook his head. Cooke shrugged. “Makes it difficult, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
He picked up the photograph and scanned it into his computer. When the picture came up, he boxed in the figure and brought it up on screen, doing away with the rest of the imagery.
“Do you know his nationality?” Cooke asked.
“Put him down as Caucasian.”
“Height?”
And so it went on. Cooke asked Francesini as much as he could about the subject. Francesini filled him in with as much as he dared, but didn’t want to presume too much in case he was entirely wrong. Disappointments were pretty common in his game.
Cooke began enhancing the picture in small sections while feeding information into the fuzzy logic programme he was running. He talked as he put the information in. He asked if the figure was one of the crew. Was he in repose? Were the crew all of one nationality. Francesini answered as truthfully and as carefully as he could.
As the picture on the screen changed, so Francesini’s excitement level rose. He could see where this was going and was glad that he had backed one of his hunches and brought the photograph to Bob Cooke.
Eventually the young man punched the print button and the printer coughed out an almost perfect print of the figure on the rail, now in glorious colour. He handed it to Francesini.
“Your man?” he asked.
Francesini breathed a sigh of relief and a smile brightened his face. Bob Cooke was holding up a photograph of Harry Marsham; known as Marsh to his friends.
Marsh thought about something strange that had occurred during the evening of the previous day. Shortly after the Taliba had been boarded by the Coast Guard, Captain de Leon had ordered a change in course and the ship had headed back to the position, as far as Marsh could determine, where the Coast Guard had stopped them.
He had gone up on deck to see why they had stopped and also to ask the captain why the ship had turned round. He saw Khan talking pointedly to Batista who was in his diving suit. It puzzled Marsh, particularly when another diver, who Marsh didn’t recognise joined them.
The Taliba dropped anchor and Batista went below with the second diver. Khan went up to the bridge and then reappeared with Captain de Leon. It was completely intriguing to Marsh and he knew something unusual was about to happen. He decided to push his luck and followed the two men when they went off in the same direction as the two divers.
It was then that he discovered they were heading for the sea gallery. He stayed with them even though he had not been specifically invited, but as nobody questioned his right to be there, he assumed they were not the least bit concerned by his presence.
He saw the two divers go into the water followed by the diving bell, which was lowered from the running block above the open doors. Its floodlights were on and as it disappeared into the water; their luminescence began to fade as it sank lower into the depths.
Khan was also there, along with Captain de Leon who was controlling the dive. The divers had gone into the water with one tank of air each on their back, so Marsh knew it wouldn’t be a long dive. Within twenty minutes Batista and the other diver were back in the sea gallery. It was then that Khan told Marsh that there was no reason now why the two of them should remain and escorted Marsh from the sea gallery.
The whole operation puzzled him intensely and he could only assume that Batista and the other diver had gone down to locate something. And whatever it was, Khan decided that he and Marsh should not be in the sea gallery when they brought it up to the ship. Perhaps for safety reasons or working on the premise that there was no need for people to be there who were not directly involved in the operation?
He had made one or two informed guesses about the strange occurrences of the night before but eventually had given up trying to figure it out. He was sure that he would learn of the reason for the dive eventually. Having still been given no idea when Khan would be asking him to begin diving with the Challenger, he decided it would help pass the time if he took a stroll round the upper deck of the Taliba.
He admired her lines with the admiration of a man who has known the sea all his life and seen all manner of ships used in oceanography. Taliba’s superstructure bristled with modern, marine equipment and sprouted aerials like a forest. He had no doubt that her electronics would be of the highest calibre and her navigational aids would also be sophisticated and modern.
He heard a footstep and Malik appeared on deck. He came over and acknowledged Marsh.
“Good morning my friend. Have you breakfasted yet?”
“Yes, thank you,” Marsh answered.
Malik seemed satisfied. “Good. In that case Mister Khan would like to see you in his cabin.” He turned on his heel and Marsh followed.
Khan’s cabin was luxuriously appointed, which Marsh had expected it to be. Apart from one wall, the whole of it was given over to creature comforts of the kind one would normally find on a very expensive yacht. But here in Khan’s cabin there was a subtle difference; the wall that remained unfurnished was more like a control centre than a cabin. Marsh had little time to study it except to notice that it was a curious change to the regal splendour which surrounded him.
Khan greeted Marsh and asked him to sit down. His body language told Marsh that it was to be a practical, business like meeting rather than a cordial chat.
“Now Marsh,” Khan began straight away. “We are running behind schedule but I am sure we can make up the time. I want to begin sea trials with the Challenger this afternoon. I cannot factor in many more delays, so will take it that you understand the urgency.”