by Jack Finney
"You're right," I said; we were leaning on a rail looking down at the unbroken green surface of the swimming pool. "You know your way around the ship."
"Yeah." Vic nodded. "I've read all the literature, studied the photographs, the deck plans, and been aboard her as often as I could. Every once in a while I've dropped into a travel agency and discussed sailing dates and cabins as though I were thinking of sailing on her." He smiled. "As I was — thinking about it, that is. And someday I will actually sail on a ship like this. First class. In a suite. And on the promenade deck, the best there is." He glanced at his watch. "Let's go," he said, pushing himself erect from the rail. "You've got to see the promenade deck before it's time to leave."
We walked completely around the ship on that deck, a distance of more than an eighth of a mile, Vic said, and I didn't doubt him. To a Navy man, a submarine man especially, a ship is the most utilitarian of almost anything human beings build. Every last inch and fractional inch is jealously apportioned, and the human beings on board get only what space is left over after the machinery and equipment are in place. And especially on a submarine you may share a cramped bed with piping, electrical cables, even torpedoes. But here was a ship, the largest I'd ever even been near by thousands of tons, and it was utterly outside all my experience. Nearly every foot of all the enormous space we'd been through was designed and given over to human comfort — more than comfort, to absolute luxury. And even the decks, as we walked around them in the warm spring sunshine, were spacious.
We heard chimes, and far ahead on the deck I saw a steward in white approaching, a set of hand chimes suspended from around his neck by a strap, and we heard him chant, "All ashore that's going ashore." We were a hundred yards or so from a covered gangplank, and we walked slowly toward it.
We stepped off the gangplank presently, and as our feet touched the dock and New York again, Vic stopped, and I saw his fists clench. Looking up at my face, he said quietly, "Hugh, I want to be on a ship like that — not looking, but having; sailing on her first class! — more than anything else I've ever wanted in the world." For a moment or so he stood staring at me, then he smiled suddenly, charmingly. "Silly, isn't it?" he said, and I shrugged, not answering — there was nothing to say to that — and we began walking out toward the street.
"What are you doing these days, Hugh?" Vic said then, as we walked on toward the line of doorways ahead. I told him, and he nodded. "Not married, are you?" he said, and I had the sudden feeling that this was more than casual conversation, that my answer was somehow important to Vic, and I glanced at him curiously as I shook my head no. For several steps then we walked along in silence, and I was aware that Vic was eying me speculatively. Then, his voice very casual, he said, "What are you doing right now; got time for a little lunch?"
"Yeah, if you're not too hungry; I had a late breakfast."
He said, "A sandwich will do fine."
We had lunch at a big drugstore on West 42nd Street; the lunch rush hour was just ending and most of the tables still were uncleared. "Quite a contrast," I said, grinning at Vic; I was needling him a little, I don't know why, but he simply nodded, his face abstracted and thoughtful. Glancing around the store, his eye was caught by a floor display a few yards away — a table piled with packaged airplane- and ship-model kits, the kind you put together yourself. Vic got up, walked over to it, and I watched him then, looking through the kits. Presently he came back, a package in his hand, and he smiled and shrugged as he sat down again. "I kind of like these things," he said. "I get a kick out of putting them together," and I didn't believe him.
I was certain, somehow, that it was a lie, and I looked at the colored illustration on the package in his hands; it showed a surfaced submarine, one of the later S types, her decks awash, plowing through a very blue sea. "Look good to you, Hugh?" Vic said, and I didn't answer, wondering what he was getting at, and he pulled open a flap at one end of the package. "Let's see what it looks like," he said, sliding the plastic parts out onto the table. Then he picked up two long sections of gray plastic and fitted them together to form the slim, tapering hull of a miniature submarine. "Beautifully made little thing," he murmured, holding it up, and I nodded.
"Looks like a sub in dry dock," I said.
"Yeah," Vic answered, smiling, "stripped down for repairs and refitting in a main yard." He glanced up at me. "Like to be sailing on her, Hugh?"
"Oh" — I smiled — "I wouldn't mind; but for a few days, not a three-year hitch."
The waitress brought menus then, smiling down at the little sub as she cleared the table and swabbed it off, and while we studied the menus I had time to wonder what Vic was up to. He was staging something, I felt; I was sure that if I hadn't been with him he'd never have given the model display a second glance, let alone hunt out a submarine kit. Again I wondered why Vic DeRossier had tried to phone me, and, after I gave the waitress my order, I sat back in the booth, waiting for whatever he had to say.
He lounged back and said idly, conversationally, "Be fun, wouldn't it, if half a dozen guys, say, all ex-submarine men, got hold of an old sub?" He smiled thoughtfully. "I think I'd be tempted to take a little cruise some night. When there was no moon and no Coast Guard in sight. Just for old times' sake, and not far — nice and slow and taking it easy." He took a sip of water, glancing up at me over the rim of the glass as he swallowed. "And if that worked out" — he set the glass down — "I could even see us taking her down a little way." My face must have shown something because Vic said softly, "I thought that might get you; and it does, doesn't it, Hughie-boy?"
I smiled a little and didn't deny it. No one serves in a United States submarine unless that's where he wants to be. Some men are there simply because they don't mind the service and like belonging to an elite group; the extra pay is no objection either. But others are there because they love submarines. Most civilians — and plenty of Navy men — can see nothing pleasant, nothing that isn't at least a little horrifying about a handful of men deliberately submerging a ship under the surface of the ocean, and continuing on down into the dark, silent cold. But I loved it when I was in the service, and now I smiled and said, "Beats weekend sailing, all right."
"Yeah," he said softly, leaning forward over the table top toward me, "it will."
"Will?" I said after a moment.
He nodded slowly — grinning, enjoying this — his narrowed eyes exuberant and alive again. "Yeah, Hugh," he said gently. "We've got a sub — five of us. A little one — less than five hundred tons and the oldest you ever saw. But we think it's just possible we might get her operating again, and then six men could man her."
For several seconds I sat studying his face and eyes, then I knew he was serious. "All right, Vic," I said quietly, "cut out the build-up; I don't need it. What the devil are you talking about?"
He leaned still farther toward me and spoke almost in a whisper. "About one and a half million dollars, Hugh; two hundred and fifty thousand apiece, tax-free. More money than you'll ever get your hands on in any other way."
Again I watched him, studying his eyes; then I sat back in the booth. "And what way is that?"
He shook his head, sitting back too. "I can't tell you now; not till we know you're pretty well interested."
"Then we've run out of conversation, Vic, because I'm not."
"Why?"
"A million and a half dollars" — I smiled — "that you need a submarine to get, and it's all a big secret. Whatever you're doing, Vic, it's illegal, isn't it? A crime."
"Sure." He nodded. "Technically, anyway. I don't think it's really a crime. and I don't think you or anyone else would either. But legally it is; get caught, and you'll go to prison, and for a long, long time. You might even get killed; it's dangerous too." '
I smiled. "You still selling me, Vic, or you talking me out of it now?"
"Still selling you, Hugh." He smiled back. "We've got four or five possible guys on our list for the sixth man, but you're the one we want. I'm glad I r
an into you today, but I'd have located you one way or another; I'm pretty sure you're the guy we want, and I'll tell you why." For several moments he was silent, staring at me, then he said quietly, "There's a word you don't hear much any more, Hugh; not spoken seriously, anyway. It's out of style, and you're supposed to smile when you say it. You know what the word is?" His eyes went somber, and again he leaned forward, his voice dropping. "It's 'adventure,' and you hardly hear or see it any more, except in the titles of books for boys. But myself, I still like the word; I still like what it means. Why, hell" — he threw himself back in the booth — "today even college boys talk security!" Vic leaned closer to me, his voice a murmur. "But you're not like that, Hugh, and that's why I'm talking to you now. I don't think you're willing to grow up into a man and then settle for life in the suburbs. I'm not!" He glared at me.
For several moments, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bright, Vic sat staring at me. Then he sat back and said quietly, "And that's all I can tell you now, Hugh. All I can promise you, now or ever, is this: Decide to come in with us, and you'll be scared to death, and with darned good reason. And you may end up dead — or regretting it forever." His eyes wide, he was staring past me. "But you'll have a good time," he murmured, "the kind you were made for." His hand suddenly clenched to a fist, and now his eyes focused on me again. "You'll have a good time," he repeated more loudly, "the best there is. With a chance of making a quarter of a million dollars to boot!"
I looked up at Vic again, and he said softly, "What do you say, Hugh? Are you interested?"
I smiled at him sardonically. "No," I said and leaned toward him. "Because you know what this sounds like to me? Whatever it is? Like something four or five guys sitting around over a few drinks might have dreamed up and got all excited about. Sunken treasure maybe, or something of that sort, which sounds like fun; adventure maybe, but it sounds unreal, even childish; and if you say different, you've got to convince me."
"And if we did, what then?" I didn't answer immediately, and Vic said softly, "You'd be interested then, wouldn't you, Hugh? You like money, don't you? You'd like a lot of it, wouldn't you? How'd you like to sail on the Queen Mary first class?"
I was irritated — I don't like to be sold anything; I don't like being handled or managed, the way Vic had been trying to; and I spoke the truth besides. "I wouldn't give a damn for it," I said. "I don't care if I never sailed on the Mary or any other ship, first class or tenth."
For the first time Vic looked defeated, puzzled. I leaned forward, grinning. "But I'd like two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," I said gently. "Boy, how I'd like it. And do you know what I'd do with it, Vic?" He sat staring at me and shook his head. "Nothing," I said. "I wouldn't spend a lousy dime of it."
The waitress brought our sandwiches and coffee then, and we each sat back, watching her set them, with the silverware, on the table. Then I picked up my sandwich and leaned toward Vic again. "A lot of people think this and say this, Vic, but they wouldn't really do it. I would, though; I wouldn't spend that money. I'd buy Government bonds with it, at banks and post offices here and there. And at only three per cent interest, it would give me seventy-five hundred dollars a year for the rest of my life, and my family'd have it after me — I wouldn't even need life insurance. For that, Vic, I'd do almost anything — not for the lousy two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but for the seventy-five hundred it would bring me each year."
I was silent for a moment, then I took a sip of coffee and said, "That's all I want, Vic; that's all money means to me. But I'd give plenty for that; I'd do almost anything. Now, what's it all about?"
"Come and see for yourself," he said, grinning and exuberant again. "Meet the others, size them up, and let them size you up, those who don't already know you. And if they suit you and you suit them, you'll find out all about it."
"And when would that be?"
"Tomorrow; we're ready to start, Hugh, and we're pressed for time."
I took another sip of coffee, then said, "If I do, Vic, I'll decide for myself just how technical this crime is and how much sense your scheme makes. And if I don't like the sound of it, I'm out."
"Sure." Vic put down his sandwich and dusted the crumbs from his palms. "One thing, though; if you didn't come in with us, we'd have to trust you to keep your mouth shut. We could do that, couldn't we, Hugh? You'd better be sure we could." After a moment I nodded, and Vic said, "Well, then. Tomorrow's Sunday. Can you meet me in Penn Station around ten o'clock, at the main information booth?"
"Sure," I said to Vic. "I'll be there."
TO BE CONTINUED
The Saturday Evening Post, August 22, 1959, 232(8):20-21, 40-41, 44, 46
The U-19's Last Kill, Part Two
That Frank Lauffnauer was able to find the old U-19 again was a miracle. For the little sub, whose existence was known only to him, lay hidden under 100 feet of water off Fire Island. Here Lauffnauer, as a young German sailor, had abandoned her in 1918. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that the sub appeared still to be watertight. Thus there was a chance, Lauffnauer thought, of operating her again and of making her part of his incredible plan.
Later Vic DeRossier, now in league with Lauffnauer, sought out Hugh Brittain, who had served with Vic on a U.S. Navy submarine. Without disclosing the plan, Vic tried to tempt Hugh to join the mysterious venture. Would Hugh like a share of a million and a half dollars? Would he like to sail on a sub again? Intrigued, Hugh agreed to meet Vic's accomplices.
II
We walked in silence for a quarter of a mile along the beach at Fire Island. We hadn't said much on the way, either, but just read the Sunday paper, occasionally exchanging sections of it.
Then I looked down at Vic beside me. He was wearing blue denims and work shirt. I wore a white shirt and gray wash pants. "You haven't said anything about who I'm going to meet here, Vic."
He looked up at me. "No."
"You want to watch my reactions when I meet them cold."
He nodded. "We thought it might be a good idea. I was on the phone with them last night, to say you were coming."
"All right." I nodded. "That's all right with me, but you'd have found out what I think anyway. I don't consider this a social call, Vic; no occasion for politeness or pretense. A million and a half bucks with a darn good chance of death or prison instead is serious. You'll find out what I think, all of you, precisely and in clear detail."
"O.K., Hugh." He smiled up at me. "Don't get huffy."
"Sure," I said. "But don't treat me like a kid, either. Now, just exactly where are we going?"
He pointed to a gray-shingled cottage some two hundred yards ahead; one of an endless row of almost identical houses just back of the low dunes. "Right there. We've rented the place for a month."
I stared at the open porch of the little cottage ahead. A man sat on the railing, and as we walked along the smooth, damp sand toward him, I narrowed my eyes, and within a few dozen more steps I could begin to make out his features. He was about fifty, I thought, though I learned later he was older, and his face was thin, the cheeks cutting in very sharply under the cheekbones, and grooved with two straight lines angling down from the base of his nose. There was a stern dignity about the man, and I felt he was, or had once been, somebody.
Now — we were a dozen yards from the steps — he stood up from the railing and smiled at us very pleasantly, his eyes friendly and pleased, and I suddenly felt that I was going to like him. From the corner of my eyes I saw Vic smile; he'd been watching my face, and when he spoke I could tell from his voice that he was relieved at my reaction. "Come on down, will you, Frank?" he called to the man on the porch. "And bring the others." Turning to me, he said, "Let's sit out here in the sun, O.K.?" and I nodded.
We sat down on the sand in front of the house, and a moment or so later a woman in a black bathing suit and a man in maroon trunks, carrying a folded beach umbrella, walked out of the house and came down the porch steps toward us. The man's face was hidden by t
he orange folds of the umbrella, but I could see the woman clearly; she was young, olive-skinned and had a magnificent, wide-hipped figure. Her face wasn't pretty, but it was striking, memorable — the nose small and delicately hooked with a perfectly even curve, the brows wide and arched and dead black, as was her hair, coiled in two tight braids on top of her head. Her eyes, as she stared at my face, studying me frankly, were big and black. In her black bathing suit she was a stunning sight, and Vic was grinning.
"Rosa," he said, as the girl stopped before us, looking at me without smiling, "this is Hugh Brittain. This is Mrs. Lucchesi, Hugh," and I spoke and smiled.
"Hello, sucker," she said in a soft, surprisingly low-toned voice; then she smiled suddenly, a flashing, wonderfully friendly smile, taking the sting out of what she'd said, and, as I got to my feet, took my hand. "You are crazy, like the rest of us?" she said, and I realized she had a faint foreign accent; Italian, I supposed.
"Not yet," I said, smiling down at her. "I haven't joined the club; so far I'm just looking, not buying."
She smiled and sat down then, and I turned toward the man with the umbrella. He was planting it in the sand beside us; then he unfurled it, and now I saw his face — and knew I'd seen it somewhere before. For a moment he stood looking at me, a corner of his mouth curling in a wry little smile. Then he said, "Hi, lieutenant," and I stared at him and could not think who he was.
He was probably thirty-two years old, short, quite dark, his chest very thick and black with hair, a strong, heavily muscled, but very lithe man. His face, though, was beginning to round a little with fat, and I knew he was heavier — thicker in the middle — than when I'd seen him last. "Moreno," he said then, his voice contemptuous of my failure to remember his name. As he spoke, he pushed a hand forward with an easy roll of one shoulder.
