“I don’t think he was electrocuted after all,” Danny said unhappily. “I think he was—er—bopped.”
“Bopped?” said Dr. Grimes. “What are you talking about? Is that more fish language?”
“When the lights went out,” said Dan, “he jumped up in alarm. I had put my recorder on the shelf above his head. He must have banged into it and knocked himself out.”
“Aha! The tape recorder again!” cried Dr. Grimes.
“But I wasn’t playing it, Dr. Grimes,” said Danny. “I did just what you told me to do—I put it away. I didn’t know he was going to jump up.”
“And perhaps you can also tell us why the lights went out?” Dr. Grimes said, grinding his teeth. “I’ll wager you had something to do with that, too.”
“Now, then, Grimes, let’s not jump to conclusions,” the Professor put in.
Danny hung his head. “But he’s right,” he said in a very small voice. “I handed the Captain the wrong wire.”
Dr. Grimes threw up his hands. The Professor shook his head and said, “Well, accidents can happen. At any rate, you got the lights back on, Dan. Now we’d better see to poor Beaversmith.”
He examined the pilot, who had a bad gash on his scalp. “He’s had a nasty crack,” the Professor said. “I think he will be all right though. We’d better bundle him up warmly and leave him alone. That’s often the best first aid.”
He and Dr. Grimes wrapped the Captain in a blanket and made him as comfortable as they could, considering the cramped space. To keep him from being moved about by any rocking or pitching the little ship might do when they returned to the surface, they lashed him snugly to the deck near the pilot’s seat.
As they were tucking him in, Joe, who had been leaning on the chart table, said, “Professor Bullfinch, does it ever snow under water?”
“Snow under water?” the Professor repeated. “Your question sounds like English, Joe, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I guess not. It must be my eyes then. Being under the sea does things to them.” Joe sighed. “It looks to me,” he went on mournfully, “as though it is snowing outside.”
“Impossible,” said Grimes, tightening the last knots around the Captain.
“I know,” Joe went on. “Not only that—the snow is falling up.”
The Professor stood up and stared out through the hull. Irene said, “Why—he’s right! It is upside-down snow.”
By the searchlights’ glare they could see millions of white flakes streaming upward past the hull. Joe said, “You mean you can see it, too? Then there’s nothing wrong with me. I feel better.”
His mouth dropped open. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I don’t feel better. How can it be snowing? And upside down?”
“It can be explained easily,” said the Professor, taking off his glasses and wiping them carefully. “There’s no cause for alarm. Those flakes are another layer of plankton.”
“Oh, I see.” Joe blew out a breath of relief. “And they’re swimming up past us, is that it?”
“On the contrary, they aren’t moving at all,” said the Professor. “Our ship is sinking.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the Bottom
It took a few seconds for them to absorb this startling news. Then Joe let out a yelp.
“Abandon ship! S.O.S! Women and children first!”
He stopped, looked puzzled, and said, “I’m a children. But we’re under water already. How can we abandon ship?”
“Oh, what’ll we do?” cried Irene. “Can’t we stop it?”
“Keep cool,” said the Professor. “Let’s not lose our heads.”
“We’re all right, Professor,” Danny said as bravely as he could. He took Irene’s hand. “Aren’t we, Irene?”
Irene gulped and nodded.
“I’m all right, too,” Joe said. “All I have to do is stop my teeth from chattering so I can hear myself being brave.”
“It’s very simple to explain,” the Professor said. “When the Captain fell, he must have hit the control which started the pumping of sea water into the ballast tanks. All we have to do is shut it off, empty the tanks, jettison our shot ballast and batteries, and rise to the surface.”
“Very simple, indeed,” said Dr. Grimes sourly. He had become very pale but kept his self-control with an effort. “Have you ever handled the controls of the ship, Bullfinch?”
“Well, no,” the Professor admitted. “But it shouldn’t be too difficult. Everything is marked clearly.”
“I remember now,” Danny put in, “while you and Dr. Grimes were looking at the charts, Captain Beaversmith said that the tank pumps weren’t responding. I guess he meant they weren’t working properly. He began to fix them, and that’s when all the trouble started.”
“Yes, and if it hadn’t been for your meddling—” Dr. Grimes began fiercely.
“Now, now,” said the Professor. “Quarreling won’t get us back up, and it wastes time. Let’s examine the control board.”
He sat down in the pilot’s seat and rested his chin on his hand.
“Whatever you do, you’d better hurry,” said Dr. Grimes. “According to the depth gauge, we’re already down to thirty-five hundred feet.”
The Professor carefully studied all the controls. At last, turning round, he said, “I’m sorry. Everything is clearly marked: here are the buttons which control the propeller motors, the ballast release, the electromagnets, and all the rest of the equipment. But here—” He pointed to a slot on the panel. “Here, there must have been a lever which controlled the sea-water tanks. This small plate says ‘Tank pumps.’ But the lever itself is missing.”
“Well, why not jettison the ballast and drop off the batteries?” said Dr. Grimes.
“We can drop the ballast, but that won’t be enough to get us back to the surface,” said the Professor. “And I hesitate to drop off our batteries until we absolutely have to, for that will deprive us of all our lights. If we sink to the bottom, I at least want to be able to look around.”
“Very commendable,” grumbled Dr. Grimes.
“It is possible that when the Captain fell,” the Professor went on, “he may have been holding the lever, and it dropped to the deck. I suggest that we search for it.”
For the next half hour they all but took the cabin to bits, looking for the missing lever. They searched every corner, lifted the cover of the control panel and looked under the wires, and inspected all the shelves, containers, and instruments.
Finally, the Professor straightened up with a sigh. “Well,” he said, “it is probably staring us in the face, but it’s so obvious that we can’t see it. We shall have to give up for the time being.”
“Then what are we to do?” Irene asked anxiously.
“Oh, we’re not absolutely helpless,” said the Professor. “We can move backward and forward, even if we can’t move upward. We can, of course,” he added drily, “continue to move downward, as well.”
“I don’t think so, Professor,” said Danny slowly.
“Why not?” asked the Professor in surprise.
“Because I think we’ve landed.” He pointed outside. “Aren’t we on the bottom?”
The searchlights showed a gray, muddy plain stretching beneath them. They were floating some six feet above it. Danny sprang to the depth gauge.
“Nine thousand, four hundred feet,” he said in a hushed tone.
The others were silent. Beyond the circle of their lights all was inky blackness. Above their heads the world of sunlight and air was nearly two miles away, and all about them stretched the vast ocean. In the utter quiet, Danny could hear the beating of his pulses. Their ship was no more than a tiny particle of light, a mere bubble at the bottom of the sea, and upon every square inch of it pressed a weight of more than two tons of water.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Feast and Fun
Professor Bullfinch was the first to speak. “We’re not dead yet,” he said.
Dr. Grimes was clutching the back of the pilot’s seat with both hands. He looked pale and haggard. “It’s only a matter of moments,” he said. “We’re doomed.”
“Pull yourself together, Grimes,” said the Professor sharply. “We’re nothing of the sort. Sooner or later we’ll figure out a way of getting back to the surface. Meanwhile, remember that we built this undersea laboratory in order to investigate the ocean bottom. Well, here we are on the bottom. We are scientists. Our duty is to learn all we can.”
He looked round at them all, and his eyes sparkled. “A scientist should fear nothing. Even death is only an experience to be studied. Let us do our work, and if by some chance we cannot escape, we can be certain that someday others will follow us, find us, and learn from our investigations.”
“You’re just making me gloomier,” Joe said in a quavering voice. “But I see what you mean.”
“I’m not afraid,” Danny said. “Are you, Irene?”
“No, I’m not. I think the Professor’s right.”
“If you mean to imply that I was upset,” said Dr. Grimes sternly, “you are wrong, Bullfinch. I merely felt—er—disturbed because of the young people. I am perfectly ready to continue with our investigations.”
“Oh, I’m not sc-sc-scared either,” Joe said. “I’m just empty.”
“Exactly!” cried the Professor. “Joe has put his finger right on the trouble.”
“I have?” said Joe in astonishment.
“Certainly. We’re all hungry. What we need is a bite to eat and a little rest. Come on, Grimes, let’s get out some rations.”
They had plenty of emergency rations stacked away on a shelf: dried beef, cheese, chocolate bars, raisins, hard biscuits, and two five-gallon cans of fresh water. Clearing off the top of the laboratory workbench, they set out circles of filter paper for plates and spread their feast. Before they ate, the Professor examined Captain Beaversmith again; he was still unconscious but appeared to be breathing more easily. They all fell to on the provisions and ate heartily, and as the Professor had predicted, when their stomachs were full their spirits rose.
When they had cleared away the remains and were loosening their belts, the Professor said with a twinkle in his eyes, “Now, we ought to have some after-dinner music. What about a concert, Grimes?”
Both the scientists were enthusiastic amateur musicians; the Professor played the bull fiddle and Dr. Grimes the piccolo. Dr. Grimes, his long face looking a shade less severe, took his piccolo case down from a shelf, while the Professor got out his bull-fiddle bow and began rubbing it with rosin.
“Where’s your bull fiddle?” Irene asked, looking about the cabin. There was no place in which to store such a large instrument.
“Oh,” said the Professor airily, “it’s in my pocket.”
As the three young people gaped at him, he reached into a coat pocket and took out the strings to his bull fiddle, neatly coiled up and tied.
“But—but what are you going to fasten them to?” Danny said.
“Aha!” Professor Bullfinch winked. “Do you remember asking me about those hooks and eyes in the ceiling and floor?”
He went to them and, as he was fastening the fiddle strings to the eyes, said, “I will use the hull of the Urchin itself as my sounding board.”
The hooks in the ceilings had turnbuckles on them so that they could be raised or lowered, and in this way he was able to tighten his strings and tune them to his liking. To make a bridge, he unbolted the pilot’s seat from the floor and wedged its rounded back against the strings and its foot against the nearest wall. He was able to change the pitch of his strings by pinching them between his fingers. Then he announced that he was ready.
“What shall we play?” Dr. Grimes said, trying a run on his piccolo.
“Do you know the funeral march?” said Joe.
“Oh, shut up, Joe,” said Danny. “Play something jolly, Professor.”
The two men began a rollicking sailor’s dance, the piccolo squeaking merrily against the zoom-zoom of the bull fiddle which made the whole cabin vibrate. Suddenly Dr. Grimes stopped playing.
“You’re trying to drown me out,” he said accusingly.
“I?” said the Professor in astonishment. “Why, my dear man, what gave you that idea? It’s just that the bull fiddle has a richer, deeper tone than the piccolo.”
“Richer tone? Absurd!” shouted Dr. Grimes. “The piccolo has a sweet, delicate tone. The bull fiddle makes a sound like—like one of Danny’s fish noises. A croaker or a toadfish!”
“Nonsense,” said the Professor. “But in any case, it is impossible for me to play any softer.”
“Ha! Then I will play louder,” said Dr. Grimes. He glared about. “Danny! Where’s that tape recording machine?”
Danny raised his eyebrows. “But Dr. Grimes—you told me not to touch it.”
“Quite right. But I’m going to touch it, not you. Get it for me, please.”
Danny untied the lashings and took down the case.
“If I am correct,” said Dr. Grimes, “it is possible to play through the amplifier of one of these machines directly, as if through a public-speaking apparatus.”
He opened the case, hooked up the microphone, snapped the switch and began to play. No sound emerged at all.
“Something’s wrong with your machine,” he growled, snapping the switch on and off.
“I—uh—I think you’re recording instead of playing through the amplifier,” said the Professor. “I suggest you let Danny fix it for you.”
Dr. Grimes grumbled, but he allowed Danny to make the necessary adjustments. Then he played into the microphone once more. This time, the notes of the piccolo came out of the amplifier with a blast like a policeman’s whistle.
“Fine!” said he with a grim smile. “Now that we’re even, Bullfinch, let’s try our duet again.”
They began to play once more, and the three young people held their hands over their ears. But Dr. Grimes seemed very satisfied, and Professor Bullfinch, although he kept wincing and ducking his head as the shrill notes flew about him, played on resignedly out of pure friendship. At last the terrible concert was over.
The Professor put his bow and fiddle strings away, and Dr. Grimes packed up his piccolo. Danny changed the adjustment on his tape recorder and put it back on the shelf with a wistful sigh.
Then Professor Bullfinch said, “Now, friends, we’ve had our feast and our fun, and I think it’s time to go to work.”
“Very well,” said Dr. Grimes, forgetting that he was supposed to be the leader of the expedition. “What do you suggest?”
“We can still move the ship horizontally,” said the Professor, putting his empty pipe in his mouth (for because of the cramped space and lack of ventilation, he did not smoke in the ship). “Let us permit one of the young people to steer the Urchin. The others can control the lights and the collecting devices. You and I, Grimes, will begin taking core samples from the bottom.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Grimes gazed at the three young people. “Bullfinch, you have demonstrated an astonishing lack of practical good sense in the past, but this suggestion ‘takes the cake,’ as the saying goes. Do you seriously mean to propose that one of these children should hold the wheel?”
The Professor chuckled. “I knew you’d see things my way,” he said. “You’re right! After all, the ship moves very slowly, and starting and stopping it is a simple matter of pressing a button. Steering it is equally simple. All we need do is choose the most responsible and levelheaded of the young people—”
Danny smiled bashfully, kicking at the deck with one toe. “Gee, thanks, Professor,” he began.
“—Irene, for instance,” the Professor finished firmly.
CHA
PTER FOURTEEN
The Shark
The Urchin moved slowly forward through the dark strange world of the sea bottom. Irene sat in the pilot’s seat, peering forward through the clear plastic of the bows. The controls were essentially very simple: a small wheel turned the rudder to port and starboard, a set of buttons sent the ship forward, held it still, or put it in reverse. She gripped the wheel tightly, trying to relax and breathe normally; she felt very proud and a little frightened to have the steering of the whole vessel in her charge. “Now,” she said to herself, “I know what the captain of a ship really feels like.”
Behind her, in the after end of the cabin, Dan stood ready at the mechanical arms, while Joe lounged near him at the collecting tank. In the middle of the ship the two scientists were busy preparing their coring apparatus.
This consisted of a metal tube some ten feet long and six inches in diameter. One end was sharpened. The tube was put upright into a cylindrical air chamber that ran from the conning tower hatch down through the floor, with an air lock at the bottom. The upper end of the tube was hooked to a wire cable which was wound around a drum at the top of the air chamber.
When they had made all their preparations, Professor Bullfinch called, “Irene, stop the ship.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Irene said a bit nervously. She tapped the button which stopped the motors. The ship slowed, drifted for a moment or two, and then came to a standstill.
The Professor pulled a lever. There was a whoosh as the tube was shot out of the air chamber. It plunged deep into the soft sea bottom where it filled up with mud, like a soda straw jabbed into ice cream. They saw a cloud of silt rise from the bottom. Dr. Grimes pulled another lever and the drum turned, winding up the cable and drawing the tube back into the air chamber. The water was forced out through the lock, and then the tube could be removed from the chamber. The ooze with which the chamber was filled—it was called a “core sample”—was taken out and the scientists began their study of it.
After three or four times, the core sampling lost its novelty for the young people, and they began to pay more attention to the water around them. The lights of the ship made a large circle on the yellowish-gray mud below, and they could see that the sea floor was not smooth but covered with ripples. Among these ripples lay what appeared to be pebbles, although it was hard to say how pebbles came to be scattered over the bottom of the ocean.
Danny Dunn on the Ocean Floor Page 6