The Dragon in the Sea

by Frank Herbert

  What am I afraid of? he asked himself.

  Back came the answer: You’re afraid of your own personal extinction.

  “It’d be as though I’d died en utero,” he said, speaking the thought softly to himself. “Never born at all.”

  He found that he was trembling, bathed in perspiration. The plug holes of the test board in front of him seemed to stare back—a hundred demanding eyes. He suddenly wanted to scream, found he couldn’t move his throat muscles.

  If there was an emergency now, I’d be helpless, he thought. I couldn’t move a finger.

  He tried to will the motion of the index finger of his right hand, failed.

  If I move I’ll die!

  Something touched his shoulder and he almost blanked out in frozen panic. A voice spoke softly beside his ear and it was as though the voice had shouted loud enough to split his eardrums.

  “Ramsey. Steady, boy.

  “You’re a brave man, Ramsey. You took it longer than most.”

  Ramsey felt the trembling of his body had become so violent that his vision blurred.

  “I’ve been waiting for this, Ramsey. Every man goes through it down here. Once you’ve been through it, you’re all right.”

  Deep, fatherly voice. Tender. Compassionate.

  With all his being, Ramsey wanted to turn, bury his head against that compassionate chest, sob out his fears in strangled emotion.

  “Let it go,” said Sparrow. “Let it come. Nobody here but me, and I’ve been through it.”

  Slowly at first, then in gasping sobs, the tears came. He bent over the bench, buried his face in his arms. All the time, Sparrow’s hand upon his shoulder, a feeling of warmth from it, a sense of strength.

  “I was afraid,” whispered Ramsey.

  “Show me the man who isn’t afraid and I’ll show you a blind man or a dolt,” said Sparrow. “We’re plagued with too much thinking. It’s the price of intelligence.”

  The hand left Ramsey’s shoulder. He heard the shack door open, close.

  Ramsey lifted his head, stared at the test board in front of him, the open intercom switch.

  Bonnett’s voice came from the speaker: “Ramsey, can you give us a sound-distance test now?”

  Ramsey cleared his throat. “Right.” His hands moved over the board, slowly, then with rapid sureness. “There’s enough cold stuff above us to blanket force speed,” he said.

  The speaker rumbled with Sparrow’s voice. “Les, give us force speed. Ramsey, we are within ninety pounds of pressure limit. Remain on watch with Les until you are relieved.”

  The humming of the Ram’s electric motors keened up a notch, another.

  “Right, Skipper,” said Ramsey.

  Garcia’s voice came over the intercom. “What’s up? I felt the motors.”

  “Cold layer,” said Sparrow. “We’re gaining a few knots while we can.”

  “Need me?”

  “Come up here on standby.”

  Ramsey heard the voices over the intercom with a peculiar clarity, saw the board in front of him with a detail that amazed him: tiny scratches, a worn plug line.

  Back came the memory of his blue funk and with it, a detail his mind had avoided: Sparrow calling to him over the intercom to make the sound-distance test.

  And when I didn’t answer, he came immediately to help me.

  Another thought intruded: He knows how green I am—has known it all along.

  “Ramsey.”

  Sparrow stood in the shack doorway.

  Ramsey stared at him.

  Sparrow entered, sat down on the bench stool beside the door. “What are you, Ramsey?”

  He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Every man has to wrestle with his shadow down here. You held out a long time.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “This life makes you face your fears sooner or later.”

  “How did you know I was afraid?”

  “Every man’s afraid down here. It was just a matter of waiting until you found out you were afraid. Now, answer my question: What are you?”

  Ramsey stared past Sparrow. “Sir, I’m an electronics officer.”

  A faint smile touched Sparrow’s eyes and mouth. “It’s a sad world we live in, Ramsey. But at least Security picks its men for their courage.” He straightened.

  Ramsey accepted this silently.

  “Now, let’s have a look at that little box of yours,” said Sparrow. “I’m curious.” He stood up, went out into the companionway, turned aft.

  Ramsey followed.

  “Why not keep it in the shack?” asked Sparrow.

  “I’ve been using my off time to check it.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out.” Sparrow dropped down to the lower level, Ramsey behind him. They entered Ramsey’s room. The humming of the induction drive came through the bulkhead.

  Ramsey sat down on his bunk, brought out the box, put it on his desk and unlocked it. Can’t let him look too close, thought Ramsey. He noted that the disguise system was working.

  Sparrow peered into the box with a puzzled frown.

  What’s he expect to find? Ramsey wondered.

  “Give me a rundown,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey pointed to a dial. “That monitors the sweep of the primary search impulse. The first models were plagued by feedback echo.”

  Sparrow nodded.

  Ramsey indicated a group of signal lights. “These separate the pulse frequencies. They flicker red when we’re out of phase. The particular light tells me which circuit is bouncing.”

  Sparrow straightened, shot a searching glance at Ramsey.

  “Tapes inside make a permanent record,” said Ramsey.

  “We’ll go into it at greater length some other time,” said Sparrow. He turned away.

  He expected some Security gadget, thought Ramsey.

  “Why’d Security plant you on us?” asked Sparrow.

  Ramsey remained silent.

  Sparrow turned, stared at him with a weighing look. “I won’t force this issue now,” he said. “Time enough for that when we get home.” His face took on a bitter expression. “Security! Half our troubles can be traced to them.”

  Ramsey maintained his silence.

  “It’s fortunate you’re a good electronics officer,” said Sparrow. “Doubtless you were chosen for that quality.” A sudden look of indecision passed over his features. “You are a Security man, aren’t you?”

  Ramsey thought: If he believes that, it’ll mask my real position. But I can’t just admit it. That’d be out of character. He said, “I have my orders, sir.”

  “Of course,” said Sparrow. “Stupid of me.” Again the look of indecision. “Well, I’ll be getting—” Abruptly, he stiffened.

  Ramsey, too, fought to keep from showing surprise. The pellet imbedded in his neck had just emitted a sharp ping! He knew that the identical equipment in Sparrow also had reacted to a signal.

  Sparrow whirled to the door, ran forward to the control deck, Ramsey on his heels. They stopped before the big master board. Garcia turned from his position at the monitor controls. “Something wrong, Skipper?”

  Sparrow didn’t answer. Through his mind was running a senseless rhyme born of the twenty kills the EPs had made in the previous months: Twenty out of twenty is plenty … twenty out of twenty is plenty …

  Ramsey, standing behind Sparrow, was extremely conscious of the charged feeling in the control room, the stink of the atmosphere, the questioning look on Garcia’s face, the clicking of automatic instruments, and the answering response of the deck beneath his feet.

  The pellet in his neck had begun sending out a rhythmic buzzing.

  Garcia stepped away from the board. “What’s wrong, Skipper?”

  Sparrow waved him to silence, turned right. Ramsey followed.

  The buzzing deepened. Wrong direction.

  “Get a signal snifter,” said Sparrow, speaking over his shoulder to Ramsey.

  Ramsey
turned to the rear bulkhead, pulled a snifter from its rack, tuned it as he rejoined Sparrow. The instrument’s speaker buzzed in rhythm to his neck pellet.

  Sparrow turned left; Ramsey followed. The sound of the snifter went up an octave.

  “Spy beam!” said Garcia.

  Sparrow moved toward the dive board, Ramsey still following. The sound from the snifter grew louder. They passed the board and the sound deepened. They turned, faced the board. Now, the signal climbed another octave.

  Ramsey thought: Garcia was in here alone. Did he set up a signal device?

  “Where’s Les?” asked Sparrow.

  “Forward,” said Garcia.

  Sparrow seemed to be trying to look through the wall in front of him.

  He thinks it may be Bonnett sending that signal, thought Ramsey. With a sudden despair, he wondered: Could it be?

  Sparrow spoke into his chest microphone: “Les! To the control room! On the double!”

  Bonnett acknowledged and they heard a clang of metal as he slipped on the catwalk; then he shut off his microphone.

  Ramsey frowned at his snifter. The signal remained stationary although Bonnett was moving. But then a signal device could have been left hidden forward. He moved the snifter to the right, aiming it toward the center of the dive board. The signal remained constant.

  Sparrow had followed the motion.

  “It’s in the board!” shouted Ramsey.

  Sparrow whirled toward the board. “We may have only a couple of minutes to get that thing!”

  For a mind-chilling instant, Ramsey visioned the enemy wolf packs converging for another kill-twenty-one.

  Garcia slammed a tool kit onto the deck at their feet, flipped it open, came out with a screw driver. He began dismantling the cover plate.

  Bonnett entered. “What’s wrong, Skipper?”

  “Spy-beam transmitter,” said Sparrow. He had found another screw driver, was helping Garcia remove the cover plate.

  “Should we take evasive action?” asked Ramsey.

  Sparrow shook his head. “No, let them think we don’t know about it. Steady as she goes.”

  “Here,” said Garcia. “Pull on that end.”

  Ramsey reached forward, helped pull the cover plate away from the board, revealing a maze of wiring, transistors, high-pressure tubes.

  Bonnett picked up the snifter, passed it in front of the board, stiffened as the signal increased in front of the tube bank.

  “Joe, stand by on the auxiliary dive board,” said Sparrow. “I’m shutting down this whole section.”

  Garcia darted across to the auxiliary board on the opposite side of the control room. “Auxiliary operating,” he called.

  “Wait,” said Bonnett. He held the search box steady before a tube, reached in with his free hand and pulled the tube from its socket. The signal continued, but now it emanated from Bonnett’s hand as he waved the tube in front of the snifter.

  “A self-contained power unit in that little thing!” gasped Ramsey.

  “Suffering Jesus save us,” muttered Sparrow. “Here, give it to me.” He took the tube from Bonnett’s hand, gritted his teeth at the heat of the thing.

  Bonnett shook the hand which had held the tube. “Burned me,” he said.

  “It was in the Z02R bank,” Ramsey said.

  “Smash it,” said Garcia.

  Sparrow shook his head. “No.” He grinned mirthlessly. “We’re going to gamble. Les, take us up to discharge depth.”

  “Six hundred feet?” asked Bonnett. “We’ll be sitting ducks!”

  “Do it!” barked Sparrow. He turned to Ramsey, extended the tube. “Anything special about this you could use to identify it?”

  Ramsey took the tube, turned it over in his hand. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a tiny record camera, began photographing the tube from all angles.

  Sparrow noted the ready availability of a record camera, but before he could comment on it, Ramsey said, “I’ll have to look at the enlargements.” He glanced up at Sparrow. “Do we have time to give this thing a more thorough goingover in the shack?”

  Sparrow looked to the static pressure gauge. “About ten minutes. Whatever you do, don’t stop that signal.”

  Ramsey whirled, hurried to the shack, Sparrow behind him. He heard Sparrow speaking into a chest mike as they ran.

  “Joe, get a garbage disposal container and ready a tube to discharge that spy beam. With any luck at all, we’re going to send the EPs chasing after an ocean current.”

  Ramsey put a piece of soft felt on his workbench, placed the tube on it.

  “If you’ve ever prayed, pray now,” said Sparrow.

  “Nothing this small could have an internal power source to give off that much signal,” said Ramsey.

  “But it does,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey paused to wipe perspiration from his hands. A thought flitted through his mind: What will the telemeter record show on Sparrow’s endocrine balance this time?

  “Devilish thing!” muttered Sparrow.

  “We’re playing a big gamble,” said Ramsey. He placed calipers over the tube, noted the measurements. “Standard size for the Z02R.” He put the tube in a balance scale with another of the same make. The spy tube sank, unbalancing the scale.

  “It’s heavier than the standard,” said Sparrow.

  Ramsey moved the balance weights. “Four ounces.”

  Bonnett’s voice came over the bulkhead speaker above their heads: “Estimating discharge depth in four minutes. We’ve picked up a free ride on a current.”

  Sparrow said, “Do you think you can find out anything else about that thing?”

  “Not without tearing it down,” said Ramsey. “Of course, there’s a possibility X-ray would show some internal detail we could figure out.” He shook his head.

  “There’ll be more of those aboard,” said Sparrow. “I know there will.”

  “How?”

  Sparrow looked at him. “Call it a hunch. This mission has been marked.” He glared at the tube on the bench. “But by all that’s sacred, we’re going to come through!”

  “Two minutes,” said Bonnett’s voice over the speaker.

  Ramsey said, “That’s it. Let me examine what we already have.”

  Sparrow scooped up the tube, said, “Move out to full limit.”

  “They may detect our pulse,” said Ramsey, then colored as he felt the metronomic response of the speaker in his neck.

  Sparrow smiled without mirth, turned, stooped for the door, and disappeared down the companionway. Presently, his voice came over the intercom: “We’re at the tube and ready to blow this thing, Les. Give me the static gauge readings.”

  Back came Bonnett’s voice: “Four-ninety, four-seventy, four-forty … four hundred even!”

  Ramsey heard the faint “chug!” of the discharge tube, the sound carried to him through the hull.

  Sparrow’s voice rang over the intercom: “Ride the vents!”

  The Ram’s deck tipped sharply. The humming of the motors climbed through a teeth-grating vibration.

  Ramsey looked to the dial showing their sound-transmission level. Too high. The silencer planes would never cover it.

  Sparrow’s voice boomed from the speaker: “Ramsey, take over the internal-pressure system on manual. Overcompensate for anticipated depth. We’ll worry about Haldane charts and depth sickness later. Right now, I want that cold level and 7000 feet over us.”

  Ramsey acknowledged, his hands moving to the controls as he spoke. He glanced at the vampire gauge on his wrist. Diffusion rate low. He stepped up the release of carbonic anhydrase into the atmosphere.

  Sparrow again: “Ramsey, we’ve fired a salvo of homing torps on our back path. Delayed timing. Track the signal if any of them blow.”

  “Aye, Skipper.” Ramsey plugged a monitor phone into one of the board circuits ahead of him, glanced to the telltale above it. As he did, he noted that the pellet in his neck had almost lost the sound of the tube behind them.
His hands continued to move the internal pressure ahead of the depth requirement. The outside pressure repeater above his head showed 2600 pounds to the square inch, still climbing. Abruptly, the temperature recorder responded to their entrance into the cold current.

  Ramsey spoke into his chest mike: “We’re in the cold, Skipper.”

  Back came Sparrow’s voice: “We have it here.”

  Ramsey’s pressure repeater climbed through 2815 pounds, steadied. He felt the deck beneath him come up to level. Relays clicked, a bank of monitor lights flashed green. He sensed the ship around him—a buoyant, almost living thing of machines, plastics, gases, fluids … and humans. He could hear Sparrow’s voice over the open intercom giving orders in the control room.

  “Force speed. Change course to fifty-nine degrees, thirty minutes.”

  The secondary sonoran chart at Ramsey’s left noted the course change. He looked at the red dot marking their position: almost due south of the western tip of Iceland, directly on the sixtieth parallel of latitude. Automatic timelog reading: seven days, fourteen hours, twenty-six minutes from start of mission.

  “Ramsey, anything on those fish we sent back?”

  “Negative, Skipper.”

  “Stick with the shack. We’re going to start tearing down the board. We’ll have to check every tube for deviation from standard weight.”

  “We’ll have to go over the shack and the E-stores, too,” said Ramsey.

  “Later.” Sparrow’s voice conveyed a calm surety.

  Ramsey glanced at his wrist watch, correlated it with the timelog. What will the telemeter show? he asked himself. Again, he felt that his mind had made a failing grasp at an elusive piece of essential knowledge. Something about Sparrow. Ramsey’s gaze ranged over the board in front of him. His ears felt tuned for the slightest sound over the monitor phones. He glanced at the oscilloscope in the right bank: only background noise. For a fleeting instant, Ramsey felt that he was one with the ship, that the instruments around him were but extensions of his senses. Then it was gone and he could not recapture the feeling.

  In the control room, Sparrow fought down the twitching of a cheek muscle. He replaced a tube in the sonoran system, extracted another, read the code designation from the tube’s side: “PY4X4.”

  Garcia, beside him, ran a finger down a check list: “Fifteen ounces plus.”