By this time Harry had begun to appreciate his friend’s psychology. He could think of few better ways of escaping from a New England law practice. George was a repressed romantic—and not such a repressed one, either, now that he came to think of it.
They cruised along happily for a couple of hours, keeping in water that was never more than forty feet deep. Once they grounded on a dazzling stretch of broken coral, and took time off for liverwurst sandwiches and glasses of beer. “I drank some ginger beer down here once,” said George. “When I came up the gas inside me expanded and it was a very odd sort of feeling. Must try it with champagne some day.”
Harry was just wondering what to do with the empties when the “Pompano” seemed to go into eclipse as a dark shadow drifted overhead. Looking up through the observation window, he saw that a ship was moving slowly past twenty feet above their heads. There was no danger of a collision, as they had pulled down their snort for just this reason and were subsisting for the moment on their capital as far as air was concerned. Harry had never seen a ship from underneath and began to add another novel experience to the many he had acquired today.
He was quite proud of the fact that, despite his ignorance of matters nautical, he was just as quick as George at spotting what was wrong with the vessel sailing overhead. Instead of the normal shaft and screw, this ship had a long tunnel running the length of its keel. As it passed above them, the “Pompano” was rocked by the sudden rush of water.
“I’ll be damned!” said George, grabbing the controls. “That looks like some kind of jet propulsion system. It’s about time somebody tried one out. Let’s have a look.”
He pushed up the periscope, and discovered that the ship slowly cruising past them was the “Valency,” of New Orleans. “That’s a funny name,” he said. “What does it mean?”
“I would say,” answered Harry, “that it means the owner is a chemist—except for the fact that no chemist would ever make enough money to buy a ship like that.”
“I’m going to follow her,” decided George. “She’s only making five knots, and I’d like to see how that dingus works.”
He elevated the snort, got the diesel running, and started in pursuit. After a brief chase, the “Pompano” drew within fifty feet of the “Valency,” and Harry felt rather like a submarine commander about to launch a torpedo. They couldn’t miss from this distance.
In fact, they nearly made a direct hit. For the “Valency” suddenly slowed to a halt, and before George realized what had happened, he was alongside her. “No signals!” he complained, without much logic. A minute later, it was clear that the manoeuvre was no accident. A lasso dropped neatly over the “Pompano’s” snorkle and they were efficiently gaffed. There was nothing to do but emerge, rather sheepishly, and make the best of it.
Fortunately, their captors were reasonable men and could recognize the truth when they heard it. Fifteen minutes after coming aboard the “Valency,” George and Harry were sitting on the bridge while a uniformed steward brought them highballs and they listened attentively to the theories of Dr. Gilbert Romano.
They were still both a little overawed at being in Dr. Romano’s presence: it was rather like meeting a live Rockefeller or a reigning du Pont. The Doctor was a phenomenon virtually unknown in Europe and unusual even in the United States—the big scientist who had become a bigger business man. He was now in his late seventies and had just been retired—after a considerable tussle—from the chairmanship of the vast chemical engineering firm he had founded.
It is rather amusing, Harry told us, to notice the subtle social distinctions which differences in wealth can produce even in the most democratic country. By Harry’s standards, George was a very rich man: his income was around a hundred thousand dollars a year. But Dr. Romano was in another price range altogether, and had to be treated accordingly with a kind of friendly respect which had nothing to do with obsequiousness. On his side, the Doctor was perfectly free and easy; there was nothing about him that gave any impression of wealth, if one ignored such trivia as hundred-and-fifty-foot ocean-going yachts.
The fact that George was on first-name terms with most of the Doctor’s business acquaintances helped to break the ice and to establish the purity of their motives. Harry spent a boring half hour while business deals ranging over half the United States were discussed in terms of what Bill So-and-so did in Pittsburgh, who Joe Somebody Else ran into at the Bankers’ Club in Houston, how Clyde Thingummy happened to be playing golf at Augusta while Ike was there. It was glimpse of a mysterious world where immense power was wielded by men who all seemed to have gone to the same colleges, or who at any rate belonged to the same clubs. Harry soon became aware of the fact that George was not merely paying court to Dr. Romano because that was the polite thing to do. George was too shrewd a lawyer to miss this chance of building up some good-will, and appeared to have forgotten all about the original purpose of their expedition.
Harry had to wait for a suitable gap in the conversation before he could raise the subject which really interested him. When it dawned on Dr. Romano that he was talking to another scientist, he promptly abandoned finance and George was the one who was left out in the cold.
The thing that puzzled Harry was why a distinguished chemist should be interested in marine propulsion. Being a man of direct action, he challenged the Doctor on this point. For a moment the scientist appeared a little embarrassed and Harry was about to apologize for his inquisitiveness—a feat that would have required real effort on his part. But before he could do this, Dr. Romano had excused himself and disappeared into the bridge.
He came back five minutes later with a rather satisfied expression, and continued as if nothing had happened.
“A very natural question, Mr. Purvis,” he chuckled. “I’d have asked it myself. But do you really expect me to tell you?”
“Er—it was just a vague sort of hope,” confessed Harry.
“Then I’m going to surprise you—surprise you twice, in fact. I’m going to answer you, and I’m going to show you that I’m not passionately interested in marine propulsion. Those bulges on the bottom of my ship which you were inspecting with such great interest do contain the screws, but they also contain a good deal else as well.
“Let me give you,” continued Dr. Romano, now obviously warming up to his subject, “a few elementary statistics about the ocean. We can see a lot of it from here—quite a few square miles. Did you know that every cubic mile of sea-water contains a hundred and fifty million tons of minerals.”
“Frankly, no,” said George. “It’s an impressive thought.”
“It’s impressed me for a long time,” said the Doctor. “Here we go grubbing about in the earth for our metals and chemicals, while every element that exists can be found in sea water. The ocean, in fact, is a kind of universal mine which can never be exhausted. We may plunder the land, but we’ll never empty the sea.
“Men have already started to mine the sea, you know. Dow Chemicals have been taking out bromine for years: every cubic mile contains about three hundred thousand tons. More recently, we’ve started to do something about the five million tons of magnesium per cubic mile. But that sort of thing is merely a beginning.
“The great practical problem is that most of the elements present in sea-water are in such low concentrations. The first seven elements make up about 99 percent of the total, and it’s the remaining one percent that contains all the useful metals except magnesium.
“All my life I’ve wondered how we could do something about this, and the answer came during the war. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the techniques used in the atomic energy field to remove minute quantities of isotopes from solutions: some of those methods are still pretty much under wraps.”
“Are you talking about ion-exchange resins?” hazarded Harry.
“Well—something similar. My firm developed several of these techniques on A.E.C. contracts, and I realized at once that they would have wider applications
. I put some of my bright young men to work and they have made what we call a “molecular sieve”. That’s a mighty descriptive expression: in its way, the thing is a sieve, and we can set it to select anything we like. It depends on very advanced wave-mechanical theories for its operation, but what it actually does is absurdly simple. We can choose any component of sea-water we like, and get the sieve to take it out. With several units, working in series, we can take out one element after another. The efficiency’s quite high, and the power consumption negligible.”
“I know!” yelped George. “You’re extracting gold from sea-water!”
“Huh!” snorted Dr. Romano in tolerant disgust. “I’ve got better things to do with my time. Too much damn gold around, anyhow. I’m after the commercially useful metals—the ones our civilisation is going to be desperately short of in another couple of generations. And as a matter of fact, even with my sieve it wouldn’t be worth going after gold. There are only about fifty pounds of the stuff in every cubic mile.”
“What about uranium?” asked Harry. “Or is that scarcer still?”
“I rather wish you hadn’t asked that question,” replied Dr. Romano with a cheerfulness that belied the remark. “But since you can look it up in any library, there’s no harm in telling you that uranium’s two hundred times more common than gold. About seven tons in every cubic mile—a figure which is, shall we say, distinctly interesting. So why bother about gold?”
“Why indeed?” echoed George.
“To continue,” said Dr. Romano, duly continuing, “even with the molecular sieve, we’ve still got the problem of processing enormous volumes of sea-water. There are a number of ways one could tackle this: you could build giant pumping stations, for example. But I’ve always been keen on killing two birds with one stone, and the other day I did a little calculation that gave the most surprising result. I found that every time the ‘Queen Mary’ crosses the Atlantic, her screws chew up about a tenth of a cubic mile of water. Fifteen million tons of minerals, in other words. Or to take the case you indiscreetly mentioned—almost a ton of uranium on every Atlantic crossing. Quite a thought, isn’t it?
“So it seemed to me that all we need do to create a very useful mobile extraction plant was to put the screws of any vessel inside a tube which would compel the slip-stream to pass through one of my sieves. Of course, there’s a certain loss of propulsive power, but our experimental unit works very well. We can’t go quite as fast as we did, but the further we cruise the more money we make from our mining operations. Don’t you think the shipping companies will find that very attractive? But of course that’s merely incidental. I look forward to the building of floating extraction plants that will cruise round and round in the ocean until they’ve filled their hoppers with anything you care to name. When that day comes, we’ll be able to stop tearing up the land and all our material shortages will be over. Everything goes back to the sea in the long run anyway, and once we’ve unlocked that treasure-chest, we’ll be all set for eternity.”
For a moment there was silence on deck, save for the faint clink of ice in the tumblers, while Dr. Romano’s guests contemplated this dazzling prospect. Then Harry was struck by a sudden thought.
“This is quite one of the most important inventions I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “That’s why I find it rather odd that you should have confided in us so fully. After all, we’re perfect strangers, and for all you know might be spying on you.”
The old scientist chortled gaily.
“Don’t worry about that, my boy,” he reassured Harry. “I’ve already been on to Washington and had my friends check up on you.”
Harry blinked for a minute, then realized how it had been done. He remembered Dr. Romano’s brief disappearance, and could picture what had happened. There would have been a radio call to Washington, some senator would have got on to the Embassy, the Ministry of Supply representative would have done his bit—and in five minutes the Doctor would have got the answer he wanted. Yes, Americans were very efficient—those who could afford to be.
It was about this time that Harry became aware of the fact that they were no longer alone. A much larger and more impressive yacht than the “Valency” was heading towards them, and in a few minutes he was able to read the name “Sea Spray”. Such a name, he thought, was more appropriate to billowing sails than throbbing diesels, but there was no doubt that the “Spray” was a very pretty creature indeed. He could understand the looks of undisguised covetousness that both George and Dr. Romano now plainly bore.
The sea was so calm that the two yachts were able to come alongside each other, and as soon as they had made contact a sunburned, energetic man in the late forties vaulted over on to the deck of the “Valency”. He strode up to Dr. Romano, shook his hand vigorously, said, “Well, you old rascal, what are you up to?” and then looked enquiringly at the rest of the company. The Doctor carried out the introductions: it seemed that they had been boarded by Professor Scott McKenzie, who’d been sailing his yacht down from Key Largo.
“Oh no!” cried Harry to himself. “This is too much! One millionaire scientist per day is all I can stand.”
But there was no getting away from it. True, McKenzie was very seldom seen in the academic cloisters, but he was a genuine Professor none the less, holding the chair of geophysics at some Texas college. Ninety percent of his time, however, he spent working for the big oil companies and running a consulting firm of his own. It rather looked as if he had made his torsion balances and seismographs pay quite well for themselves. In fact, though he was a much younger man than Dr. Romano, he had even more money owing to being in a more rapidly expanding industry. Harry gathered that the peculiar tax laws of the Sovereign State of Texas also had something to do with it.…
It seemed an unlikely coincidence that these two scientific tycoons should have met by chance, and Harry waited to see what skullduggery was afoot. For a while the conversation was confined to generalities, but it was obvious that Professor McKenzie was extremely inquisitive about the Doctor’s other two guests. Not long after they had been introduced, he made some excuse to hop back to his own ship and Harry moaned inwardly. If the Embassy got two separate enquiries about him in the space of half an hour, they’d wonder what he’d been up to. It might even make the F.B.I. suspicious, and then how would he get those promised twenty-four pairs of nylons out of the country?
Harry found it quite fascinating to study the relation between the two scientists. They were like a couple of fighting cocks circling for position. Romano treated the younger man with a downright rudeness which, Harry suspected, concealed a grudging admiration. It was clear that Dr. Romano was an almost fanatical conservationist, and regarded the activities of McKenzie and his employers with the greatest disapproval. “You’re a gang of robbers,” he said once. “You’re seeing how quickly you can loot this planet of its resources, and you don’t give a damn about the next generation.”
“And what,” answered McKenzie, not very originally, “has the next generation ever done for us?”
The sparring continued for the best part of an hour, and much of what went on was completely over Harry’s head. He wondered why he and George were being allowed to sit in on all this, and after a while he began to appreciate Dr. Romano’s technique. He was an opportunist of genius: he was glad to keep them round, now that they had turned up, just to worry Professor McKenzie and to make him wonder what other deals were afoot.
He let the molecular sieve leak out bit by bit, as if it wasn’t really important and he was only mentioning it in passing. Professor McKenzie, however, latched on to it at once, and the more evasive Romano became, the more insistent was his adversary. It was obvious that he was being deliberately coy, and that though Professor McKenzie knew this perfectly well, he couldn’t help playing the older scientist’s game.
Dr. Romano had been discussing the device in a peculiarly oblique fashion, as if it were a future project rather than an existing fact. He outlined its stagg
ering possibilities, and explained how it would make all existing forms of mining obsolete, besides removing forever the danger of world metal shortages.
“If it’s so good,” exclaimed McKenzie presently, “why haven’t you made the thing?”
“What do you think I’m doing out here in the Gulf Stream?” retorted the Doctor. “Take a look at this.”
He opened a locker beneath the sonar set, and pulled out a small metal bar which he tossed to McKenzie. It looked like lead, and was obviously extremely heavy. The Professor hefted it in his hand and said at once: “Uranium. Do you mean to say.…”
“Yes—every gram. And there’s plenty more where that came from.” He turned to Harry’s friend and said: “George—what about taking the Professor down in your submarine to have a look at the works? He won’t see much, but it’ll show him we’re in business.”
McKenzie was still so thoughtful that he took a little thing like a private submarine in his stride. He returned to the surface fifteen minutes later, having seen just enough to whet his appetite.
“The first thing I want to know,” he said to Romano, “is why you’re showing this to me! It’s about the biggest thing that ever happened—why isn’t your own firm handling it?”
Romano gave a little snort of disgust.
“You know I’ve had a row with the Board,” he said. “Anyway, that lot of old dead-beats couldn’t handle anything as big as this. I hate to admit it, but you Texas pirates are the boys for the job.”
Tales from the White Hart (Arthur C. Clarke Collection: Short Stories) Page 11