For the first time he seemed actually to see me.
He stared at me unbelievingly with his pale eyes. He gasped; his thin-lipped mouth opened as if to speak. Every trace of color drained from his gray face.
He was trembling as, abruptly, he turned and fled.
One puzzle more…
Why had he been so startled to see me? I couldn’t guess; I dismissed the question and went in to breakfast.
I had just finished eating when we docked at Black Camp—having made the run of two thousand miles and a bit in just over thirty-three hours. I hurried to the promenade, peered out through one of the shielded ports.,
My first view of a city of the sea! Its weirdness and its wonder almost made me forget the web of mystery surrounding my life.
The vast, level plain of radiolarian ooze, shining with a cold, pale phosphorescence. Through some illusion of optics it seemed to stretch to infinity, though actually, owing to the turgidity of the water, the visibility was only a few hundred yards at best.
The “sky”—the cold ocean above us—was utterly black.
Strange world: Luminous plains and glimmering mountains, under a black, black sky.
But all this was familiar to me. What was new was Black Camp itself, the huge hemispherical dome of Edenite that rose ghostly from the luminous plain. The massive bubble of metal armor that sheltered the city from the awful thrust of the sea.
The docking arrangement was the same as in all the deep-sea cities: tubes ran out from the city, under the rock of die sea-floor, the docks above them. The docks themselves were magnetic metal platforms, which the sub-sea vessel squats down to while a lock in her belly opens to join the tubes below.
From my stand on the promenade I could see only the featureless city dome and the unchanging sea; I wandered down to the saloon to watch the passengers disembark.
We took on a full score of passengers; at least as many got off.
And among those who got off was the gray man. He knew I was there; I caught one glimpse of his eyes on me out of the corner of mine, and in his I saw astonishment and what almost had to be fright. But then he looked at me no more. I stared after his departing back, wondering.
In a matter of minutes the locks were closed, the pressure-ports sealed, and the Isle of Spain was water- borne again.
I headed back toward my cabin. Since the little man was gone, there could be no reason to stay away. In fact, if I played my cards right—if the steward would let me in to Stateroom 335—I might learn something…
I never got the chance.
Heedlessly I unlocked my stateroom door. Heedlessly I swung it open, started to step inside.
Bluish vapors swirled out upon me.
I staggered back, blinded, gasping, tears streaming down my face. I breathed the tiniest fraction of a minute whiff of the gases—and I was strangled, choking, bent double with a rasping, shattering cough.
Instantly a steward was by my side.
“Sir!” he cried. “Sir, what’s the matter?”
Then he caught a whiff of the gas himself.
The two of us staggered away. He clawed at some sort of signal apparatus on the wall; in the distance, an alarm bell pulsed. A moment passed, then half a dozen crewmen appeared, in fire-fighting gear, masks and helmets giving them some protection.
Without word or question they raced past us, heading from Stateroom 334…
And in a moment two of them came lurching out. Between them they dragged a rigid, wax-faced form: the steward who had changed my cabin for me.
The captain of the Isle of Spain was considerate, tactful—and remorseless.
If I had had anything to hide, he would have had it from me. I was grateful that I could speak honestly to that bronze-faced man; I should not have cared to try him with a lie.
I told him everything. Starting with my forced resignation from the Academy—through the death of my uncle, the man in the red hat, the littie gray man. I held nothing back.
I wanted to hold nothing back. I had got a quick glimpse of the unfortunate steward: grotesquely, frozenly stiff; hideously white—color bleached even from his hair and eyebrows by the searing action of the gas. The ship’s doctor called the gas lethine; I had heard of it. It was deadly.
Whoever was behind the gray man was playing for keeps.
The ship’s officers acted promptly; as soon as they had heard the first words of my story, they radioed Black Camp to have the gray man put under arrest. But I had small doubt that the gray man would be hard to find; certainly he knew what he would have to expect as soon as the corpse was discovered.
Unfortunate steward! The captain speculated that my story had interested him; he had gone back to Stateroom 334 to see just what it was that I was willing to pay double fare to get away from. And his curiosity had been his undoing.
Eventually the questioning was over. The captain secured my promise that, when I arrived at Thetis I would stay put until the Marinian police had had a chance to question me, if they wished to do so, and then I was at liberty.
I didn’t go back to Stateroom 334. I had my belongings transferred to the new room. And I prayed that this last failure of my unknown enemies would exhaust their powers…
We were due to arrive at Seven Dome late that night; I debated staying up for it, but decided not to bother. I was weary and worn; it had been a difficult period, and that day had been the most difficult of all.
I retired to my cabin rather early. But I didn’t get a chance to go right to sleep.
There was a knock on my door. I flung it open; a steward smiled apologetically, and extended a scarlet envelope on a silver tray.
“For you, Mr. Eden,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
I dismissed him and ripped open the envelope. The message said:
Dear Mr. Eden:
I am sorry to hear of your difficulties. As you perhaps know, your father, your uncle and I were once closely associated. Perhaps I can be of assistance to you.
Please come to my suite on A Deck when you receive this.
I stared at the note with the strangest mixed set of emotions I had ever known.
For the signature on the note was: “Hallam Sperry.”
11
My Partner, My Enemy
Hallam Sperry himself admitted me to his cabin.
It was a far cry from the small stateroom I occupied on the deck below. It was more than a cabin, it was a suite; and properly so, I suppose. After all, Isle of Spain was only one of a dozen giant subsea liners on the Sperry Line! There were giant photomurals on the walls, pressure-tanks of curious deep-sea flower-animals and darting, tiny fish, tinted Troyon tubes to warm the rooms and give them the semblance of upper-air sunshine.
Hallam Sperry clasped my hand in a grip as sturdy and as cold as steel. He was a giant of a man, as big as my uncle had been but dark where Uncle Stewart had been fair, black-bearded where my uncle was ruddy. His eyes were a curious piercing blue; there was the coldness of the chill sea Deeps in those eyes as they looked into my mind. But there was a smile on his lips and his words were more than merely polite.
“Jim Eden,” he rumbled. “Know a great deal about you, young man. Knew your father and his brother well—too bad about Stewart, but he was always a daredevil. Heard about your bad break at the Academy from my boy.”
He offered me a spider-legged chair. What could I say to the man? That the “bad break” at the Academy had been his son’s own doing? That the struggle between him and the Edens was a public scandal?
I said nothing. We learned much at the Academy, but one of the first things we learned was not to speak until we knew what we had to say. It was possible that Hallam Sperry was not as black as he had been painted; it was not fair to attack him on the basis of rumor and old memories.