Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea

by Theodore Sturgeon

  The shift from light-hearted invective to the final, dreadful charge, was as deft and dramatic as anything ever seen on the stage. There was an instant of frightened silence, while the impact of the scientist’s words reverberated through the audience like a bell tone. Then when Admiral Nelson stepped forward, a low, hushed rumble wafted over the chamber, originating in hatred and far back in the animal part of men’s throats. It was a thing which could not have happened in normal times, but which had to happen to men in danger who until now had been given no specific enemy to hate. Pent fear turns readily to anger.

  Nelson waited patiently for silence, and a moment longer for full attention. He then spoke in a voice which, for its quietness, was even more shocking than Zucco’s terrifying shout. He wore the slight, casual smile which men under him had for years known meant important trouble; it was a smile which preceded the keelhauling of some poor unfortunate who had been, not careless, not even disobedient, but willfully antagonistic to Nelson when Nelson knew he was right.

  “A personal attack,” he began quietly, “is a wonderful relief to the feelings and a great amusement to the bystander. However, whether it is of any real use in a matter of truth is another question. It is, of course, a weapon of wide use and great antiquity, and has been used against monogamy, the law of gravity, evolution and the sphericity of the earth. Gradually through the years, a percentage of the population has come to realize that to discredit the proponent or a truth may hurt the man, may even destroy him; yet it has no effect whatever on the truth.

  “Now, gentlemen, I have no wish at this time to return disfavor with disfavor. My regard for Dr. Zucco and his past achievements remains high, in harmony with what I have just said: no amount of bad manners on my part could change the worth of the things he has done. In that light, I should like to continue this discussion and discover what is it about my hypothesis which Dr. Zucco considers mistaken, where the mistake, if any, lies, and what he considers the result might be.”

  The Admiral’s quiet, almost gentle tone, his unshaken dignity, and the inescapable fact that everything he said about the worth of Zucco’s past performances could be applied to his, did not escape his listeners. Back on the submarine Dr. Hiller nodded her head in recognition of the feat: one up for the Admiral while in the observation nose, Chip Morton frowned. “Seems to me the Old Old Man stepped back a pace.”

  “You always do,” said the Captain, “before you uncork a roundhouse.”

  Dr. Zucco looked the Admiral up and down in that scathing, scanning way he had, and then took the rostrum. “To a man of the Admiral’s many accomplishments,” he hissed, “the error should be obvious.” The reaction of the audience, a murmur, a half-heard boo, the shuffling of feet, apparently told him that he had gone far enough with his sarcasm. In suddenly matter-of-fact language, he said, “My closest calculations inform me that on the 29th of August, when the ambient temperature reaches one hundred sixty seven degrees Fahrenheit, the firebelt will have exhausted its available oxygen and will collapse of its own accord.”

  “And mine,” said the Admiral quietly, “inform me that on the 30th, at about 10:37 A.M. Greenwich time, there will occur an irreversible reaction which will cause the firebelt to widen and englobe the earth.”

  “My figures,” said Dr. Zucco with steely patience, “indicate no such thing. By that time the emergency will be over.”

  “My figures,” said the admiral, “after original computation by myself, Admiral Crawford, and Commander Emery, were checked by the master computer at the U.S. Naval Observatory.”

  “My figures,” said Dr. Zucco icily, “were computed by myself, and checked by myself, in order to eliminate errors introduced by—what is your saying?—too many cooks in the broth.”

  “Dr. Zucco,” said the Admiral, after a long slow breath drawn, apparently, to refill his patience tanks, “this—ah, discussion of ours then resolves itself to a matter of checking figures. This will, I think, be a lengthy process, and would be in any circumstances; with communications in their present state, I think it fair to assume that by the time the argument was settled, it would no longer matter to anyone.”

  “At last,” said Dr. Zucco, “we agree on a point.”

  “Therefore,” said Nelson, “I shall simply announce my intention to leave immediately for the South Pacific. If you are right, I shall have had my trip for nothing. If on the other hand I am right—and I am, you know,” he interjected, suddenly smiling so engagingly that the smile was repeated all over the hall—”I shall be in a position to do something about it.”

  The answering of that sudden smile seemed to fuse something in Dr. Zucco, and the fuse was fast and very short; he exploded:

  “Mr. President! Delegates! In the name of science, in the name of humanity and its eternal war against bungling and ignorance; this man must be prevented from doing any such dangerous thing!”

  His voice then dropped to a hoarse whisper; he had apparently learned from the Admiral, in the last few minutes, the little-known fact that a quiet voice in a noisy room is more commanding than a noisy voice in a quiet one. “Do not be led astray by his assertions. What he says about communications, and the length of time necessary to check the figures, is true, and I am convinced he brought it up at all only in his way, shrewd as a rodent, in order to ram his mad plan down your throats.” He let his voice come up, and bugled out, smiting his chest. “But I, I, Emilio Zucco, am here to tell you that he is wrong, and I will tell you what will happen if this evil and foolhardy plan is followed. The cloud of charged particles which he proposes to scatter in the outer Van Allen belt will have the reverse effect to that which he predicts. Rather than dissipating the field, it will momentarily intensify it. The lens effect will increase, and for a time—two, perhaps three hours—the concentration of energy from the sun will increase many-fold. The increased heat will bring hot atmosphere up into the burning zone at an accelerated rate, the firebelt will indeed widen and englobe the earth—prevented at the last possible instant from doing what I predict it shall do—collapse of its own accord. This is madness—criminal, irresponsible madness, and you must under no circumstances permit it.” He was panting now. He paused for breath and then shouted, “If this argument has reduced itself to a staking of my reputation against this, then so be it. Let me hear your voices: if you agree with me, call my name!”

  Zucco! roared the assembly. ZUCCO! After which was a scattered chattering of Nelson . . . Nelson . . . The scientist had indeed bound them in his spell.

  The Assembly President committed the precedent-shattering act of leaping up, standing on his table. He waved both hands and shouted against the roar of comment and argument that swelled up, and at last succeeded in being heard. As he spoke, the audience gradually quieted to hear him.

  “I will have order in the chamber or I shall indefinitely adjourn this meeting, and I need not remind you that adjournment at this moment may be a vital matter, affecting the lives of us all. Order! Order!” He paused, and when it seemed possible to be heard at last, he lowered himself to the floor and sat before his microphone.

  “Dr. Zucco,” he said flatly, “You must be reminded that this is not the time nor the place for histrionics. The truth, when we find it, is more eloquent than any man, and more moving than any man’s passion. If truth be on your side, it will speak for you. If not, it will speak against you, and with more power than even you, sir, can command. I must further remind you, sir, that you exceed your authority when you call for a vote in this chamber, this being the prerogative of the President.” He fixed Zucco with a cold glare, which was returned by a hot one; yet Zucco had presence of mind enough to mumble what might have been an apology. Having done so, the flashing glance he threw across the chamber and back, and the wolfish grin with which he turned to Nelson, said as clearly as words that he felt he had won, and an apology to the chair for a technicality was something he could easily afford.

  “The parliamentary situation,” said the President, at
last able to speak in normal tones, “is that Admiral Nelson has the floor, having yielded only for a question. Admiral?”

  And abruptly a new face was injected into the scene. “May I have the permission of the chair, and of the speaker, to make a statement at this time?” And into the rostrum area stepped the usually waspish, diffident, round-shouldered figure of Congressman Parker. Now, however, his face was pink, his shoulders square, his eyes, behind the usually cold rimless glasses, flashing.

  “You may not!” roared the chair.

  Admiral Nelson, standing too far away from the Congressman to be able to speak privately with him, turned eyes like two radar beams on him. Parker gazed back. What passed between them is hard to say, unless one believes in telepathy. It may have been that other mysterious power, the ability of a man to size up a man. It could be that in this species of mental magic, both were adepts.

  “Mr. President,” said the Admiral, his eyes still on the Congressman’s face, “with your permission, sir, I will yield to Congressman Parker.”

  “Mr. President, I protest!” shouted Dr. Zucco.

  The President ignored him and asked, “Congressman Parker, I must demand to know why you wish to speak at this time.”

  “Mr. President,” said the Congressman, as respectfully as if he were addressing the President of the United States instead of the chairman of a meeting, “I venture to say that my speaking will resolve this question for good and all.”

  “And you yield, Admiral?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Zucco yelled “I—”

  “Take the rostrum,” said the President. Parker did so, and turned to face Nelson. “Is there the slightest doubt in your mind, Admiral, that your calculations are correct and that to implement your plan you must leave immediately?”

  “They are, and I must,” nodded the admiral.

  “And you are aware, are you not, how an American citizen gets into Congress?” And before Nelson could answer, if indeed he was going to answer, Parker swung about and turned his back. He put his elbows on the lectern and leaned forward confidentially. “My friends,” he said confidentially, “thirty years ago, when I was a young man with the paint wet on the sign on the door of my law offices back in Springfield, I had little thought that the day would come when I would find myself standing here in such distinguished company. I love Springfield, mind you; why, one day I said to my wife, ‘Mrs. Parker,’ I said—(I used to call her Mrs. Parker)—‘Mrs. Parker, I love Springfield, and I don’t ever want to leave it.’ And she said, ‘Mr. Parker’—she didn’t always call me that; just when I called her Mrs. Parker—‘Mr. Parker,’ she said, ‘One day you will leave, no matter how much you love Springfield. And that will be the day you find out how much Springfield loves you.’ And for the longest time I didn’t know whatever in the world she meant by that, and when I’d ask her she’d just smile. Well, sir, the time came when I was a candidate, and it was the vote of my own home town that swung the balance and sent me to Washington. Then I knew what she meant. And that’s a story I tell you with humility, gentlemen, not with pride.”

  One of Zucco’s younger and noisier supporters shouted, “Get to the point!”

  The President rapped sharply, and the young man subsided. Parker gave him a long, still stare, holding it until he heard the first impatient murmur and foot-shuffling, and then went on:

  “I took the floor today, thanks to the courtesy and kindness of the speaker and of the President there, promising you that by my doing so, you would see a resolution of this unfortunate deadlock. And see it you shall, for in my thirty years in Congress—and mind you, in thirty years you make a lot of enemies—there is one thing I may say in all humbleness I am known for, and that is that I am a man of my word.

  “Now this deadlock here is not one whit different from the deadlock over the issue of the Public Health Bill in the 89th Congress. Let me sketch briefly the issues. Here we are engaged in a matter of life and death—we were there also. Here it is a question of—well, not law, not precedent, but what’s the human thing to do. Back there in Washington, D.C., we faced the same grave question. Now this bill, this public health measure, was—”

  Back on the submarine, Chip Morton, having slowly reached a profound scowl which had begun with a puzzled frown when the Congressman began to speak, growled, “Now what the hell is that old windbag up to? He’s sitting smack on the ways, holding up the whole shebang.”

  “I don’t know, said the Captain. “There’s something here that doesn’t quite meet the eye. I feel like I just got a letter I knew was important but it was written in invisible ink.”

  “Aw, Parker just couldn’t resist the sight of a lectern.”

  “Chip, you may not like him—not many folks do—but you never heard of him doing anything without a reason. I never heard him talk unless he had something to say . . . Where’s the O.O.M.?”

  They peered at the screen, where the Congressman was asking his audience to bear in mind the point he had just made, and, “On the other hand, certain pressure groups in the pharmaceutical industry, of course from the best of motives—I never doubted that they were honorable men—”

  “I thought I saw those five stripes to the left of the picture, but I sure don’t now,” said Chip Morton. “I wish they’d give us another camera angle . . .”

  As by magic, his wish was granted. The director in the TV booth, having tired of the head-on view of Congressman Parker, cut to a profile. Behind him could be seen a few officials and some empty seats.

  “He’s gone! There’s B.J., but Cathy’s not there, nor the Old Old Man!”

  Crane grabbed the exec’s biceps so hard that Chip yelped. “Chip!” rapped the Captain. “How does a citizen get into Congress?”

  “He runs for it. What’s that got to do with—Oh, Holy sweet Pete!”

  The Captain shouldered past him and dove to the console. He palmed the klaxon, snatched up the P.A. mike and roared, “Condition yellow! Condition yellow! Now all hands, hear this! Mr. Gleason, lay up on deck with a detail and cast off bow, stern and both spring lines. Everything but the gangplank. On the double, man, jump! Once your lines are off, bring all hands inboard and you personally stand by the hatch control. Engines!”

  “Engines,” the speaker acknowledged.

  “Stand by for full operation. Mr. O’Brien!”

  “O’Brien here, sir.”

  “Watch your trim, mister. Call for what way you need, but hold her where she is, to the eyelash. A yard out and you’ll carry away the gang plank: that must not happen. Dr. Jamieson!”

  “Sick bay: Jamieson.”

  “Doc, is that castaway fit to go ashore? Can you get him on the dock in thirty seconds?”

  “Not in thirty seconds, sir.”

  “Then forget it. Dr. Hiller!”

  The clear cool voice came floating out of the speaker: “Yes, Captain Crane.”

  “Get ashore. You have twenty seconds. Goodbye.”

  “Gleason reporting, sir. All lines off.”

  “Good. See anybody on the dock?”

  “Yes, sir. UN Security guards is all.”

  “How many?”

  “Six, sir.”

  “Very good. Chip, put a scanner on Number Two screen for me, and let’s have a look at the gangplank and the dock area.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The Captain looked anxiously at the big screen, where Parker was holding forth about a citizen’s group, a grass-roots group, un-financed, small, weak, but gentlemen, citizens, at loggerheads with the big drug combines. And gentlemen, the little man has to be heard, or you don’t have a democracy at all.

  The Captain wagged his head and barked, “Where the hell’s my dockside scanner?”

  “Engine-room’s got ‘em all locked up, Cap’n,” said Chip. “O’Brien’s using all the eyes he can get to hold her steady and spare you your gangplank.”

  “Third. Where the hell’s the—oh, there you are, Hodges. Go squat in the nose there and g
et a fix on a piling. If she so much as creeps an inch, sing out which way and how much.” As the third officer sprinted into the glass bows, Crane turned to the console. “O’Brien!”

  “O’Brien here, sir.”

  “Turn loose a scanner for me. I’ve got Hodges watching in the bows and he’ll report if she shifts at all.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Okay, Chip, get me that dockside pic.”

  The smaller screen flickered and then spread out a picture of the wide apron of the pierhead. In the foreground could be seen the shore end of the gangway. Six UN guards lounged about, two at the gangplank and the other four back near the far side of the wide apron.

  The Congressman’s voice continued to drone out of the TV. Crane grinned up at the image admiringly, and was in time to see Zucco rising like a thunderhead. “Mr. President!” he roared.

  The Congressman stopped politely and cocked his head, birdlike.

  “Mr. President,” bellowed the scientist, “may I ask the interminably sesquipedalian legislator to be kind enough to make his point and let us get on with the day’s business?”

  Instead of attempting to answer, Parker turned and looked appealingly at the chair. The President banged down the rustle of reaction with his gavel and said, conciliatingly, “Mr. Parker, what you have had to tell us is certainly of great interest, but as yet I fear I do not connect it with—”

  “Mr. President,” said Parker with dignity, “I am here to assure you that I am a man of my word.”

  “That is of course not the point at issue,” said the president courteously but firmly.

  “And I promised you that I would see to it that this deadlock was resolved, did I not, sir?”

  “You implied, sir, that it would be quickly resolved.”

  “And so it will, sir, so it will. If interruptions can be kept to a minimum, sir.”