The big twin doors to the lab, ahead of the sub, were both propped open to the night. In the center of the lab, resting on a low bench and surrounded by five people, was SARSCAN.
The sonar platform was similar in appearance to Atlas, an oversized American Flyer sled with a bulky body on it. It was twelve feet long and almost four feet wide, but unlike Atlas, it did not have robotic arms, floodlights, or cameras. SARSCAN II, still on the design table, was destined to have cameras, combining the sonar and visual search functions. The next generation of SARSCAN would also have self-contained propulsion systems. It would make Sneaky Pete obsolete, lovable as he was.
At the moment, all of the white and yellow fiberglass panels had been removed from SARSCAN and were stacked on a side bench. Revealed was the open grid work that supported the panels, the sonar antennas, and the miniature pressure hulls containing computers, batteries, and transducers. One reinforced ball housed the solenoids that controlled the stubby rudder and the diving planes on the aft end. Near the front end, on top, was the heavy-duty connector that coupled SARSCAN to the Kevlar-shielded fiber-optic cable that towed the platform through the water as well as sending the collected sonar signals to the towing vessel.
The fiber-optic cable used by Marine Visions was of the single-mode fiber type. The diameter of the filament was small enough to force a single beam of light to stay on a direct path. Lasers generated light signals in binary code — pulsing on for 1 and off for 2 — that zipped along the fiber at tremendous speeds. The high frequency of light waves allowed the transmission of thousands of times more information than was permitted by current flowing in a wire. The speed and data capacity of fiber-optic cables immensely reduced the thickness of the cable required. A quarter-inch-thick fiber-optic cable could handle telecommunications, computer data transfer, electronic mail, and image transfer with ease, and with space left over.
It was highly important that the laser light generators and receivers on both ends of the cable be correctly linked. A cable inserted into a connector with a V64-inch twist would scramble all communications between the host vehicle and the robot. Triple checks were made on the connectors and the synchronization of remote systems.
SARSCAN had never been towed by DepthFinder before, and modifications had been made to the submersible’s sonar readouts and recorders to accept the data transmitted by the deep sea sonar. A new black box had been installed under the third crew member’s seat, and a cable had been connected between the module and one of the computers. Two of Mayberry’s computer programmers were busy reprogramming SARSCAN’s memory in order to integrate it with the submersible.
Mayberry and Polodka came in from the side deck. Mayberry’s cornstalk hair was mussed by the wind, and his skinny body looked more emaciated than usual. Brande could not understand how the man shed calories. He was always first pig at the trough, and he put away rich, double helpings of desserts like they were gumdrops.
Polodka carried a name that was much larger than she was. At less than five feet of height, she might have been described as petite, except for the voluptuousness of the curves that could not be hidden by MVU jumpsuits. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, but did not have any other traits that would lump her with Russian stereotypes. Back when she and Dankelov had been involved with each other, Brande had been semi-jealous in the physical sense.
Not that he would have made a move on her. He believed in maintaining professional distances.
“Put that ratchet down, Dokey!” Mayberry commanded.
Dokey grinned at him. “You’ve got a loose rudder connection, Bob.”
“I loosened it, to adjust dead-center, asshole. Go find your own machine to screw up.”
Brande decided to stay out of it. Mayberry had been a little testy in the last two days, but he was under a lot of pressure, responsible for the electronics of not only SARSCAN, but all of the robots. And he would be thinking also about his family in San Diego and a runaway nuclear reactor.
Brande thought that maybe Thomas’s insistence on reviewing personnel policies and benefits — like life insurance — might be a good idea. He did not really know what kind of coverage existed for his people. The Mayberrys of San Diego might just be in trouble if something happened to Bob.
Brande tapped Dokey’s elbow and the two of them went forward to the wardroom. It was becoming a center of operations since the sonar/chart room was too small to accept more than four or five people.
Dokey headed directly for the galley.
Larry Emry had moved one of the computer stations into the lounge, and its screen had been alive since its transfer. He was playing with it then, adjusting the search grid over the undersea chart displayed on the cathode ray tube.
Brande came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. “You can’t do much more until we have additional data, Larry. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
Brande had issued orders for people to load up on as much sleep as possible. The time was fast approaching when they would not get much.
“I wish we knew more about the sea floor here,” Emry said, ignoring the suggestion.
“We may know more than we want to know soon.”
“Look at this”
Emry keyed in a command, and blue lines and swirls superimposed themselves on the chart. Brande did not like the looks of the low pressure cell.
“Weather?”
“Yeah. We’ve got a winter storm predicted by the meteorologists. This is what I predict it will look like by the time we reach the area.”
“Rain. How about wind?”
“The experts say gusts to thirty knots. We’ll have heavy seas.”
“Anything to really worry about, though?”
“For us, I don’t think so. The cycloidal propellers should keep us stable enough. But the reports we’re getting say there’s a bunch of nuts sailing around in the region. No telling what they’ll do.”
“Go home,” Brande said.
“I wish.”
Dokey came back from the galley, taking bites from a piece of cherry pie in one hand. Emry moved over to the wardroom table, and he and Dokey discussed the possibility of a chess match.
Brande told them he was going to bed.
He almost made it.
Rae Thomas was on the bridge, sharing the vigil with Connie Alvarez-Sorenson. Fred Bober was handling the helm. A variety of low-volume babble issued from the open doorway of the radio shack.
As he emerged from the companionway and turned toward the corridor leading aft, Brande said, “Good night, ladies and gentleman.”
Thomas followed him back to his and Dokey’s cabin. “You want to look at this, Dane?”
He pushed open the door, flipped the light switch, and stepped inside. “I suppose. What is it?”
Brande peeled his T-shirt off and tossed it toward the underbunk drawer that was his clothes hamper.
Thomas stopped in the open doorway and leaned against the jamb. “I had Avery Hampstead fax us a memorandum of understanding. Covering our fees.”
“Good. I’d forgotten all about it.” Brande sat down and unlaced his deck shoes. He pulled them off, peeled his socks off, and stretched his toes. It felt good. “Come on in, Rae, and sit down.ˮ
She moved over to Dokey’s bunk and sat tentatively on the edge of it. Because the cabin was so narrow, their knees almost touched.
“I asked him for thirteen-five a day plus incidentals.”
Brande looked up. “That much? I was thinking ten or eleven.”
“Of course you were. I covered our actual costs, and added a tiny fudge factor.”