The Ghost From the Grand Banks and the Deep Range

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “I think I should tell you,” said the D.G., “that we did have one small problem—though I shouldn’t worry about it. Some of our more, ah, aggressively independent states-parties may not be too happy about your CIA connection.”

  “That was more than thirty years ago! And I didn’t even know it was a CIA job until long after I’d signed up—as an ordinary seaman, for heaven’s sake. . . . I thought I was joining Hughes’ Summa Corporation—and so I was.”

  “Don’t let it lose you any sleep; I mention it just in case someone brings it up. It’s not likely, because in all other respects your qualifications are superb. Even Ballard admitted that.”

  “Oh—he did?”

  “Well, he said you were the best of a bad bunch.”

  “That sounds like Bob.”

  The D.G. continued to examine the readout, then sat for a moment with a thoughtful expression.

  “This has nothing to do with your appointment, and please excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn. I’m talking to you as man to man—”

  Hello, thought Jason, they know about the Villa! I wonder how they got through Eva’s security?

  But it was a much bigger surprise than that. . . .

  “It seems that you lost contact with your son and his mother more than twenty years ago. If you wish, we can put you in touch.”

  For a moment, Bradley felt a constriction in his chest; it was almost as if something had happened to his air supply. He knew the sensation all too well, and felt the clammy onset of that disabling panic which is a diver’s worst enemy.

  As he had always managed to do before, he regained control by slow, deep breathing. Director-General Jantz, realizing that he had opened some old wound, waited sympathetically.

  “Thank you,” Bradley said at last. “I would prefer not to. Are they . . . all right?”

  “Yes.”

  That was all he needed to know. It was impossible to turn back the clock: he could barely remember the man—boy!—he had been at twenty-five, when he had finally gone to college. And, for the first and last time, fallen in love.

  He would never know whose fault it was, and perhaps now it did not matter. They could have contacted him easily enough, if they had wished. (Did J.J. ever think of him, and recall the times they had played together? Bradley’s eyes stung, and he turned his mind away from the memory.)

  He sometimes wondered if he would even recognize Julie if they met in the street; as he had destroyed all her photographs (why had he kept that one of J.J.?), he could no longer clearly remember her face. There was no doubt, however, that the experience had left indelible scars on his psyche, but he had learned to live with them—with the help, he wryly admitted, of Dame Eva. The ritual he had institutionalized at the Villa had brought him mental and physical relief, and had allowed him to function efficiently. He was grateful for that.

  And now he had a new interest—a new challenge—as deputy director (Atlantic) of the International Seabed Authority. He could just imagine how Ted Collier would have laughed his head off at this metamorphosis. Well, there was much truth in the old saying that poachers made the best gamekeepers.

  “I’ve asked Dr. Zwicker to come and say hello, as you’ll be working closely together. Have you ever met him before?”

  “No—but of course I’ve seen him often enough. Last time was only yesterday, on the Science News Channel. He was analyzing the Parkinson scheme—and didn’t think much of it.”

  “Between you and me, he doesn’t think much of anything he hasn’t invented himself. And he’s usually right, which doesn’t endear him to his colleagues.”

  Most people still thought it slightly comic that the world’s leading oceanographer had been born in an alpine valley, and there had been endless jokes about the prowess of the Swiss Navy. But there was no getting away from the fact that the bathyscaphe had been invented in Switzerland, and the long shadow of the Piccards still lay across the technology they had founded.

  The director-general glanced at his watch, and smiled at Bradley.

  “If my conscience would allow it, I could win bets this way.” He started a quiet countdown, and had just reached “One” when there was a knock on the door.

  “See what I mean?” he said to Bradley. “As they’re so fond of saying, ‘Time is the art of the Swiss.’ ” Then he called out: “Come in, Franz.”

  There was a moment of silent appraisal before scientist and engineer shook hands; each knew the other’s reputation, and each was wondering, “Will we be colleagues—or antagonists?” Then Professor Franz Zwicker said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Bradley. We have much to talk about.”

  PREPARATIONS

  23

  PHONE-IN

  There can’t be many people,” said Marcus Kilford, “who don’t know that it’s now less than four years to the Titanic centennial—or haven’t heard about the plans to raise the wreck. Once again, I’m happy to have with me three of the leaders in this project. I’ll talk to each of them in turn—then you’ll have a chance of calling in with any specific questions you have. At the right time, the number will flash along the bottom of the screen. . . .

  “The gentleman on my left is the famous underwater engineer Jason Bradley; his encounter with the giant octopus in the Newfoundland oil rig is now part of ocean folklore. He’s currently with the International Seabed Authority, and is responsible for monitoring operations on the wreck.

  “Next to him is Rupert Parkinson, who almost brought the America’s Cup to England last year. (Sorry about that, Rupert.) His firm is involved in raising the forward portion of the wreck—the larger of the two pieces into which the ship is broken.

  “On my right is Donald Craig, who’s associated with the Nippon-Turner Corporation—now the world’s largest media chain. He will tell us about the plans to raise the stern, which was the last part to sink—carrying with it most of those who were lost on that unforgettable night, ninety-six years ago. . . .

  “Mr. Bradley—would it be fair to call you a referee, making sure that there’s no cheating in the race between these two gentlemen?”

  Kilford had to hold up his hand to quell simultaneous protests from his other two guests.

  “Please, gentlemen! You’ll both have your turn. Let Jason speak first.”

  Now that I’m disguised as a diplomat, thought Bradley, I’d better try to act the part. I know Kilford’s trying to needle us—that’s his job—so I’ll play it cool.

  “I don’t regard it as a race,” he answered carefully. “Both parties have submitted schedules which call for the raising mid-April 2012.”

  “On the fifteenth itself? Both of them?”

  This was a sensitive matter, which Bradly had no intention of discussing in public. He had convinced ISA’s top brass that nothing like a photo finish must be allowed. Two major salvage operations could not possibly take place simultaneously, less than a kilometer apart. The risk of disaster—always a major concern—could be greatly increased. Trying to perform two difficult jobs at once was a very good recipe for achieving neither.

  “Look,” he said patiently, “this isn’t a one-day operation. Titanic reached the bottom in a matter of minutes. It’s going to take days to lift her back to the surface. Perhaps weeks.”

  “May I make a point?” said Parkinson, promptly doing so. “We have no intention of bringing our section of the wreck back to the surface. It’s always going to remain completely underwater, to avoid the risk of immediate corrosion. We’re not engaged in a TV spectacular.” He carefully avoided looking at Craig; the studio camera was less diffident.

  I feel sorry for Donald, thought Bradley. Kato should have been here instead: he and Parky would be well matched. We might see some real fireworks, as each tried to be more sardonically polite than the other—in, of course, the most gentlemanly way possible. Bradley wished that he could help Donald, toward whom he had developed a warm, almost paternal feeling, but he had to remember that he was now a friendly neutral.

  Donal
d Craig wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, and gave Parkinson a hurt look. Kilford seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Well, Mr. Craig? Aren’t you hoping to film the stern rising out of the water, with your synthetic iceberg looming over it?”

  That was exactly what Kato intended, though he had never said so in public. But this was not the sort of secret that could be kept for more than a few milliseconds in the electronic global village.

  “Well—er,” began Donald lamely. “If we do bring our section up above sea level, it won’t be there for long—”

  “—but long enough for some spectacular footage?”

  “—because just as you intend to do, Rupert, we’ll tow it underwater until it reaches its final resting place, at Tokyo-on-Sea. And there’s no danger of corrosion; most of the ironwork will still be enclosed in ice, and all of it will be at freezing point.”

  Donald paused for a second; then a slow smile spread over his face.

  “And by the way,” he continued, obviously gaining confidence, “haven’t I heard that you are planning a TV spectacular? What’s this story about taking scuba divers down to the wreck, as soon as it’s within reach? How deep will that be, Mr. Bradley?”

  “Depends what they’re breathing. Thirty meters with air. A hundred or more with mixtures.”

  “Then I’m sure half the sports divers in the world would love to pay a visit—long before you get to Florida.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion, Donald,” said Parkinson amiably. “We’ll certainly give it a thought.”

  “Well, now we’ve broken the ice—ha, ha!—let’s get down to business. What I’d like you to do—Donald, Rupert—is for each of you to explain where your project stands at the moment. I don’t expect you to give away any secrets, of course. Then I’ll ask Jason to make any comments—if he wants to. As C comes before P, you go on first, Donald.”

  “Well—um—the problem with the stern is that it’s so badly smashed up. Sealing it in ice is the most sensible way of handling it as a single unit. And, of course, ice floats—as Captain Smith apparently forgot in 1912.

  “My friends in Japan have worked out a very efficient method of freezing water, using electric current. It’s already at almost zero centigrade down there, so very little additional cooling is needed.

  “We’ve manufactured the neutral-buoyancy cables and the thermoelectric elements, and our underwater robots will start installing them in a few days. We’re still negotiating for the electricity, and hope to have contracts signed very soon.”

  “And when you’ve made your deep-sea iceberg, what then?”

  “Ah—well—that’s something I’d rather not discuss at the moment.”

  Though none of those present knew it, Donald was not stalling. He was genuinely ignorant—even baffled. What had Kato meant in their last conversation? Surely he must have been joking: really, it was not very polite to leave his partners in the dark. . . .

  “Very well, Donald. Any comments, Jason?”

  Bradley shook his head. “Nothing important. The scheme’s audacious, but our scientists can’t fault it. And, of course, it has—what do you say?—poetic justice.”

  “Rupert?”

  “I agree. It’s a lovely idea. I only hope it works.”

  Parkinson managed to convey a genuine sense of regret for the failure he obviously expected. It was a masterly little performance.

  “Well, it’s your turn. Where do you stand?”

  “We’re using straightforward techniques—nothing exotic! Because air is compressed four hundred times at Titanic’s depth, it’s not practical to pump it down to get lift. So we’re using hollow glass spheres; they have the same buoyancy at any depth. They’ll be packed—millions of them—in bundles of the appropriate size. Some may be put in the ship at strategic points, by small ROVs—sorry, Remote Operated Vehicles. But most of them will be attached to a lifting cradle we’re lowering down to the hull.”

  “And just how,” interjected Kilford, “are you going to attach the hull to the cradle?”

  Kilford had obviously done his homework, Bradley thought admiringly. Most laymen would have taken such a matter for granted, as a point not worth special attention; but it was the key to the whole operation.

  Rupert Parkinson smiled broadly. “Donald has his little secrets; so have we. But we’ll be doing some tests very shortly, and Jason has kindly agreed to observe them—haven’t you?”

  “Yes—if the U.S. Navy can lend us Marvin in time. ISA doesn’t have any deep subs of its own, alas. But we’re working on it.”

  “One day I’d like to dive with you—I think,” said Kilford. “Can you get a video link down to the wreck?”

  “No problem, with fiber optics. We have several monitoring circuits already.”

  “Splendid. I’ll start bullying my producer. Well, I see there are lots of lights flashing. Our first caller is Mr.—sorry, I guess that’s Miss—Chandrika de Silva of Notting Hill Gate. Go ahead, Chandrika. . . .”

  24

  ICE

  We’re in a buyer’s market,” said Kato with undisguised glee. “The U.S. and USSR navies are trying to underbid each other. If we got tough, I think they’d both pay us to take their radioactive toys off their hands.”

  On the other side of the world, the Craigs were watching him through the latest marvel of communications technology. POLAR 1, opened with great fanfare only a few weeks ago, was the first fiber-optic cable to be laid under the Arctic ice cap. By eliminating the long haul up to the geostationary orbit, and its slight but annoying time delay, the global phone system had been noticeably improved; speakers no longer kept interrupting each other, or wasting time waiting for replies. As the Director-General of INTELSAT had said, smiling bravely through his tears, “Now we can devote comsats to the job God intended them for—providing service to airplanes and ships and automobiles—and everyone who likes to get out into the fresh air.”

  “Have you made a deal yet?” asked Donald.

  “It will be wrapped up by the end of the week. One Russki, one Yank. Then they’ll compete to see which will do the better job for us. Isn’t that nicer than throwing nukes at each other?”

  “Much nicer.”

  “The British and French are also trying to get into the act—that helps our bargaining position, of course. We may even rent one of theirs as a standby. Or in case we decide to speed up operations.”

  “Just to keep level with Parky and Company? Or to get our section up first?”

  There was a brief silence—just about long enough for the question to have traveled to the Moon and back.

  “Really, Edith!” said Kato. “I was thinking of unexpected snags. Remember, we’re not in a race—perish the thought! We’ve both promised ISA to lift between seven and fifteen April ’12. We want to make sure we can meet the schedule—that’s all.”

  “And will you?”

  “Let me show you our little home movie—I’d appreciate it if you’d exit RECORD mode. This isn’t the final version, so I’d like your comments at this stage.”

  The Japanese studios, Donald recalled, had a long and well-deserved reputation for model work and special effects. (How many times had Tokyo been destroyed by assorted monsters?) The detail of ship and seabed was so perfect that there was no sense of scale; anyone who did not know that visibility underwater was never more than a hundred meters—at best—might have thought that this was the real thing.

  Titanic’s crumpled rear section—about a third of her total length—lay on a flat, muddy plain surrounded by the debris that had rained down when the ship tore in two. The stern itself was in fairly good shape, though the deck had been partly peeled away, but farther forward it looked as if a giant hammer had smashed into the wreck. Only half of the rudder protruded from the seabed; two of the three enormous propellers were completely buried. Extricating them would be a major problem in itself.

  “Looks a mess, doesn’t it?” said Kato cheerfully. “But watch.”

>   A shark swam leisurely past, suddenly noticed the imaginary camera, and departed in alarm. A nice touch, thought Donald, silently saluting the animators.

  Now time speeded up. Numbers indicating days flickered on the right of the picture, twenty-four hours passing in every second. Slim girders descended from the liquid sky, and assembled themselves into an open framework surrounding the wreckage. Thick cables snaked into the shattered hulk.

  Day Four Hundred—more than a year had passed. Now the water, hitherto quite invisible, was becoming milky. First the upper portion of the wreck, then the twisted plating of the hull, then everything down to the seabed itself, slowly disappeared into a huge block of glistening whiteness.

  “Day Six Hundred,” said Kato proudly. “Biggest ice cube in the world—except that it isn’t quite cube-shaped. Think of all the refrigerators that’s going to sell.”

  Maybe in Asia, thought Donald. But not in the U.K.—especially in Belfast. . . . Already there had been protests, cries of “sacrilege!” and even threats to boycott everything Japanese. Well, that was Kato’s problem, and he was certainly well aware of it.

  “Day Six Hundred Fifty. By this time, the seabed will also have consolidated, right down to several meters below the triple screws. Everything will be sealed tight in one solid block. All we have to do is lift it up to the surface. The ice will only provide a fraction of the buoyancy we need. So . . .”

  “. . . so you’ll ask Parky to sell you a few billion microspheres.”

  “Believe it or not, Donald, we had thought of making our own. But to copy Western technology? Perish the thought!”

  “Then what have you invented instead?”