The Dragon in the Sea

by Frank Herbert

  “Clever devils,” muttered Garcia. “How’d you spot it?”

  “Skipper gave me the idea with his scheme for faking the sound of our screw.”

  “Got you thinking about resonance,” said Garcia.

  “About building signals with harmonics,” corrected Ramsey.

  “Same thing.” Garcia came around in front of Ramsey. “Boy, he really worked you over.”

  “I guess he did.”

  “Your own fault, though.”

  Ramsey jerked his head up to stare at Garcia, winced at the sudden motion. “Why do you say that?”

  “For some reason, you’ve deliberately set out to make the skipper suspicious of you. But you forgot one thing: suspicion is contagious.”

  “The pressure’s cooking your brains,” said Ramsey.

  “I wish I knew what you were trying to prove,” said Garcia. “Maybe you’re trying to beach the skipper.”

  “Nuts! You have too much imagination.”

  “We’re alike there, Johnny. And time drags in a subtug. There’s time for a good imagination to run wild.” He stared at the bulkhead a moment. “That’s the skipper’s problem, too, really.”

  “That’s a rare piece of insight,” said Ramsey.

  Garcia acted as though he had not heard. “Imagination is a weakness when too much responsibility hangs on your shoulders.”

  They felt the Ram move, stop.

  “We’re seating the pump onto that well cap,” said Garcia. “It’ll take us a couple of days to fill the slug, then home we go.”

  “If it were only that easy,” said Ramsey.

  Garcia turned, strode across to the rec-room bookshelf, found a book, searched in it for a moment, and brought it back to Ramsey. “I think you’d better read this, Johnny. It’s Savvy Sparrow’s favorite passage.”

  He handed Ramsey a Bible, pointing to the beginning of a chapter, said, “Isaiah, twenty-seven, one and two.”

  Ramsey read it through silently, then reread it aloud:

  “‘In that day the Lord with his sore and great and strong sword shall punish leviathan the piercing serpent, even leviathan that crooked serpent; and he shall slay the dragon that is in the sea.’”

  Garcia continued the quotation from memory:

  “‘In that day sing ye unto her, A vineyard of red wine.’”

  Ramsey stared at the passage, shook his head. “What’s it mean to him?”

  Garcia said, “And he shall slay the dragon that is in the sea.” He reached down, took back the Bible. “To Savvy Sparrow, we’re the dragon in the sea.”

  “Here, let me have that,” said Ramsey. He took back the Bible. “Think I’ll read for a while.”

  “Look out, or you’ll get religion,” said Garcia.

  “No chance,” said Ramsey. “My teachers always said if you want to understand a subject, study the basic source. This is it for our captain.”

  “For a great many people,” said Garcia softly. “And a psychologist who does not have an intimate knowledge of that book is a doctor without instruments. And blind, to boot.”

  Ramsey looked at Garcia over the top of the book. “When are you going to give up that line?”

  “When you wake up,” said Garcia.

  Ramsey hid a frown behind the Bible, opened it again to the passage Garcia had pointed out, soon lost himself in the fury of Isaiah and the woe of Hezekiah and the thundering messages of prophecy.

  In the cold Arctic waters outside the Ram, pumps turned, hose nozzles sought out bottom muck for ballast. The plastic slug began to swell with its cargo of oil—like a live thing drinking at a jugular in the earth.

  The hands of the timelog swept around, around. Fifty-one hours at the well.

  Full slug. It stretched out on the bottom behind the Ram, turgid with its cargo, now almost a mile long, held in delicate hydrostatic balance so that it would tow beneath the surface.

  Ramsey and Garcia entered the control room together. Sparrow and Bonnett already were there.

  Garcia nodded at something Ramsey had said. “You’re right. We’d better—”

  “Right about what?” asked Sparrow.

  “Johnny was just saying that the slug’s compensator system would drop ballast if we try to pull that deep-dive maneuver on the way home.”

  “He’s right,” said Sparrow. “And if we don’t compensate, we’ll rupture the slug.”

  “And bleed oil all over the surface,” said Bonnett. “Wouldn’t that be lovely, now.”

  “There might be a way to pull it off,” said Sparrow. “But let’s hope we don’t have to try it.” He turned to the control board. “Les, lift us off. Minimum headway. Take us right down into the gut. We’re going to use it for cover as long as we’re able.”

  “Aye.” Bonnett’s hands moved over the controls.

  “Wouldn’t they be likely to lay for us in a place like that?” asked Ramsey.

  “We’re dead, remember?” said Garcia.

  Sparrow said, “Joe, take over auxiliary search and keep us down the center of that canyon. Johnny, get on standard search and watch for enemy pips.” He folded his arms in front of him. “The Lord has been kind to us, gentlemen. We’re going home.”

  “A milk run,” said Garcia.

  “For mad dogs and Englishmen,” said Bonnett.

  The Ram’s deck tilted upward, hung there for a moment. Slowly, the slug lifted behind them, followed. They slanted down into the gut.

  “One degree right,” said Garcia. “Steady as she goes.”

  “Steady as she goes,” sang Bonnett.

  “Here’s where we thank our lucky stars that the slug will track us in sections of hull length,” said Ramsey. “If we scrape the side wall—”

  “Two degrees left,” said Garcia.

  “Two degrees left,” acknowledged Bonnett.

  Sparrow glanced at Ramsey. “You were saying.”

  “I was just making talk.”

  “Let’s save the talk for rest camp,” said Sparrow. He turned back to the board in front of Bonnett. “We will take fatigue shots in three hours and at four-hour intervals until we’ve cleared the Arctic Circle. Let me know immediately if any of you show a Larson reaction from them.”

  Bonnett said, “They tell me those shots lop the sleepless hours off your life expectancy. Wonder if there’s anything in that?”

  “I once heard the moon was made of green cheese,” said Garcia.

  “Shall we pay attention to business, gentlemen?” asked Sparrow.

  Ramsey smiled. He could sense the increased vital drive in the crew like a strong outpouring of elation. He rubbed at the sore spot on his jaw where Bonnett had hit him, thought: It came at me from an unexpected angle, but Catharsis Number One has come and gone. AND I’m still alive. And Sparrow’s still functioning.

  The captain cleared his throat. “As soon as we’ve cleared the Norwegian basin we should be out of immediate danger. Their search packs should be ranging the Iceland passage now and they won’t be expecting someone from behind them. Our chief worry is picket tugs, line replacements moving up: the chance passerby.”

  “I’ve decided I’m going to die of old age,” said Garcia. “That’s my chief worry.”

  “You’re getting old before your time,” said Bonnett.

  “One degree left,” said Garcia.

  “One degree left,” acknowledged Bonnett.

  Deep in the underwater canyon, the Ram coursed generally westward. At the sill of the Norwegian basin, they lost the gut as it shoaled, crept along the basin rim, course 276 degrees. The bottom depth crept upward. They were in 200 fathoms when they swung south to parallel the Norwegian coastline, course 201 degrees.

  Eighty-one hours, fifty-eight minutes from the well, still two degrees above the Arctic Circle. Ramsey said, “Signal!” and slapped the switch which silenced their motors.

  “Course, distance, and direction?” asked Sparrow.

  “Southeast, ranging westerly and maybe a bit south. I’m just get
ting them on the outer limits of the long-range system: say thirty-five miles.”

  “Resume speed,” said Sparrow. “They have nothing that’ll reach that far.”

  “They’ll be off my board in a minute at present course,” said Ramsey.

  “We’ll play it safe anyway,” said Sparrow. “Ten minutes run due east, then resume course.”

  Garcia at the helm, acknowledged. The Ram changed course.

  “Lost them,” said Ramsey.

  “Resume course,” said Sparrow.

  Again they came around to parallel the Norwegian coast. South they went, and then west-southwest to gain greater distance from the shore stations along the southern reaches of Norway. And again bearing to the south, and again westerly to give the Faeroes a wide berth. Now they were at the edge of the deeps southeast of Iceland. Watch and standby: Ramsey and Sparrow on the control deck.

  “You certainly called the shot,” said Ramsey.

  “Don’t brag your luck,” said Sparrow. “It’ll change.”

  “What makes mariners so superstitious?” asked Ramsey.

  “Awareness of the limits of our knowledge,” said Sparrow. “And experience with the reality of luck.”

  “It’s a wonder we don’t have government-issue rabbits’ feet.”

  “I’ll suggest it when we—”

  “Pack!” Ramsey slapped the silencer switch. “They’re onto us, Skipper! They were lying doggo!”

  Sparrow kicked the alarm buzzer, brought the engines to life.

  “They’re right in our path,” said Ramsey. “Range fifteen miles.”

  “Sure-kill range,” said Sparrow. He brought the subtug and tow around to the northeast, pulled the power bar to its last notch.

  Bonnett and Garcia hurried into the control room.

  “A pack on us,” said Ramsey.

  “On the controls, you two,” said Sparrow.

  Bonnett and Garcia moved into their battle stations, Bonnett at the helm, Garcia on the torpedo board. Sparrow stepped to Ramsey’s side.

  “There’s bottom at 8800 feet,” said Ramsey.

  “We’ll have to chance it,” said Sparrow. “Les, take us down. Johnny, monitor the atmosphere.”

  Ramsey opened the control valve on the anhydrase generator one notch.

  The subtug’s deck slanted downward.

  “Joe, call the depths,” said Sparrow.

  “Sixty-eight hundred feet and 2880 pounds … 7000 feet and 3010 pounds … 7500 and 3235 … 8000 and 3440 … 8500 and 3655—”

  “Coast in,” said Sparrow.

  Bonnett silenced the drive.

  Garcia’s voice continued: “—8600 and 3700 … variation, Skipper—”

  “Noted.”

  “—8700 and 3750 … that’s nine pounds over normal, Skipper—”

  “Noted.”

  “—8750 and 3780 … that’s eighteen pounds over …”

  “Noted. Les, flatten the glide angle and give us the bow eye on the main screen.”

  “Bottom is forty feet,” said Ramsey. “The pack is closing fast. Range about eleven miles.”

  The big screen above their heads showed its pie slice of light and, abruptly, bottom mud.

  “Drop the slug in first,” said Sparrow.

  Bonnett brought up the bow planes until they felt the drag of the slug behind them. The Ram settled onto bottom mud in 8800 feet. The big static pressure gauge read 3804 pounds even: twenty pounds above normal for the depth.

  “Pack range nine miles and fanning out,” said Ramsey. “I count sixteen of them.”

  “Fanning out,” said Sparrow.“That means they’re confused by our—”

  “Two breaking away toward the surface,” said Ramsey. “They think we’ve floated up.”

  “Over normal pressure,” said Sparrow. “There’s a cold density layer above us confusing our sound pattern. Unless they detect metal, we’re safe.”

  “Unless we implode,” said Bonnett.

  “If we had some ham we’d have some ham and eggs if we had some eggs,” said Ramsey.

  Garcia chuckled.

  “The important thing is for us all to relax,” said Sparrow. “We don’t want the same complications we had last—”

  “Complishmashuns,” said Garcia. “Alla time talk-talktalk-talk. So he can psycho … psy—So he can find out what makes us go tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. Don’t y’, Johnny boy?”

  Ramsey raised his eyebrows, looked at Sparrow. Sparrow shrugged, said, “Come along, Joe. You need a shot.”

  “Need a whole bottle,” said Garcia. “Need a shycoan’ lyst like Johnny boy here. Don’ I, Johnny boy?”

  “I’m ordering you to come with me, Joe,” said Sparrow.

  Tears welled up in Garcia’s eyes. “I need a conscience,” he sobbed. “I wanna confess, but no one—”

  “Come along!” Sparrow grabbed Garcia’s arm, jerked him toward the aft door.

  “Easy, Skipper,” said Ramsey.

  Sparrow took a deep breath. “Right.”

  “I’ll come quietly,” said Garcia. “No need get excited. I don’ wanna be any trouble. I been enough trouble. I been terrible trouble. Never forgive me. Never.”

  He allowed himself to be led out the door, still mumbling, “Never … never … never … never …”

  “Quoth the raven,” said Ramsey. He rubbed absently at the still-sensitive bruise on his jaw where Bonnett had hit him.

  “That figures,” said Bonnett.

  “Huh?”

  “Head thumper. BuPsych rang you in on us.”

  “Not you, too, Brutus,” said Ramsey.

  “Sure it figures,” said Bonnett. “Hepp went loco, so they rang you in on us to find out why.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. You want to see which of us is next.”

  “Me, if I hear any more of this nutty talk. I’ve—”

  “Otherwise you’re a spy,” said Bonnett. “I guess you’re not that.”

  “Of all the—”

  “I’m trying to apologize,” said Bonnett. “It isn’t easy. Basically, I don’t like head thumpers. You screw doctors are all alike. Superior … know-it-all. Explanations for everything: Religion is a manifestation of deep-seated anxieties which—”

  “Oh, knock it off,” said Ramsey.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve felt better ever since I pounded you. Call it a cathartic. For a minute I had the enemy in my own hands. He was an insect I could crush.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ve never had the enemy in my hands before.” He held up his hands and looked at them. “Right there. I learned something.”

  “What?”

  “This may sound asinine.”

  “Say it anyway.”

  “Maybe I’d better not.”

  “Nothing was ever more important than for you to focalize that thought,” said Ramsey. And he thought: No matter what I do, I’m cast in the role of analyst!

  Bonnett rubbed his hands against his shirt, looked at the control board. “When you meet your enemy and recognize him and touch him, you find out that he’s like yourself: that maybe he’s part of you.” He shook his head. “I’m not saying this right.”

  “Try.”

  “I can’t do it.” Bonnett lowered his head, stared at the deck.

  “What’s it like? Try a comparison.”

  In a low, almost inaudible voice, Bonnett said, “It’s like when you’re the youngest and weakest kid on the playground. And when the biggest kid smacks you, that’s all right because he noticed you. That means you’re alive. It’s better than when they ignore you.” He looked up at Ramsey. “Or it’s like when you’re with a woman and she looks at you and her eyes say you’re a man. Yeah, that’s it. When you’re really alive, other people know it.”

  “What’s that have to do with having the enemy in your hands?”

  “He’s alive,” said Bonnett. “Dammit all, man, he’s alive and he’s got the same kind of aliveness that you have. Each of
us is the enemy”—Bonnett’s voice grew firmer—“to the other and to himself. That’s what I mean: I’m the enemy within myself. Unless I master that enemy, I always lose.”

  Ramsey stared at Bonnett in amazement.

  “Not the kind of thinking you’d expect from me,” said Bonnett.

  Ramsey shook his head.

  “Why not? I feel things just like anybody else. So I hide it most of the time. Who am I hiding it from?” He sneered. “Me. That’s who.”

  “What set you off?”

  “I found someone I could talk to, someone who had to keep his professional mouth shut because—”

  “Just a minute.” Ramsey’s gaze, never off the search-board instruments for more than a few seconds, had caught a sharp needle deflection. “Sonic search blast. There’s another. If they’re spaced on us, our hull will stick up like a sore thumb: a fat metal finger.”

  “They won’t look for us down here.”

  “Don’t count on it. There’s anoth—”

  “What’s going on?” Sparrow ducked through the door into the control room.

  “Sonic search bombs,” said Ramsey. “The EPs are looking for a metallic bounce labeled Fenian Ram.”

  Sparrow moved closer to stand at Ramsey’s shoulders. “And here comes one ranging over us.”

  “Fast,” said Ramsey. He put his hand on the anti-torp volley switch.

  “Leave that alone,” said Sparrow. “They won’t use a fish on an unidentified bump.”

  “He’s inside of a mile,” said Ramsey. “In the six-thousandfoot level. There goes another search bomb.”

  They felt the dull bump of it through the hull.

  “If one of our external fittings implodes, the shock wave’ll crack us like—”

  “We’ve all read the manual, Les,” said Sparrow. He turned away from the board, bent his head. “Lord, we who have no right to ask it, do plead for your mercy. Thy will be done … . Whatever.”

  “He’s turning away,” whispered Ramsey.

  “Lord, turn not away from thy—”

  “That EP sub,” said Ramsey. “He’s turning away.”

  Sparrow lifted his head. “Thank you, Lord.” He looked at Bonnett. “Joe’s under sedation. Go back and stay with him.”

  Bonnett went out the aft door.