Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea

by Theodore Sturgeon

  Sightseeing, however, was far from the minds of the small detachment which left the Seaview and hurried to the waiting Assembly. Admiral Nelson’s hooded eyes seemed reserved for some inner reading, probably the speech he was about to make. B.J. Crawford, resplendent in the trappings of his rank, was as craggy and unperturbed as ever. Commander Emery, like some goodnatured shaggy animal, cocked an observant eye on the world as if to say that even at the best of times it was interesting: now it was downright fascinating. Cathy Connors, trim and starched, bodyguarded the Admiral’s slim dispatch case. Finally, Congressman Parker alternately studied Admiral Nelson and his own immaculate fingernails, and otherwise, like the Admiral, silently consulted something within himself.

  They entered the General Assembly building.

  Aboard the Seaview, Dr. Hiller, dressed now in a svelte grey suit and in it looking like quite a different person from the slacks-and-shirt clad girl who had so familiarly covered the ship, sat transcribing her notes. At the end of the desk in the doctor’s ante-room stood her three small expensive pieces of luggage; she even wore a hat. Captain Lee Crane, passing outside and glancing in, stopped, amused at himself, grinned, and stepped inside.

  “You know I actually thought we had a stranger aboard for a second. I’m not kidding. I glanced in at you and said to myself, ‘Now, who’s that?’ ”

  “Clothes,” said Dr. Hiller sagely, “make the stranger.” She laughed. “Away down under all this, I’m still Sue Hiller.”

  “We’ll miss you,” said Crane warmly. “I hope you’ve found the visit worth your while.”

  She tapped the open recorder-tape case beside her. “I’ve used all but two reels,” she said by way of answering.

  “Find out anything?”

  “In my business you don’t really find out anything until you gather all your data, cook it, strain it, and let it settle. I’ll tell you this, though. You have a good and loyal crew here. And they can take things in stride. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a comparable group.”

  “I like ‘em. Well . . .” the Captain added, “I should, I suppose; I picked ‘em. Some of those boys saw action with me, some were recommended by friends of mine. I have ‘em wet behind the ears, like young Jimmy Smith, right out of school, and old shellbacks like Gleason. I have a no-brain genius in Cookie, who thinks with his hands and his nostrils, and an all-brain specimen like Emery . . . A good bunch.”

  “It would take something pretty special,” she agreed, “to cause any kind of trouble with them.”

  He nodded. “More bad breaks than ought to happen, plus a specialist in mutiny.” He noticed her eyes straying to the TV repeater in the wall behind him and turned to face it. She touched a knob and let the sound come up.

  The screen showed what the old-timers recalled as the “dust bowl”—rows of cindered corn, a foot high where it should be five, and fine dust blowing endlessly, drifting like snow. Cars crept along with their lights on at high noon, highway drift fences were erected to keep the roads clear. The camera elevated to show the sun as a blurred disc, and then swung over to show the fireband, obscured by the pall of dust, and somehow all the more terrible for it. “Like the dustbowl of the ‘thirties,” said the voice behind the screen, “—times ten. That’s what one old-timer called it. This fiery sky is threatening to strike a mortal blow at the heart of the midwest farm belt. In Italy—”

  The screen cut to a scene of the immense square fronting St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome, one solid mass of screaming, gesticulating people—a million and a half, there must have been.

  “In Italy, all roads leading to Rome and the Vatican have been jammed for two days. From all over Europe the faithful have been streaming toward St. Peter’s to pray for deliverance from the catastrophe which has struck the earth. And here—”

  The picture revealed a picture of the earth, from outer space, with the dreaded girdle of fire encircling it—

  “—here is the last picture we were able to get from our television satellite camera. No words of mine could add to what you see here.”

  The picture held and held, and held. The Captain and the psychiatrist were captured by it like birds faced by the traditional snake. Then at last the frightful scene faded and was replaced by the face of a young man, hollow-eyed, his lips occasionally twitching as he spoke. Yet his voice was admirably steady and controlled.

  “This program originates at the United Nations, New York, and is emanated continuously for the orientation of newcomers to the Scientific Conference. Broadcasting was discontinued the day before yesterday, as interference from the firebelt—and, as the scientists have informed us, from the breakdown of much of the sheltering effect of the higher atmospheric layers and the resulting intensity of solar radiations in the radio bands—makes impossible to receive wireless signals. Those of you who are at distant locations will have noticed increasing interference even on these wire transmissions. Underground and submarine cables are as yet unaffected.

  “Of the many effects of this emergency, this breakdown of communications is possibly the most distressing. We can assume of course that other groups all over the country and all over the world are working feverishly to find answers, but it is now assumed that even if some other conference should come up with an answer, it would remain unknown until news of it came in from someone who had personally brought the news. Therefore the highest hopes are that the Conference here will produce a solution. The arrival a few minutes ago of Admiral Harriman Nelson may provide a turning point. We shall of course bring you the proceedings at the Assembly Building when he begins to speak. In the mean time, we shall show more film of the catastrophe. In India—”

  Susan Hiller cut the sound. “I thought for a moment some of that was direct. I hadn’t realized things were so bad.”

  “We haven’t been able to get through for days, even by tightbeam,” said Crane gravely. “Oh my God . . . how can there be a country without communications? Banking—railroads—”

  “No schools, no . . . oh, there’ll be food riots . . .”

  “And even if an answer is found—how will anyone know?”

  They looked at each other, appalled. Presently Crane shook himself and said grimly, “If only the Admiral’s right.”

  “About what?”

  Crane glanced at the TV screen and then back at the psychiatrist. “Theoretically I’m not supposed to say anything about this yet, but you’ll hear it in a moment anyway. Admiral Nelson has a plan to disperse the outer Van Allen belt and release the polarized particles which make a great big lens out of it. If he’s right—and if he’s successful—the news will get around all right. The firebelt will simply collapse—foosh!—it just won’t be there any more. I don’t think you could get the news around any quicker than that.”

  “You don’t know that he’s right.”

  “I’m not Harriman Nelson,” said the Captain. “One thing I do know: he says he’s right. And that’s quite enough for me.”

  “I like your attitude, Captain. All the loyalty in the world, and all the respect for truth in the world, and I’m in no doubt as to which way you’d jump if you had to choose between them.”

  “Nelson and the truth are old friends and close companions. They roomed together in kindergarten,” smiled the Captain. “It’s a choice I won’t have to make. But—why do you say I’d choose the truth—if that’s what you said?”

  “It’s what I implied,” smiled Dr. Hiller, “and only because you said ‘If only the Admiral’s right.’ Your fiancée feels the same way, but without the if.”

  “Oh, here’s Nelson’s speech,” said the Captain. The doctor quickly turned up the gain. Crane said, “If you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I’ll go forward now. I want to see to it that the crew hear this. Then we’ll have a lot of sorting out to do. Some of the boys have to have furloughs—most want ‘em. And there’s your man Alvarez to make arrangements for.”

  “My man Alvarez?”

  “What’s wrong with that joker is s
trictly in your department. No man in his right mind lies flat on his . . . bunk . . . letting things happen to him and saying it’s the will of God.”

  “He might disagree with you, Captain.”

  “He’s hardly an expert.”

  “He’s an expert on what Alvarez believes in.”

  “I haven’t time to argue the point with you, Doctor. All I know for sure is that he gives me the creeps and I’m glad he’s going over the wall. Here’s the Admiral.”

  Nelson’s great stone face appeared on the screen, quietly waiting for a storm of applause to die down. The Captain waved cheerfully and went forward.

  In the wardroom most of the enlisted men were sprawled around and over the tables watching the large screen there. Crane wagged a negative finger at young Smith as the kid saw him and was about to call for attention, and passed quietly behind the listening sailors to the forward corridor. Nelson’s voice was on the intercom as well as the TV sound systems, and echoed about him, sometimes near, sometimes distant as he walked, but always there, everywhere. His voice describing his project filled his submarine from frame to paint-job . . . and so, thought the Captain, it should be.

  In the observation chamber in the nose the officers were watching the big screen.

  “Chip,” said the Captain quietly.

  The Executive Officer detached himself from the group around and over the tables watching the large screen there. “You don’t have to hear it all over again.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s hard to say, Chip. The Admiral’s done a couple of little things I can’t quite figure, but I do know he’s a man who doesn’t do things, even little ones, without a reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like replacing stores almost before we looped a line on a bollard, and then claiming the stores had priority on the hatchway and nobody could go ashore until he got back. I know he wants to head for the Pacific fast, but you’d think he was getting ready to scald out of here like panic.”

  “Yeah, and the shore leaves. The boys don’t like that—holding up everything, including so much as a phone call, until he gets back. Berkowitz is half out of his head, wanting to get through to his wife.”

  Crane shrugged. “When we find out why, it’ll make more sense.”

  “I guess so. Meanwhile, the shore party’s got their shoes shined and their pay in their pocket. That deadhead Alvarez is as ready as he can get, and Dr. Hiller’s all packed and purty.”

  “I saw her,” nodded Crane. “We’ll miss her around here, especially you.”

  “Boy, that’s one professional who can shrink my head all the way down to the tonsil level.”

  “You got a head start,” said Crane. “Try to keep your hands off her tail feathers when she goes up the conning ladder.”

  “Ah shucks, Cap’n, is that an order? I’ve been planning that ever since I saw her. Not even a little down?”

  “It wouldn’t pay you, Chip. You’d never get to make the first installment.” Over the Exec’s painful groan, Crane said, “Will Señor Alvarez be good enough to climb out, or will you have to rig a sling?”

  “He’ll walk. He’s not against us, Lee. He just don’t give a damn. Stand him up and give him a push, and he’ll walk. Only you have to steer him. Talk to him, he’ll listen. Ask him, he’ll answer. It’s just that by himself he won’t walk or talk or even eat. According to him, since God showed His hand up there, nobody has to do anything any more. Everything’s already done. Like badly. Mene mene tekel upharsin, like it says in the Good Book: we’ve been weighed in the balance and found wanting.”

  “Yeah, that was written in letters of fire too, as I recall. Jesus: if mankind had always figured like that it wouldn’t have got so far as to crawl out of the drink and breathe air. The hell with him.”

  “The hell, he says, with us all, and here we go.”

  “You seem to’ve spent a lot of time listening to him.”

  Chip Morton shrugged. “Man’s got to do something with these long winter evenings when the boss says you can’t collect tail feathers.”

  “Oh well,” said the Captain, giving back the shrug and a grin to go with it, “I guess he can get you into less trouble than the good doctor would.”

  “Now that,” said Morton, “is for damn sure . . . hey: what’s happening?”

  It was happening on television: Admiral Nelson, having reached the point in his speech in which he announced his intention to go to the Marianas, leaving immediately. Off camera came loud shouts of “No! No!”

  The camera remained fixed on Nelson’s surprised face and there must have been some frantic work in the TV booth while they got another camera trained in the unexpected direction. Then the scene cut to a long shot of the Assembly chamber, and a burly figure in black plowing down the center aisle, trailing a number of gentlemen enthusiastically echoing the burly one’s big negative bellow.

  “That seems to be,” said the announcer off camera, “yes, it is, Dr. Emilio Zucco. You will recall, if you have been following these sessions, that Dr. Zucco heads a body of opinion, an overwhelming body, I may add, which holds that the dynamics of the firebelt are such that it is self-canceling. It would seem that Admiral Nelson’s proposal to seed the Van Allen field with charged carbon particles is directly opposed to Dr. Zucco’s theory.” The announcer’s voice issued a polite chuckle. “Dr. Zucco is—ah—not usually opposed.”

  The Assembly president was whanging away with his gavel; cries of “Quiet” and “Order” were themselves enough to make his cries for quiet and order inaudible. The camera returned to Admiral Nelson, who filled his lungs and shouted in what was called, by his crew, the Old Old Man’s “hurricane” voice, “Mr. President! Let Dr. Zucco speak! I have no objections!”

  The president rose and spread out his arms, pounded twice, spread his arms again. The chamber rumbled to something like quiet.

  “Admiral Nelson yields to Dr. Zucco,” called the President.

  “For a question,” amended the Admiral.

  Zucco came snorting and steaming up to the rostrum. He was a black-browed, black-haired man, with burning, deep-set eyes and, under a nose as straight and sharp as an axe-blade, a wide, lipless mouth so cast that it showed a row of straight, white, strong lower teeth and the uppers not at all. His voice was as heavy and, in its way, as black as his hair and his suit. He spoke with the suggestion of an Austrian accent, or the lack or accent: the too-perfect sound of the acquired tongue and a brain behind it which did all things perfectly.

  “Go right ahead,” invited the Admiral, and one could see the wind leave the scientist’s sails. The momentum of some as yet unexplained fury had carried him up here, and it took a moment for him to readjust to something like politeness.

  “Well,” he said at length. He looked the Admiral up and down and said it again. Then he turned to the Assembly and spoke.

  “Mr. President. Members of this distinguished gathering. Admiral Nelson: You will forgive any words I choose, knowing that they are not directed at you personally, but at the pre . . . pos—terous suggestion you have just made. Is it possible, Admiral, is it possible, Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, is it remotely possible that I, Emilio Zucco, might have overlooked the possibility the Admiral suggests? It is not possible! I too have studied the Van Allen belt and its constitution; I agree perfectly, as you all know, with the Admiral’s conclusions as to what this firebelt is and how it began. I too made the hypotheses made by the admiral about seeding and collapsing the belt. And I have given these considerations the treatment they deserve: I have lined my waste-basket with them.”

  He paused dramatically and shot a glance of fire at the Admiral, who smiled pleasantly and cocked his big head to one side.

  “If,” continued Dr. Zucco, “there was any merit in such a ludicrous procedure, who here would dare suggest that it would have been discarded? Further: if the Admiral’s preoccupation with military toys and games had led him to such an experiment, and if it were on
ly useless, and if, oh especially this: if it pleased him, for he is a worthy gentleman deserving of some pleasures, if it pleased him to take his large shining submarine into the far Pacific in this rendezvous with his nonsensical theory, in order to delight himself with his expensive pyrotechnical displays, I would be all for it. It is a basic premise, gentlemen, of human freedom that the pursuit of happiness is a desideratum, and all of us, even our admirals, should be permitted, even encouraged, to take what pleasure we may find, wherever and however it may be found—providing only that no one else is hurt by it. [Laughter, moderate.] This premise of ethical behavior was clearly enunciated by one of your American savants, I believe it was Mr. Will Rogers, who said, ‘Your freedom to swing your fists ends where my nose begins.’ [Laughter, immoderate.] In short, gentlemen, I should encourage the Admiral in the pursuit of his spectacular hobbies, for to know of the happiness of so worthy a man would give me warm feelings: I should encourage him even knowing that what he is doing is useless. I should favor it if it were useless and also harmful to him, if it made him happy and hurt no one else. But I will not countenance anything he does, or anyone else does for pleasure, if it endangers anyone else: and gentlemen—if this be-ribboned example of every small boy’s notion of a national hero is permitted to indulge this . . . this whim . . . he will kill us all!”