The Dragon in the Sea

by Frank Herbert

  Garcia said, “Did you go back by the lower shaft tunnel?”

  “Lower.”

  “I noticed that myself earlier. We’ll rig a ground for the scuff mat. I think that’ll fix it.”

  “I grounded myself before entering.”

  Sparrow said, “Run that down, Joe. Les, where are you?”

  “Second-level catwalk in the engine room.”

  “Relieve Joe on the main board. Ramsey, get into your shack. Contact with base in eleven minutes.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  Sparrow moved from his position on the control deck below Garcia to a point at the first-level door which was open to permit visual inspection of the big gauges forward on the radiation wall. That room in the bow, he thought. That’s what worries me. We can see into it with our TV eyes; guages tell us what’s happening. But we can’t touch it with our bare hands. We don’t have a real feeling for that place.

  He mopped his forehead with a large red handkerchief. Something, somewhere is wrong. He was a subtug skipper who had learned to depend on his feeling for the boat.

  A string of Spanish curses in Garcia’s voice, rendered metallic by the intercom, interrupted his reverie.

  Sparrow barked: “Joe! What’s wrong?” He turned toward the stern, as though to peer through the bulkheads.

  “Wiper rag in the rotor system. It was rubbing the induction ring every revolution. That’s Ramsey’s static.”

  “Does it look deliberate?”

  “Did you ever come across a silk wiping rag?” The sound of a grunt came over the intercom. “There, by heaven!”

  Sparrow said, “Save that rag.” Then: “Ramsey, where are you?”

  . “In the shack warming up the transmitter.”

  “Did you hear Joe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell base about that rag. Tell them—” “Skipper!” It was Garcia’s voice. “There’s oil in the atmosphere back here!”

  Sparrow said, “A mist of oil plus static spark equals an explosion! Where’s that oil coming from?”

  “Just a minute.” A clanking of metal against metal. “Open pet-cock in the lube system. Just a crack. Enough to squirt a fine spray under full drive.”

  Sparrow said, “Ramsey, include that in the report to base.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  “Joe, I’m coming back there,” said Sparrow. “We’re going over that drive room with a microscope.”

  “I’ve already started.”

  Bonnett said, “Skipper, would you send Ramsey up here after he gets off the contact? I’ll need help checking the main board.”

  “Hear that, Ramsey?” asked Sparrow.

  “Aye.”

  “Comply.”

  “Will do.”

  Sparrow went aft, dropped down to the lower level, crawled through the shaft tunnel and into the drive room—a cone-shaped space dominated by the gleaming brass induction ring, the spaced coils. He could smell the oil, a heavy odor. Garcia was leaning into the coil space, examining the induction ring by magnifying glass.

  “They’re just little things,” said Sparrow. “But taken together—boom!”

  Garcia turned, his eyes glittering in the harsh work lights. “I don’t like the feel of things, Skipper. This is a bad beginning. This is starting like a dead-man mission.”

  Sparrow took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. With an abrupt motion, he thumbed the button of his chest mike. “Ramsey, when you contact base, request permission to return.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  Ramsey’s thoughts leaped. What will that do to morale? The first raider in months turns back without getting out of the gulf. Bad. He stared at the wavering fingers of the dial needles. His contact timer hit the red line, buzzed. He rapped out the first pulse with its modulated message: “Able John to Red Hat. Over.”

  The speaker above his head hissed with background noise like a distant surf. Presently, a voice came out of it, overriding the noise: “This is Red Hat. Over.”

  “Able John to Red Hat: We’ve discovered sabotage aboard. A silk rag was put in the motor system of our drive room. A static spark from the rag could’ve blown us out of the bay. Over.”

  “Red Hat to Able John. Stand by, please. We are routing your message to Bird George.”

  “Security!”

  Again the speaker came to life. “Bird George to Able John. This is Teacher. What is the situation? Over.”

  Clint Reed! Ramsey could almost see the humorless face of his Security teacher. Teacher Reed. Impromptu code. Ramsey bent over his own mike: “Teacher, this is Student.” He repeated the story of sabotage.

  “Teacher to Student. What’s your suggestion? Over.”

  “Student to Teacher. Permit us to go on with inspection out here. There’s less chance for an unknown factor. Just the four of us aboard. If we check safe, allow us to continue the mission. Bad for morale if we came back. Over.”

  “Teacher to Student. That’s the way we see it. But stand by.” Pause. “Permission granted. How much time do you need? Over.”

  Ramsey turned on his intercom microphone. “Skipper, base suggests we continue the inspection here and not return if we check secure.”

  “Did you tell him what we’d found?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “That there’s less chance for a Security slip out here. Fewer personnel. They suggest we double-check each other, give every—”

  “Suffering Jesus!”

  “They want to know how much time we’ll need.” Silence.

  “Skipper, they—”

  “I heard you. Tell them we’ll need ten hours.”

  Ramsey turned back to his transmitter. “Student to Teacher. Skipper says give us ten hours. Over.”

  “Teacher to Student. Continue as ordered. We’ll clear new check points for you. Over and out.”

  Ramsey sat back, thought: Now, I’ve really stuck my neck out. But Obe said this one has to go through.

  Bonnett’s voice rasped over the intercom: “Ramsey! If that contact’s over, get your ass up here and help me on this board!”

  “Coming.”

  In the drive room, Sparrow hefted a socket wrench, looked at Garcia crouched under the secondary coils. “They want this one to go through, Joe. Very badly.”

  Garcia put a contact light on two leads. It glowed. “Yes, and they give us a green hand like that Ramsey. A near dryback.”

  “His service record says limited combat in gulf Security patrols.”

  “Get the priest and the parish!” He shifted to a new position. “Something odd about the chap!”

  Sparrow opened the plate over a condenser. “How so?”

  “He strikes me like a ringer, a chap who pretends to be one thing when he’s actually something else.”

  “Where do you get that idea?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Skipper.”

  Sparrow shrugged, went on with his work. “I dunno, Joe. We’ll go into it later. Hand me that eight-inch flex wrench, please.”

  Garcia reached up with the wrench, turned back to his own work. Silence came over the little room, broken only by the sound of metal on metal, buzzing of test circuits.

  Sparrow ducked through the door into the control room, stood silently as Bonnett and Ramsey reinstalled the final cover plate of the main board.

  Bonnett straightened, rubbed the back of his neck. His hand left a grease smear. He spoke to Ramsey: “You’re a boy, Junior. We may make a submariner out of you yet. You’ve just gotta remember that down here you never make the same mistake once.”

  Ramsey racked a screw driver in his tool kit, closed the kit, turned, saw Sparrow. “All secure, Skipper?”

  Sparrow didn’t answer at once. He looked around the control room, sniffed the air. Faint smell of ozone. A distant humming of standby machinery. The round eyes of the indicator dials like symbiotic extensions of himself. The plucking disquiet remained within him.

  “As secure a
s mortals can make it—I hope,” he said. “We’ll repair to the wardroom.” Sparrow turned, ducked out the way he had entered.

  Ramsey put his tool kit into its wall rack. Metal grated against metal. He shivered, turned. Bonnett was going through the door. Ramsey stepped across the control room, ducked through the door, followed Bonnett into the wardroom. Sparrow and Garcia already were there, Garcia seated to the right, Sparrow standing at the opposite end of the table. Ramsey’s eyes widened. An open Bible lay on the table before Sparrow.

  “We invoke the help of the Almighty upon our mean endeavors,” said Sparrow.

  Bonnett slipped into a chair at the left.

  Sparrow indicated the seat opposite himself. “Will you be seated, please, Mr. Ramsey?”

  Ramsey lowered himself into the chair, rested one hand on the green felt of the table cover. Sparrow towered above them at the other end of the table. The Giver of the Law with hand upon the Book.

  Religious services, thought Ramsey. Here’s one of the binding forces of this crew. Participation Mystique! The consecration of the warriors before the foray.

  “What is your religion, Mr. Ramsey?” asked Sparrow.

  Ramsey cleared his throat. “Protestant Episcopal.”

  “It’s not really important down here,” said Sparrow. “I was merely curious. We have a saying in the subtugs that the Lord won’t permit a live atheist to dive below a thousand feet.”

  Ramsey smiled.

  Sparrow bent over the Bible. His voice rumbled as he read: “‘Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil: that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!’”

  He closed the Bible, lifted his head. It was a movement of power, of authority. Ramsey received an impression of deep strength.

  “We do our job with what we have at hand,” said Sparrow. “We do what we believe to be the right thing. Though it grieve us, we do it. We do it that the godless shall perish from the earth. Amen.”

  Sparrow turned away, placed the Bible in a case against the bulkhead. With his back still turned to them, he said, “Stations, everyone. Mr. Ramsey, contact base, tell them we are ready to go. Get the time for the first check point.”

  Ramsey got to his feet. Foremost in his thoughts was the almost physical need to examine the first telemeter record on Sparrow. “Yes, sir,” he said. He turned, ducked through the door to the companionway and across into his shack, contacted base.

  First check point in four hours.

  Ramsey relayed the information to Sparrow.

  “Zero the automatic timelog,” said Sparrow. “Check in, everyone.”

  “Garcia here. Drive and tow secure.”

  “Bonnett here. Main secure.”

  Ramsey looked at his board in the electronics shack. A queer sensation of belonging here passed over him. A sense of familiarity, of association deeper and longer than the five weeks of training. “E-board secure,” he said. “Two atmospheres in the hull.” He looked to the vampire gauge on his wrist. “Diffusion normal-plus. No nitrogen.”

  Back came Sparrow’s voice over the intercom: “Les, slide off.”

  Ramsey felt the subtug lurch, then a faint whispering pulse of power. The deck assumed a slight upward incline, leveled. Presently, it tipped down.

  We’re headed into the deeps, thought Ramsey. Physically and mentally. From here on it’s up to me.

  “Mr. Ramsey, come to the control deck,” Sparrow ordered.

  Ramsey closed down his board, went forward. Sparrow stood, hands behind his back, feet braced slightly apart almost precisely in the center of the control deck. He appeared framed in a background maze of pipes, wheels, levers, and dials. To his right, Garcia worked the tow controls; to his left, Bonnett held the high-speed pilot wheel. The big static pressure gauge high in the control bulkhead registered 1,310 pounds, increasing; they were below 3,000 feet.

  Without turning, Sparrow asked, “What’s in that little box that came aboard with your effects, Mr. Ramsey?”

  “Monitoring equipment for the new search system, sir.”

  Sparrow’s head moved to follow the flickering of a towcontrol dial; he turned back. “Why was it locked?”

  “It’s extremely delicate and packed accordingly. They were afraid someone—”

  “I’ll want to see it at the first opportunity,” said Sparrow. He stepped over behind Bonnett. “Les, is that a leak in compartment nine?”

  “There’s no moisture or pressure variant, Skipper. It has to be condensation.”

  “Keep an eye on it.” Sparrow stepped back beside Ramsey.

  I’m going to find out quick if that disguise system in the box satisfies his curiosity, thought Ramsey.

  “What’s your hobby?” he asked Ramsey.

  Ramsey blinked. “Astronomy.”

  Bonnett spoke over his shoulder: “That’s a peculiar hobby for a submariner.”

  Before Ramsey could reply, Sparrow said, “There’s nothing wrong with astronomy for a man who goes to sea.”

  “The basis of navigation,” said Ramsey.

  Sparrow glanced sidelong at Ramsey, returned his gaze to the board. “I was thinking as we moved out across the mooring basin back at base that we were entitled to a last look at the stars before going under the sea. They give one a sense of orientation. One night before we left Garden Glenn I was struck by the clarity of the sky. The constellation of Hercules was—” He broke off as the Ram’s nose tipped upward.

  A down hands moved over his controls to correct for the deflection.

  “Hercules,” said Ramsey. “Do you mean the Kneeler?”

  “Not many call him that any more,” said Sparrow. “I like to think of him up there all these centuries, guiding mariners. The Phoenicians used to worship him, you know.”

  Ramsey felt a sudden wave of personal liking for Sparrow. He fought it down. I must remain clearheaded and objective, he told himself.

  Sparrow moved to the left to get a clearer view of the pilot gauges. He studied them a moment, turned to Ramsey. “Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Ramsey, that these Hell Diver subtugs are the closest things to spaceships that mankind has developed? We’re completely self-contained.” He turned back to the control board. “And what do we do with our spaceships? We use them to hide under the liquid curtain of our planet. We use them to kill one another.”

  Ramsey thought: Here’s a problem—a morbid imagination vocalized for the benefit of the crew. He said, “We use them in self-defense.”

  “Mankind has no defense from himself,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey started to speak, stopped, thought: That’s a Jungian concept. No man is proof against himself. He looked at Sparrow with a new respect.

  “Our underground base,” said Sparrow. “It’s like a womb. And the marine tunnel. A birth canal if I ever saw one.”

  Ramsey thrust his hands into his pockets, clenched his fists. What is going on here? he asked himself. An idea like that should have originated with BuPsych. This man Sparrow is either teetering on the ragged edge or he’s the sanest man I’ve ever met. He’s absolutely right about that base and the tunnel and we’ve never spotted the analogy before. This bears on our problem. But bow?

  Sparrow said, “Joe, secure the tow board on automatic. I want you to go with Mr. Ramsey now and test out the new detection gear. It should be ranged on our first check point.” He looked to the big sonoran auto-nav chart on the forward bulkhead and the red dot showing their DR position. “Les, surface the peri-box and get a position reading.”

  “Right, Skipper.”

  Garcia closed the final switch on his board, turned to Ramsey. “Let’s go, Junior.”

  Ramsey looked at Sparrow, a wish to be part of this crew uppermost in his mind. He said, “My friends call me Johnny.”

  Sparrow spoke to Garcia. “Joe, would you also initiate Mr. Ramsey into the idiosyncrasies of our atmospheric system? T
he carbonic anhydrase phase regulator would be a good place to start.”

  Ramsey felt the rejection of his first name like a slap, stiffened, ducked through the aft door and into the companionway.

  Garcia followed, dogged the door behind them, turned, said, “You’d better know something about the subtugs, Ramsey. A new hand is always known by his last name or anything else the crew feels like calling him until after the first combat. Some guys hope they never get called by their first name.”

  Ramsey cursed inwardly. Security had missed that point. It made him appear like a green hand. Then he thought: But this is a natural thing. A unit compulsive action by the crew. A bit of magic. Don’t use the secret name of the new man lest the gods destroy him … and his companions.

  In the control room, Bonnett turned to Sparrow, sniffed. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, turned back to the control board. “He’s green,” he said.

  “He appears willing, though,” said Sparrow. “We can hope for the best.”

  Bonnett asked, “Aren’t you worried about that last-minute Security check-up on the guy?”

  “Somewhat,” said Sparrow.

  “I can’t help it,” said Bonnett. “The guy—something about him—I dunno. He strikes me as a wrongo.” Bonnett’s shaggy brows drew down in thought.

  “It could’ve been routine,” said Sparrow. “You know the going over they gave us.”

  “I’m still going to keep an eye on him,” said Bonnett.

  “I’ve some paper work,” said Sparrow. “Steady as she goes. Call me before the first check point.”

  “What’s the watch schedule?” asked Bonnett.

  “That’s what I’m going to be working on,” said Sparrow. “I want to set it up so I can spend some time with Ramsey while we’re still in comparatively safe waters. I don’t want him goofing when the chips are down.”

  Sparrow ducked for the aft door, went down the companionway and into the wardroom. The first thing that struck him as he entered was the color of the wardroom table cover—a cover and a color he had seen thousands of times.

  Why is it that Navy wardrooms always have green table covers? he asked himself. Is it a little of the color of the growing land? Is it to remind us of home?