by Hal Clement
“I’m not in on all the thoughts of the Council here,” he answered, “and I don’t know whether they’ve thought much of that point. I repeat, there have been quite a few people who stayed down here without getting the Board very excited. Personally, I think they’d just put this part of the Pacific off limits to the general public long before they’d waste energy sending a fleet of subs down here. In any case, that’s the Council’s worry. The current point is that you and Marie do have the choice and will have to make it of your own free will.”
“What if I refuse to commit myself?”
“Once you’ve been told what is necessary, we’ll simply turn you loose at the gate you came in by. You’re hardly in a position to hang on and refuse to go up. No problem.” He I gestured toward the direction from which we had come along the tunnel. “Speaking for myself, I’d like to have you stay — and Marie, of course. I do have some good friends down here now, but they’re not quite the same as old ones.”
I thought for a few seconds more and then tried to catch his eye through the port while I asked the next question.
“Bert, why did you decide to stay down here?”
He simply shook his head.
“You mean it’s too long to explain now, or you don’t want to tell me, or something else?” I persisted.
He held up one finger, then three, but still wrote nothing.
“In other words, I’m going to have to make up my own mind entirely on my own.” He nodded emphatically. “And Marie, too?” He nodded again.
I could think of only one more question likely to be helpful, and I threw it at him.
“Bert, could you go back up above now if you changed your mind about staying? Or is what they did to let you breathe water impossible to reverse?”
He smiled and used the stylus again.
“We’re not breathing water; that analysis misses on two counts. They did make an irreversible change, but it’s not a very serious one. I could still live at the surface, though the shift back to air breathing would be somewhat lengthy and complicated.”
“You just said you weren’t breathing water!”
“I repeat it. I’m not.”
“But you just said—” He held up his hand to stop me and began writing again.
“I’m not trying to tantalize you. The Council isn’t dictatorial by nature, or even very firm, but it feels strongly and unanimously that the details of how we live here shouldn’t be discussed with anyone who hasn’t committed himself to staying. I may have said more than they’d strictly like already, and I’m not going any further.”
“Do the people out there with you disagree with the Council?”
“No. The feeling on that point is pretty uniform among the populace.”
“Then why did you take the chance of telling me as much as you did?”
“Most of them were in no position to see what I wrote, none of them could have read it, and none of them can understand your spoken words.”
“Then the native language here isn’t — ”
“It isn’t.” He’d cut me off again with a wave of his hand before I even named a language.
“Then why do you worry about disobeying this Council on the matter of telling me things?”
“Because I think they’re perfectly right.”
That was a hard one to argue, and I didn’t try. After a minute or so, he wrote another message.
“I have work to do and have to go now, but I’ll be back every hour or two. If you really need me badly, pound on your tank — not too hard, please. Even if no one is in sight, which isn’t likely, you can be heard for a long distance, and someone will send for me. Think it over carefully; I’d like you to stay, but not if you’re not sure you want to.” He laid the clipboard down beside the tank, and swam off. Quite a few of the others also disappeared, though they didn’t all take the same tunnel. The small number remaining seemed to be those who had arrived most recently and hadn’t yet given their eyes a real fill of the tank. They did nothing either interesting or distracting, though, and I was able to buckle down to heavy thinking. There was plenty of it to do, and I’m rather slow at the business sometimes.
There was no problem about the decision, of course. Naturally I would have to go back to report.
Staying here might, as Bert had said, merely pass the buck to another investigator, but sending another one down would be a clear waste of power no matter what trick they dreamed up to get him there. Also, I wasn’t nearly as sure as Bert seemed to be that the Board wouldn’t waste a few tons of explosive on this place if they found it and had reason to believe it had killed off three of their agents. The problem was not whether to go back, but when; and the ‘when’ depended on what I could manage to do first.
What I wanted to do was make contact with Marie. It would also be nice to find out more about Joey, if information of any sort was to be had. I didn’t want to believe that Bert had lied about him, and it was certainly possible that Marie’s disbelief stemmed from her reluctance to accept the fact that Joey had disappeared in a genuine accident. On the other hand, she was by no means stupid. I had to allow for the possibility that she might have better reasons for doubting Bert.
Joey, like Marie, had had a one-man sub. He could have found out things these people did not want known at the surface. After all, what they seemed to want Marie and me to carry back if we went was information, or propaganda, designed to discourage the Board from checking further.
But wait a minute. That was true only if Bert were right about the Board’s preferring to hide the word of what went on down here.
If he were wrong — if my own admittedly prejudiced idea of the reaction were closer to the truth — there’d be no question of suppression, and the Board would be down raiding this place within a day of the time either of us got back. That could hardly be wanted by this ‘Council’ Bert was talking about. Maybe there really was something in what he had said.
But there still could be things these people didn’t want known, whether they were feeding Bert a line about the Board or not. Joey could be here or could have been killed, though the latter went very much against the grain to believe. Even if Bert had been right about his never arriving — perhaps especially if he were — there was Marie to worry about, too. If she were feeling stubborn she’d never leave of her own free will, and they couldn’t just turn her loose to float up, the way they could me. She had a sub. Of course, now that I was here they could cripple her boat, make sure it was low on ballast, and turn us adrift at the same time; maybe I should wait for that. Maybe -
If you’re getting confused by the way I tell you this you have an idea of the way I felt. If you remember that my memory has done some editing and organizing since all this actually happened, you may have an even better idea. It got to be more than I felt like taking. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t had much sleep for a long, long time. The tank wasn’t a comfortable place for that, but there are times when one doesn’t bother with trifles. I slept.
Chapter Ten
I got in a good, solid eight hours, according to the clock. When I woke up, it was with the conviction that I couldn’t plan anything until I had figured out how these people managed to live as they did, what would have to be done to me if I agreed to stay and most particularly what I would have to arrange to do myself if, after agreeing to stay and being processed, I chose to leave.
Bert had made it clear that he wasn’t going to tell me, but he had admitted saying a little more than he should have, so there might be a chance of my figuring it out for myself.
My memory is supposed to be good. Just what had he said that might mean anything?
The most striking remark was his denial that he was breathing water. Also, there had been something else in that sentence — what was it? — “that analysis misses on two counts.” What could that mean?
Grammatically speaking, the most obvious implication of the first phrase was that the liquid now around us wasn’t water. Was this po
ssible? And if it were, was there any other evidence?
Yes, to both.
Many liquids don’t mix well with water — nonpolar liquids in general. Carbon tetrachloride and all the oils, to name familiar ones. However, if this were such a liquid it must be at least as dense as water and probably denser. Not the general run of oils, therefore. Not carbon tet, either, since it’s highly poisonous. The density had to be high because there was no door or valve between this place and the ocean, and oil would have floated to the surface of the Pacific and been spotted long ago.
On that basis, the interface between water and my hypothetical liquid would probably be at the entrance. Memory supported the idea.
As the tank had reached the level of the pit’s mouth on the way in, the subs had hooked more ballast to it — obviously necessary if the new liquid were denser than water and the tank were just barely heavy enough to sink in the latter. The swimmers, too, had taken on more ballast — those ‘tool kits!’ Of course. If they had been tools, why put them on coming in from; the sea bottom? Or if outside were a place for recreation only and tools were only used inside, why not keep them at the place they were used? If there had been room in the tank, I’d have kicked myself for not seeing that sooner — or rather, for not following up the doubts I had had at the time.
All right, first working hypothesis. We’re in a nonpolar, nonpoisonous liquid, somewhat denser than water. I think I see why, but let’s not be too hasty.
So that was the second point on which my analysis had been wrong. The people, as Bert said, weren’t breathing water — because they weren’t in water and because they weren’t breathing. I still had trouble believing it, but the logic went marching on.
The basic idea was clear enough. If people didn’t breathe, they didn’t need gas in their lungs. If they didn’t have gas in their lungs, they wouldn’t be bothered by pressure changes. Well, qualify that. They’d have to fill their middle ears and sinuses with liquid, too. If the liquid had about the same compressibility as water (question: why not use water? Tabled for later consideration) then a change in depth would mean no significant volume change in any part of the body.
A few details needed filling in, though. Granted that it would be convenient to be able to do without breathing, how was it managed?
Well, why does one breathe, anyway? To get oxygen into the blood. Will anything do as a substitute for oxygen? Categorically no. Element number eight is the one and only oxidizing agent the human metabolism is geared to use — and ‘geared’ is a rather good word in that connection.
But does the oxygen have to come in gas form? Maybe not. If my schooling hasn’t gone by the board, hemoglobin is only interested in O-two molecules, not oxide or peroxide ions or ozone; but up to the time the stuff is delivered to the hemoglobin some of the others are at least conceivable. The first thought would be some sort of food or drink. Could something be taken into the stomach which would release oxygen molecules? Certainly. There was hydrogen peroxide. The oxygen released didn’t start as diatomic molecules, though it got to that state quickly enough. I couldn’t picture anyone in his right mind drinking a slug of peroxide, for several reasons, but the. principle seemed defendable so far.
Could the oxygen get from the stomach to the bloodstream? Not directly, but it could take the same path as the other foods. Into the small intestine and through the villi. I seemed to remember that there is a lot less absorbing surface here than in the lungs, but under the pressure of this depth that might not be a serious lack.
Working hypothesis two, therefore, is that these folks eat or drink something that gives off oxygen gradually. If, under this pressure, the gas always remained in solution, the body would still be relatively indifferent to pressure change. Though my outside passenger of a few hours back might have been in serious trouble after all if he’d gone all the way to the surface with me.
How about carbon dioxide elimination? No problem. Out through the lungs, as usual, and into immediate solution in the surrounding liquid. Maybe that was why the liquid wasn’t water; they might be using something that took up CO2 better, though under this pressure water certainly should be adequate. Of course, with body fluids under the same pressure, it might be more a matter of complex ion equilibrium than simple solubility; perhaps pH control had been necessary. It certainly was inside the body, and this whole idea seemed to be lessening the differences between inside and out.
All this suggested that if I chose to stay down here, they would presumably start pressurizing me. Sometime during the process I’d be given a meal, or a drink, of the oxygen source. That, as far as I could see, would be it, barring minor mechanical tricks for filling my sinuses and middle ears with liquid.
How about getting back to breathing habits? The pressure would have to come down again. The oxygen source in the stomach — yes, that would present a difficulty. If it were still giving off the stuff, and pressure got down near one atmosphere — hmph. Very close timing, doing the job just as the stomach oxygen ran out? Mechanical assistance such as an artificial lung between the time the inside source gave out and natural breathing was resumed? Either way, it would be difficult for me to manage alone, if the need ever arose.
In any case, I could now do some tentative planning, always realizing my hypothesis might be all wet. I was fond of them, though, and felt that it would be at most a case of having to modify details as more information came in. It was a pleasant sensation while it lasted.
Under the circumstances, then, it seemed best to tell Bert that I was staying and waste as little time as possible getting out of this bubble so I could do something useful. I’d developed my own moral standards — made my private Loyalty Oath to Mankind, if you like — long ago, so there’d be no conscience question if they wanted me to take some sort of local declaration before they’d accept me. Probably they wouldn’t; things like that had been worn too thin to be meaningful back in the days when people thought their chief danger was political difference rather than energy shortage. Lodges and similar private groups still used formal oaths, but even these didn’t carry quite the same implications that they used to.
I wondered suddenly why my mind was wandering off in that direction — after all, my plan might be a little deceitful, but it was in a good cause, and my conscience was clear enough — and got back to immediate problems.
Details, of course, would still have to wait. I’d have to learn the local geography, especially the way to Marie’s submarine. I’d have to find out just how much freedom of action I was going to be allowed. Bert seemed to come and go at will, but he’d been here for a year. In that connection, probably I’d be expected to earn my living in some fashion; if finding out the details I needed, and working up a plan to get Marie and me back to the surface, all took very long then I’d probably have to do something of the sort. What sort of work would be both useful down here and within my powers was something else for the future to tell.
Right now, then, the thing to do was wait for Ber1, or send for him, and give him the word. Waiting would probably be better. There was no point in looking too eager. He’d said he’d be around often, and no doubt had been while I was asleep. He’d be bound to expect me to wake up before long.
I waited, like a monkey in a zoo — or perhaps more like a fish in an aquarium.
Chapter Eleven
It was about half an hour before he showed up. He glanced in through one of the ports, saw that I was conscious and picked up the writing pad.
“Been doing any thinking?” was his opener. I nodded affirmatively.
“Good. Made up your mind?”
“I think so,” I called back. “I —” I hesitated. Part of it was for effect, but part of it was genuine uncertainty. I could be wrong in so many ways. Then I stiffened up.
“I’m staying.”
He looked a little surprised and started to write. I went on before he had finished. “At least, I’m staying if you can tell me one thing for certain.”
He
cleared his pad and looked at me expectantly.
“Do you genuinely believe — I’m not asking do you know, just do you believe — that these people are justified in keeping out of the power net and the rationing system?”
Bert’s face took on an annoyed expression as he wrote.
“I told you you’d have to make up your mind by yourself. I won’t take the responsibility.”
“I expect to make it up myself,” I retorted, “but not without data. You say there’s too little time for you to tell me everything I’d like to know, and I’m arguing that. I’m asking for a conclusion of yours, not even a piece of information you’re not supposed to give me, just a conclusion — an opinion — as a summary of information I can’t get. Did you make your decision on as little knowledge as I have now?” He shook his head negatively.
“Then I’m sorry if you read my question as a reflection on your morals, but I still want an answer.”
He frowned thoughtfully for half a minute or so and looked at me a little doubtfully. I repeated my question, to be sure he understood.
“I really do believe they have the right idea,” he wrote at last. I nodded.
“All right, then I’m staying. How long will it take to get me out of this coconut shell?”
“I don’t know.” His writing was slow and interrupted by pauses for thought. “It’s not what you’d call a standard procedure. We’re more used to our guests coming in submarines, which have pressure locks or at least some sort of port. I’ll tell the Council, and we’ll hunt up some engineers who have time to spare, I’m sure it can be done.”
“You mean — you mean it may take a long time? Suppose it takes longer than my air supply?”
“Then I suppose we’ll just have to shove you outdoors anyway. If you still want to badly enough, you can always come back in a sub, the way Marie did. I’ll go start things moving.”
