Finally he gave up and swam back toward the loading pier and the two ships at Port Chicago.
He climbed the ladder, then drew himself onto the pier. The young ensign he had spoken with earlier greeted him with a shake of his head. “I was getting pretty worried,” the ensign said. “Do you know how long you were gone, sir? And do you realise how cold the Bay is, and how tricky the currents can be?”
Marston didn’t feel like talking with this youngster but he managed a few polite words. Yes, he knew exactly what he was doing, he had never been in danger, there was nothing to worry about but he appreciated the ensign’s concern.
During the brief conversation he had been pulling his clothing back on. He had purchased new shoes, as wide as he could find, to accommodate his newly altered feet. Even so, it was fiercely painful to force his feet into them.
He repeated his activities each night. The underwater creatures gradually grew accustomed to him, permitting him to approach ever more closely, permitting him to accompany them farther and farther from Port Chicago. It was clear to Marston that they communicated with one another, mainly by means of subtle gestures made with their broad, webbed, clawed hands. Marston inferred that they had a language as sophisticated and complex as any spoken by land-dwellers.
Now that he was affiliated with the Port Chicago base Marston had discontinued all contacts with his former associates in Berkeley. He did not worry about running into Aurelia Blenheim at the grocery as he now relied entirely on a diet of creatures he encountered during his nocturnal explorations of the Bay’s waters.
He maintained a relationship with Lieutenant Keeler and though him with Captain Kinne, furnishing reports and recommendations as required of him. He resented every meeting he had to attend, every conversation he had to conduct; in fact, he found himself living for his submarine excursions and suffering through each hour he spent walking on land, breathing with his gradually atrophying lungs instead of his gills.
On Friday, July 14, Keeler demanded that Marston attend a meeting with Captain Kinne. Also present were two high-ranking officers, one from the Navy and the other from the Army, the latter with Army Air Force insignia on his uniform blouse, and the commanders of the Negro stevedoring gangs.
Captain Kinne’s WAVE secretary, Jaspers, ushered Marston into the commanding officer’s area. When the meeting participants were assembled they were joined by a pair of armed shore patrolmen and the doors were securely locked.
“The bomb will arrive in forty-eight hours,” the Army officer announced. A major general’s paired silver stars glittered on his uniform shoulders. “We will deliver it to the loading pier, then we need a sign-off from the Navy and our job is finished.”
“And ours begins,” the naval officer took over. His uniform sleeves bore the broad gold stripes of a rear admiral. “Captain Kinne, are your men ready to get the bomb stowed in Quinalt Victory Monday evening? ONI insists that we do the loading at night, but it must be finished in time to catch the late tide out of the Golden Gate.” The admiral cast a sharp look at Marston. “Dr. Marston has provided all the information we’ll need to get Quinalt Victory safely out of the Bay and on her way by midnight?”
The utterance was worded as a statement but spoken as a question.
“We have everything, sir,” Keeler furnished.
“All right. Let’s go over the complete plan again,” The admiral growled. “There must be no slip-ups, I can’t emphasise that too much.”
They spent the rest of the day going over the details of unloading the special bomb from its railroad car and loading it into the hold of the Quinalt Victory without a hitch. A squad of white-jacketed mess-men served coffee and rolls at mid-morning and a full meal at noon. No one left the meeting for any reason. Marston was able to pass up the coffee and rolls but by lunchtime he was forced to consume a few sips of beverage and half a sandwich. This disgusted him.
When the meeting ended he drove into Port Chicago. He had seen the town fleetingly each day but today for the first time he parked his Cord and walked through the streets. He found a motion picture theatre and purchased a ticket. They were running a long program, the dramatic film Lifeboat with Tallulah Bankhead and Canada Lee, the lightweight Bathing Beauty with Esther Williams, a newsreel and a chapter of “Crash” Corrigan’s old serial, Undersea Kingdom.
Once inside he settled into a seat and unlaced his shoes, finding a modicum of relief for his aching feet. He leaned back and studied the neon-ringed clock mounted high on one wall of the auditorium. Most of the patrons were servicemen in uniform, whiling away their off-duty hours. None of them were coloured, of course. Negroes were excluded from the theatre and from the town’s plain restaurants. They had to find their own entertainment, or make it.
Marston ignored the images on the screen and closed his eyes. Images of undersea life swam through his mind, the peace and serenity of the submarine world contrasting with the pain and violence that dominated the world of the land-dwellers.
After a while he opened his eyes and glanced at the illuminated clock-face. Even in the long July evening, darkness would have fallen by now.
He drove back to the naval base, showed his pass to the gate-guard, and parked as near to the water’s edge as he could. He carefully locked the Cord and walked to the base of the pier. A special guard had been placed there, and even Marston’s special pass could not gain him access to the pier.
Instead he walked back to his car, unlocked the door and climbed inside. He disrobed, left the car again, and walked undiscovered to the edge of the Bay. He slipped into the Bay and swam away from the shore.
He made his way to the cold, flowing water that he knew came from the Sacramento River. The river water had less flavour than the Bay water. With a start Marston realised that he had never experienced the richness of the Pacific. He turned to swim with the current. His anticipation of the new experience filled him with an almost sexual excitement.
When he reached the submarine net at the mouth of San Francisco Bay he paused briefly, then pulled himself through it into the ocean. He was terrified but soon calmed himself. He had undergone a rite of passage, he felt, had experienced a sea change. He would explore farther in later days, he decided, but for now he felt emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
He turned and began the long swim back to Suisun Bay.
He had seen fewer of the human-like creatures than usual on this night, but as he approached Port Chicago they became more numerous. He was beginning to learn their language and felt eager to converse with them, find out who or what they were, but they kept their distance from him this night, and instead of joining them he continued on his solitary way.
In time he recognised the submerged landmarks that told him he was at his destination. He had been swimming along the sea bottom, insulated by fathoms of brackish water from the world of men, immune from the noisome companionship of air breathers and land dwellers. He rose slowly toward the top of the water. He was shocked as he breached to realise that he had spent the entire night under water. The brilliant sun now blasted down from a bright blue sky.
He made his way to his Cord, drove home and slept around the clock. He awoke Sunday morning and spent the day in seclusion, sustaining himself with alcohol and music. After dark he made his way to the nearby stream and stood in it, letting its waters soothe his feet. He went home and slept, dreaming once more of an undersea city, and rose late on Monday. He hadn’t realised how far he had swum on Friday night, or how exhausted the effort had left him. Still, the experience had been an exhilarating one and he looked forward to spending even more time beneath the surface, to travelling farther into the ocean.