It was the work of an undersea torpedo-boat - one of the few still functioning - and it was not, it emerged, an act of war at all, but an act of cynical piracy.
However, the pirate had done his work too well. The ship sighed, coughed, and went to the bottom with most of her passengers and crew. I and about a dozen others were left clinging to what little wreckage there was.
The undersea boat lifted its prow from the water for a few seconds to observe its handiwork, saw that there was nothing to be gained by remaining, and left us to our fate. I suppose we should have been grateful that it did not use the guns mounted along its sides to finish us off. Ammunition had become scarce almost everywhere, it seemed.
3. THE POLISH PRIVATEER
I shan't describe in detail my experiences of the next twenty-four hours. Suffice to say that they were pretty grim as I watched my companions sink, one by one, beneath the waves and knew that ultimately I should be joining them. I suppose I have had a great deal of practice in the art of survival and somehow I managed to remain afloat, clinging to my pathetic bit of flotsam, until the late afternoon of the next day when the monster rose from the waves, steaming water pouring off its blue-black skin, its great crystalline eyes glaring at me, and a horrible, deep-throated roaring issuing from its belly. At first my exhausted mind did see it as a living creature but my second thoughts were that the undersea torpedo-boat had returned to finish me off.
Slowly the disturbance in the water ceased and the growling subsided to a quiet purring and the sleek and slender craft came to rest on the surface. From hatches fore and aft sailors in sea-green uniforms sprang on to the deck and ran quickly to the rails. One of them flung a life-buoy out over the side and with the last of my strength I swam towards it, seizing it and allowing myself to be hauled towards the ship. Hands dragged me aboard and a cup of rum was forced down my throat while blankets were thrown around me and I was carried bodily along the rocking deck and down into the forward hatch. This hatch was closed swiftly over us and as I was borne below I could feel the ship itself descending back below the waves. The whole thing had taken place in the space of a few minutes and I had the impression of urgency, as if much had been risked in coming to the surface at all. I surmised that this could not be the same ship (it seemed larger, for one thing) which had left me to my fate, that it must be another. It was certainly not a British ship, and I could make little of the language spoken by the seamen who carried me to a small, steel-walled cabin and stripped me of my sodden Arabian uniform before lowering me into the bunk and drawing warm blankets over me. It was probably a Slavonic language and I wondered if I had been made a prisoner-of-war by the Russians. I heard the ship's engines start up again, and there was a barely perceptible lurch as we began to go forward at what I guessed to be a pretty high speed. Then, careless of what my fate might be, I fell into a heavy and, thankfully, dreamless sleep.
Upon awakening, I glanced automatically towards the porthole but, of course, could not tell whether it was night or day, let alone what the time was! All I saw was dark green swirling water rushing past, faintly illuminated by the lights from the ship as it coursed with shark-like speed through the deeps. For a while I stared in fascination at the sight, hoping to make out some details of my first glimpse of the mysterious underwater world, but we were doubtless moving too rapidly. As I stared, the door of the cabin opened and a seaman entered, bearing a large tin cup which proved to contain hot, black coffee. He spoke in a thick accent:
'The captain's compliments, sir. Would you care to join him in his cabin, at your leisure.'
I accepted the coffee, noting that my borrowed uniform had been washed, dried and pressed and that a fresh set of undergarments had been laid out on the small table fixed against the opposite wall to the bunk.
'Gladly,' I replied. 'Will there be someone to escort me there when I have completed my toilet and dressed?'
'I will wait outside for you, sir.' The sailor saluted and left the cabin, closing the door smartly behind him. There was no question that this was a superbly disciplined ship - the efficiency with which I had been rescued spoke of that -and I hoped that the discipline extended to the honouring of the ordinary conventions of war!
As quickly as I could I readied myself and soon presented myself outside the cabin door. The sailor set off along the narrow, tubular passage which was remarkable for possessing cork catwalks positioned on sides and ceiling as well as floor, indicating that the ship was designed to function at any of the main positions of the quadrant. My surmise proved to be accurate (there were also 'decks' on the outside of the hull to match the catwalks, while the main control room was a perfect globe pivoting to match the angle of the ship - merely, it emerged, one of O'Bean's 'throwaway' ideas!) and the underwater craft was essentially much in advance of anything I had encountered in that other future of 1973.
The tubular passage led us to an intersection and we took the portside direction, climbed a small companion-way and found ourselves outside a plain, circular steel door upon which the seaman knocked, uttering a few words in his unfamiliar language. A single word answered him from the other side of the door and he pulled back a recessed catch to open it and admit me, saluting again before he left.
I found myself in an almost familiar version of any captain's quarters of a ship of my own world. There was plenty of well-polished mahogany and brass, a few green plants in baskets hanging from ceiling and walls, a neatly made single bunk, a small chart-table on which were several maps and around the edges of which were clipped a variety of instruments. Framed prints of clipper-ships and of old charts were fixed to the walls. The lighting glowed softly from the whole ceiling and had the quality of daylight (yet another of O'Bean's casual inventions). A smallish, dapper figure, with whiskers trimmed in the Imperial style, rose to greet me, adjusting his cap on his head and smiling almost shyly. He was a young man, probably not much older than myself, but he had the lines of experience upon his face and his eyes were the eyes of a much older man - steady and clear, yet betraying a certain cool irony. He stretched out a hand and I shook it, finding the grip firm and not ungentle. There was something naggingly familiar about him, but my mind refused to accept the truth until, in good, but gutterally accented, English, he introduced himself:
'Welcome aboard the Lola Montй, captain. My name is Korzeniowski and I am her master.'
I was too stunned to speak, for I was confronting a much younger version of my old mentor from the days I spent aboard The Rover. Then, Korzeniowski had been (or would be) a Polish airship captain. The implications of all this were frightening. Was there now a chance that I might meet a version of myself in this other world? I recovered my politeness. Plainly Korzeniowski knew nothing of me and I introduced myself, for better or worse, by my name and my real regiment, explaining quickly how I had come to be wearing my rather elaborate Arabian uniform. 'I hope Poland is not at war with the Arabian Alliance,' I added.