The Nautilus Sanction tw-5

by Simon Hawke

  They addressed him as Professor once again when they thanked him for his statements and Verne slowly shook his head as he watched them rush off to file their stories.

  “Newspapermen,” he mumbled to himself. “Doubtless, they’ll get everything all wrong, as usual, and confer a doctorate upon me to validate their stories.”

  He went on board the frigate and one of the sailors conducted him to the presence of the ship’s captain, a tall and handsome officer with ramrod straight posture and a no-nonsense manner.

  “Commander Farragut?” said Verne.

  “You must be Mr. Verne,” said Farragut.

  The author looked surprised. “You know me, sir?”

  “I have seen your photograph and I have had the pleasure of reading your Five Weeks in a Balloon. It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, sir. Can it be you are considering turning your talents towards nautical adventure?”

  “I have been giving the matter some thought,” said Verne, smiling. “Perhaps this voyage will provide me with some necessary background. I’m afraid I’m liable to make quite a nuisance of myself, pestering everyone with questions. Please do not hesitate to tell me if I begin getting in your way.”

  Farragut grinned. “Think nothing of it. You go on ahead and make as much of a nuisance of yourself as you care to. My men know what they’re about. I doubt answering a few questions will get in the way of their performing their duties. They’re all quite looking forward to this venture. It will be something of a pleasure cruise for them.”

  “A pleasure cruise? Do I take it, then, you do not believe in this so-called sea monster we are hunting?”

  “Quite the contrary. I have been at sea long enough to know that one can never truly know the sea. I think there is something out there, although I doubt it is anything like some creature out of Greek mythology. Whatever it may be, I intend to hunt it down and rid the seas of it.”

  “You mean to kill the creature?” Verne said, aghast. “But why? Think of the importance such a find would have to science!”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Verne, I strongly suspect your scientific-minded friends would be far happier to have this creature spread out on their dissecting tables rather than have it swimming about on the bottom of the ocean, inaccessible to them,” said Farragut. “As for myself, my first responsibility is to the shipping companies. All this publicity and speculation about a sea monster is causing companies like Lloyd’s to raise their premiums. No one is very happy about the prospect of having to pay more in order to have their ships insured against destruction by some sea monster.”

  “Yes, but-but I was under the impression this was to be an expedition of scientific inquiry!” protested Verne.

  “And so it is,” said Farragut. “You will find quite a diverse group on board for this voyage. We have sailing with us representatives of the New York Museum of Natural History, the Smithsonian Institution, the Royal Zoological Society and members of the faculties of several universities. I should think you’ll be at no loss for stimulating company. As a matter of fact, if you have not yet had time for dinner, I would suggest you hasten to the wardroom, where our passengers are being served at this very moment. Now if you will excuse me, we shall have to continue this discussion at a future time. I must make preparations for getting under way.”

  Verne paused only long enough to check his cabin, which he found he was sharing with someone else judging by the belongings placed there along with his, then proceeded to the wardroom. The other passengers were already sitting down to dinner when he entered. Upon seeing him standing in the doorway, one of the diners stood and beckoned him forward.

  “Ah, I see we have a late arrival,” said the man, speaking with a British accent. He was dressed in tweeds and wore thick wire-rimmed glasses. “Please, there is a place beside me here. You are only just in time.”

  The other diners started to rise, but Verne quickly waved them back down. “No, no, my friends, please, do not get up on my account.”

  He walked over to the seat indicated by the Englishman.

  “Permit me to perform the introductions,” said the Britisher. “This is Dr. Samuelson, of the Smithsonian.” He indicated the man to his immediate left, a dapper, distinguished-looking gentleman with thinning gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a moustache. “Dr. Vandenburg, of the Museum of Natural History here in New York.” The man he indicated nodded briefly, gazing out at Verne from beneath large, bushy black eyebrows. There were bread crumbs in his walruslike moustache. “Professor Priest of the University of Maine.” Lucas nodded at him with a smile. “Dr. Delaney of the University of Boston and his associate, Professor Cross; Mr. Ned Land-”

  “Of the university of hard knocks,” said the brawny Land, with a wide grin, his blue eyes glinting with amusement at being included among such distinguished company.

  “And, of course, myself. My name is Devries. Dr. Reginald Fitzhugh Devries, of the Royal Zoological Society.”

  “I am pleased to meet you all,” said Verne, taking his seat. “My name is Verne. Jules Verne. And that would be Mister, not Doctor or Professor, please.”

  Priest and Delaney exchanged quick glances.

  “Ah, yes, the eminent author,” said Samuelson. “I had heard you would be sailing with us. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Verne. Tell me, did those newspapermen outside descend upon you, as well?”

  “I am afraid so,” said Verne. “I attempted to reply to their queries to the best of my limited ability, but I was left with the feeling I had not told them quite what they wished to hear.”

  “What did you tell them?” Devries said.

  Verne sugared his coffee and briefly recapped the interview for their benefit. Samuelson chuckled.

  “What do you want to bet tomorrow’s papers carry drawings of behemoth, horned whales with tusks like woolly mammoths beneath the headline, ‘Eminent Author and Scientist Describes Sea Monster’?”

  Verne looked wounded.

  “Oh, now don’t look that way, Verne. It wasn’t your fault. Newspapermen hear only what they want to hear and they write it up the way they feel their readers will wish to read it.”

  “Never talk to ‘em, myself,” growled Vandenburg.

  “This is most distressing,” Verne said. “I was most careful to say I was only speaking in terms of theory and supposition-”

  “Don’t you worry about it, mate,” said Land. “It’ll all be old news in another week or so and nobody’ll remember it.”

  “Well, what did you tell them, Mr. Land?” said Verne.

  Land threw back his head and laughed. “What, me? Hell, they didn’t want to talk to me! I’m no scientist fellow like you folks and I’m no famous writer, either. I ain’t important enough for them to bother with.”

  “May one inquire, then, what it is you do, Mr. Land?” said Verne, politely.

  “Me, I’m a harpooner by trade.”

  “A harpooner!”

  “That’s right. Best there is, too.” In French, he added, “I’m the one that’s going to catch that fish so these stuffed shirts here can fillet it.”

  Lucas, Finn, and Andre smiled, while Devries cleared his throat softly.

  “I’m afraid one of the hazards of associating with learned people is they might be multilingual,” Verne said, smiling and giving a sidelong look to Devries. Vandenburg alone seemed to have missed the comment. “You are Canadian?”

  “Quebec, born and bred,” said Land, not at all apologetic for his comment. “I come from a long line of whalers. Makes no difference to me whether this whale has tusks or horns or what-have-you. A fish is a fish, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Mr. Land, here, does not believe in our aquatic mammal,” said Devries. “It seems only we stuffed shirts are quite so gullible as to give credence to such a theory.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Land?” said Verne.

  “Just call me Ned,” said Land. “All this Mister this, Professor that, and Doctor whoever makes my head swim.”<
br />
  “Well, all right, then, Ned. And you must call me Jules.”

  “And a fine French name, it is,” said Land. “My grand father was named Jules. But to answer your question, no, I do not.”

  “But, Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiar with all the great marine mammalia, surely you ought to be the last to doubt under such circumstances!”

  “That’s just the point, Jules,” Land said. “As a harpooner, I’ve followed many a whale, killed a great number, too. No matter how strong or how large or, like your narwhal, how well armed they may have been, not a one of ‘em would even have been able to scratch the iron plates of a steamer.”

  “But, Ned, they tell of ships which the horns of the narwhal have pierced through and through,” said Verne.

  “Wooden ships, may be,” said Land. “Me, I’ve never seen it done. Till I see some proof, I deny that whales, cetaceans, sea-unicorns or whatever you want to call ‘em could ever do what you say.”

  “Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logic of facts,” said Verne, while the others followed the animated exchange. “I believe in the existence of a mammal powerfully organized, belonging to the branch of Vertebrata, like the whales, the chachalots or the dolphins, and furnished with a horn of defense of great penetrating power.”

  “Humpf!” said Land.

  “Keep in mind one thing, my Canadian friend,” said Verne. “If such an animal exists, it inhabits the very depths of the ocean, frequenting the strata lying miles below the surface. It must, therefore, necessarily possess an organization the strength of which would defy all comparison.”

  “And why would that be?” Land said.

  “Because it would require great strength in order to survive in those depths. Allow me to explain. I am certain our friends here will bring me up short if I am in error. Let us imagine the pressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of water 32 feet high. Now, Ned, when you dive, as many times 32 feet of water as there are above you, so many times does your body bear a pressure equal to that of the atmosphere, which is 15 pounds for each square inch of surface.

  At 320 feet then, this pressure would equal 10 atmospheres, at 3,200 feet, 100 atmospheres and at 32,000 feet, the pressure would be equal to 1,000 atmospheres. By simple arithmetic, we can determine that if you were able to attain this depth, for every foot you were to go down, your body would be subject to a pressure of approximately half a ton. Now, to a certain degree, this pressure is negligible because the air penetrates the interior of your body with equal pressure. This is why you are able to walk about without perceiving the effects of atmospheric pressure. This is also why you are able to dive down into the water, to a certain depth, and not be crushed. However, the deeper you dive, the more the pressure increases. At 32 feet beneath the surface of the sea, you would undergo a pressure of some 97,500 pounds. And, despite this pressure, pearl divers, for example, are able to survive at such depths. But the pressure increases correspondingly the deeper you go, so that at 32,000 feet, it would be some 97,500,000 pounds — with the result that you would be flattened as if you had been caught between the plates of a hydraulic machine.”

  “The devil!” said Land.

  “Now,” said Verne, “if some vertebrate, several hundred yards long and large in rough proportion, can survive in such depths, consider then what must be the resistance of its bony structure in order to withstand such amazing pressure.”

  “Why,” said Land, “it would have to be as strong as an armored frigate, plated with iron eight inches thick!”

  “Exactly,” Verne said. “And think what destruction such a creature would cause if it propelled itself with the speed of a locomotive against the hull of a vessel!”

  “Yes, well,” said Land. “Could be. You argue your case most convincingly, mon ami.”

  “So have I convinced you?” Verne said.

  Recalcitrant to the end, Land shook his head. “I follow your reasoning,” he said, “and you have convinced me that if such creatures exist at the bottom of the sea, then they must needs be as strong as you say. But I will still hold my judgment till I have seen some proof that there are, indeed, such creatures. I’ve spent forty some odd years upon the sea and I have yet to see one.”

  Samuelson laughed. “It is quite obvious, Mr. Land, that you will never make a good newspaperman. You are far too pragmatic.”

  “And what about you, my friends?” said Verne, turning to the incognito Time Commandos. “You have said nothing. Have you any ideas to contribute to this discussion?”

  Lucas cleared his throat. “Well, I am a simple university biology professor. I hesitate to speak in such learned company. However I am of the same opinion as Mr. Land, here. I prefer to reserve judgment until some tangible evidence is at hand. There have certainly been enough curious reports to warrant an investigation, which is why we are all here, but none of us have any idea, really, just what it is we are investigating. I am enthusiastic over the possibility of there being some unique aquatic form of life heretofore unknown, but then the ocean is quite large and for all we know, we may even be searching in the wrong waters. These things take time. Fortunately, I am on sabbatical and this provides a convenient excuse to legitimize a long sea voyage. Perhaps we shall encounter something, perhaps not. I am content to wait and see.”

  “A most laudable attitude,” said Devries. “Chances are, indeed, we will encounter nothing of any significance. However, one never knows until one goes and looks, eh?”

  “And what about yourself, Dr. Delaney?” Verne said.

  Finn shrugged. “If we do not find anything, Professor Cross and I will have wasted our time, so I prefer to remain optimistic. The university expects something for its money. I hope we won’t have to disappoint them.”

  “How does Dr. Martinson regard this curious phenomenon?” said Verne.

  “Dr. Martinson?” said Finn.

  “Yes, surely, being from the University of Boston, you know him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Finn. “It’s quite a large university, you know.”

  Verne frowned. “But Phillip Martinson is the chairman of the Department of Marine Biology!” he said. “How can you not know him? Surely, he must have conferred with you concerning this voyage!”

  “Oh, Phillip!” Finn said, quickly. “Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, I tend to be a bit preoccupied on occasion. Yes, well, we spoke about it briefly and his attitude was much the same as Professor Priest’s. Cautious optimism, you know.”

  “I trust his leg is better,” Verne said. “He was having difficulty with it when last I saw him. It must have healed by now.”

  “Oh, yes, Phillip is just fine,” Finn said. “He bounds about the campus like an undergraduate.”

  Verne smiled. “I’m very pleased to hear that.” The ship gave a lurch. “Well, I perceive we are getting under way. If you gentlemen, and lady, will excuse me, I think I will go up on deck and watch as we leave the harbor.”

  “Let’s all go,” said Devries. “It will be a while before we see land again.”

  As they filed out of the wardroom, Verne drew Finn aside momentarily, letting the others go before them.

  “I just wanted to tell you, Doctor,” he said, “how very pleased I was to hear Phillip Martinson is feeling so much better. Truly, it must have been an astonishing recovery. Doubtless, they’ll be writing it up in the Lancet any day now.”

  “Oh?” said Finn, feeling suddenly unsure of his ground.

  “Yes, quite,” said Verne, smiling. “You see, Phillip Martinson has been confined to a wheelchair these past four years. He lost both his legs at Shiloh.”

  3

  “I don’t believe it,” Finn said, throwing his cap down on the bunk. “We haven’t even left the harbor yet and already I’ve blown my cover!”

  “What happened?” Lucas said, frowning. “It was Verne, wasn’t it? You slipped up.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Finn. “ ‘How�
��s Phillip’s leg?’ `Oh, just fine, Mr. Verne, he’s all healed up and running around campus like an undergraduate.’ Me and my big mouth. Turns out Phillip Martinson lost both legs at the Battle of Shiloh.”

  “Oops,” said Lucas.

  “He hasn’t told the others yet,” Finn said. “He looked smug as hell about it, but he didn’t pursue it. I wonder what he’s thinking.” He shook his head. “Damn. I told them it was a dumb idea to have us pose as university professors. And they had to pick well-known universities!”

  “It was a calculated risk,” said Lucas. “Samuelson, Devries and Vandenburg didn’t know anyone from Maine or Boston. Nobody figured on Verne, though. He was a last-minute addition. Hell of a thing, running into him of all people.”

  “Well, I’m going to have to think of something to tell him,” Finn said.

  Lucas thought for a minute. “Why not pretend to be an undercover journalist?”

  “That’s not bad,” said Finn. “Only why would a journalist need to go to such lengths just to get aboard? Why not simply come on board as a reporter?”

  “Maybe because people, scientists especially, don’t really act themselves when they know there’s a reporter around taking everything down,” said Lucas. “We already know how this bunch feels about reporters.”

  Finn nodded. “I like it. We’ll go with it. I’ll make Andre my assistant or something. We might as well hang on to your cover, so long as it’s not blown. Just be careful what you say, especially around Verne. He’s pretty sharp. Those others exist in that rarified atmosphere of academics, but Verne’s a writer and writers watch everything obsessively.”

  “I’d say he was the least of our problems. I just keep wondering why there have been so many sightings in this fairly localized period as opposed to any other. It strongly suggests there’s a special reason why that sub is here.”