I frowned. “But today’s observations—
“Tonight’s observations,” he cut me off, “show a considerable build-up, and proceeding at a rapidly increasing pace. Yes.” He nodded. “Something’s brewing, down below.”
For the first time since I had come into the room, I took a quick look at the charts and soundings.
If his analysis was correct, something was brewing indeed. It showed on every chart. The intensification of forces in the twelve hours between the 0900 and 2100 hours observations was remarkable.
Over my shoulder Lt. Tsuya said heavily: “I’m going to order a special geosonde run. If we could get it down to the two-hundred-kilometer level—” he thrust at the chart before him with a drafting stylus—“we might have a basis for a quake forecast. But—”
He didn’t have to finish. I knew our chances of getting a sounding that far down; they were very small. The pressure was simply too great. Nine sondes out of ten imploded—that is, were crushed by the pressure—at far less depths than that.
“As it is,” he droned, talking more to himself than to me, “with our best deep-level data derived from the reflection and refraction of shots at the twenty-kilometer level…”
His voice trailed off.
He swung around to face me. “But you see, Eden,” he said, “that I’ve got enough on my mind without listening to fairy tales about pirate MOLEs, without evidence to back them up.”
I said urgently: “Sir, if it’s a matter of evidence, surely there must be some sign in the sump itself. If we could drain it and examine the rock—”
“We’ll drain no sumps tonight,” he said sharply. “Now I’ve got to get the sonar-sonde crew on deck. You’re dismissed, Eden. Get some sleep.”
His tired, troubled eyes had already gone back to his charts before I left the room.
But I got very little sleep that night, in spite of his orders.
I stood under a hot shower until my numb feet ached and tingled and came back to life. Then I went to bed—and lay there for a long time in a kind of tragic, eyesopen nightmare.
Actually, I couldn’t really blame Lt. Tsuya for suspecting me of inventing the story to shield my uncle in some way. It was hard enough for me to believe what I had seen myself. It was hard to understand how Bob Eskow and the old Chinese and my uncle’s good friend Gideon Park had got hold of a MOLE. It was almost impossible to understand where they had obtained thermonuclear weapons. And I couldn’t even guess what they would want these things for in the first place, unless—unless—
I sat bolt upright in bed.
Unless they were in some way connected with the threat of seismic disturbances that was troubling Lt. Tsuya!
For I remembered what Father Tide had said: Someone, he thought, was actually creating artificial quakes! Making them, in order to manipulate the stock market!
And then the reaction set in.
It didn’t fit at all; the pattern was all wrong. It had to be a coincidence.
For there were two separate things operating here. Lt. Tsuya’s charts and soundings had seemed to indicate a build-up of stress…the rock stretching and twisting against itself, so to speak, getting ready to slip and yield—which would be a quake—but as yet doing nothing of the sort.
Even if it were true that hydrogen weapons could cause a quake, it was flatly impossible that they could cause the sort of pattern that was worrying Lt. Tsuya. Far from it! They were much more likely to relieve such stresses than to cause them; the pattern was all wrong, as I say.
I put the idea out of my mind.
Eventually I fell asleep…
And dreamed that I had discovered a crack in the city dome. I stood watching, while the seeping drops of icy water became a stream, then a roaring river, then a thundering pressure-jet a hundred yards across. I was trying to call my uncle, to repair the failing edenite armor, but the first icy spray had trapped and frozen me. I was-helpless. There was nothing that I could do about it. The water was up to my chin—
Somebody grabbed me and hauled me free.
I woke up.
It was Harley Danthorpe, shaking me out of bed.
He said: “You sounded pretty desperate, Jim. You must have had squid for dinner.” But his face wasn’t smiling, even as he made the old, bad joke. (It’s an old sub-seaman’s tale that eating squid causes nightmares—everybody knows it isn’t true.) He said: “We’re ordered to report to Station K in thirty minutes.”
I fumbled groggily for my watch. “Wha—what time—
“It’s five hundred hours, Jim,” said Harley Danthorpe.
I woke up fast. That meant they wanted us on duty nearly three hours early. And that, in turn, meant that something was up.
Or, as the lieutenant had said the night before, something was brewing down below.
When we got to the station Lt. McKerrow was on duty. He was moody and jittery. Lt. Tsuya had always begun each shift with a little talk on the forces that were always folding and remolding the plastic rock beneath the station; Lt. McKerrow didn’t bother. The weary geosonde crew was making a fresh run. He set us to helping them.
Bob Eskow was not in the station. He hadn’t been in our quarters either; that much, at least, of what I had told Lt. Tsuya had been verified. But the lieutenant wasn’t, apparently, very interested. He was in the little chart room attached to the station, sprawled out on a cot, sleeping, while we finished the sonar-sonde run.
It wasn’t a very successful run. The terminal point, where the sonde imploded, was only seventy thousand feet below Station K.
But the brief records, when we had converted and plotted them, were disturbing enough. They showed a sharp rise in the negative gravitational anomaly. Assuming that the sensing element in the sonde had remained in proper calibration, that could mean a sudden flow of hotter and therefore less dense rock into an area under the station.
Hotter and less dense rock. For example—liquid magma.
McKerrow, looking tired and worn, studied the plotted charts.
He nodded, his eyes half closed. “About what Tsuya expected,” he muttered. “That’s some rise. Eden, Danthorpe. You two go ahead and analyze them. Do it separately—I want to see if you both come up with the same answers. If you’ve got what it takes to be quake forecasters, now’s your chance to prove it.”
So Harley and I got to work, side by side at our plotting desks.
I sketched in the isobars of pressure, the isogeotherms of temperature, the milligals of gravitational anomaly.
I plotted the vectors of force, computed the changes from the previous analysis and projected them into the future.
Using the geodynamic equations that had been worked out by Father Tide, I computed the stresses. I located the probable planes of fault. I measured the tidal strains, and estimated the other trigger forces.
Finally, I substituted my figures into the equations of probable time and probable force.
I didn’t like the answers I got.
I looked at my answers, and then turned to look at Harley Danthorpe. Evidently his computations had led him to some similar conclusion. His face was pale; his worried squint was bitten deeper than ever; he was erasing frantically and rewriting his figures.
Forecasting quakes is not an exact science—any more than forecasting the weather is.
You understand the cause and effect of the great processes involved, all right, but a human being simply isn’t equipped to see enough—to observe enough data—to have all the facts.
Complete data for a really accurate quake forecast would, I believe, require complete information about every crystal—perhaps even every molecule!—in the curst of the earth. You would need to know the temperature and the melting point, the chemical constituents and im purities, the pressure and the shearing strain, the magnetic moment and the electrostatic potential, the radioactivity, the anomaly of gravitation, the natural period of vibration…all of those things. And then, having learned them all, you would know only a tiny fraction; for you would have to learn how all of those millions of tiny measurements were changing; whether they were going up or going down—how fast—regularly or unevenly…