Chapter Eighteen
united states navy
lucius mendel rivers
undersea experimentation section
unauthorized personnel prohibited
k e e p o u t!
The guard standing by the large sign at the front gate was a contract civilian, and couldn’t be overawed by an officer. Not that many enlisted men were overawed by officers these days. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “My orders are very firm on that.”
“Look,” Robert said. “My orders are to report here. I don’t want you to let me in. I just want you to notify the duty officer that I’m out here. Just call inside, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have a phone; just an alarm. My orders are very simple: if you have an authorization badge and your name is on my list, you can go through the gate; if not, you can’t. The inner perimeter gate, down the road, is even harder to pass. They won’t let me in. That blue badge you showed me is very pretty, and it’s a good picture of you. But your name ain’t on my list, and I can’t let you in.”
Robert pondered this and went away. “It looks like you were right,” he told Friendly in the dining room of the floatel. “That base isn’t practicing security, it’s practicing exclusion.”
“Of course.” Friendly forked an oyster into his mouth. “They already know who their friends are, what do they have to talk to you for?”
“Still, it’s impressive. I never thought we’d hit it first one on the list.”
“Why not? The list was assembled in declining order of probability. Any base that’s supplying secret undersea cities, or even submerged villages, has to leave certain signs. I made up the list, after all. Took me a week. Constant research. Hard work.”
The waiter deposited a brace of Pacific-grown Maine lobsters in front of them, interrupting the conversation, handed them each a bib, and retreated. Robert looked doubtfully at the bib.
“You midwesterners are of a type,” Friendly said, snapping his bib around his neck and adjusting it over the expanse of his middle. “No finesse, no élan, no class; you are, in short, lacking most of the higher graces and virtues. You don’t appreciate the fine service, much less the excellent food.”
“I’ll enroll in the Navy charm school next chance I get,” Robert said, a trace of acid sounding in his voice. “In the meantime, sir, what would you suggest we do next?” Addison Friendly’s commission as a lieutenant-commander in the Naval Reserve had been activated by Admiral Dennison, and advanced to the acting rank of captain to give him some official standing for the rest of the investigation, whatever might happen. Robert couldn’t help resenting being suddenly outranked by a civilian, no matter what rank the civilian had held in the past. He didn’t know whether to be mollified or further insulted by Friendly’s absolute refusal to wear the uniform.
“Next, sir, we eat dinner.” Friendly meditatively cracked a lobster claw. “And contemplate, if you like, the gradual rise in the quantity and quality of personal service in this country over the quarter century.”
“Personal service?”
“Waiters, busboys, valets, maids, housekeepers, butlers; all of the occupations that disappeared or faded away with the advent of high wages and labor-saving devices.”
“I thought there were always waiters and the like.”
“Twenty years ago the trend, even in expensive restaurants, was toward cafeteria-style meals. They called it smorgasbord or buffet or something. No one wanted to wait on anyone else; they considered it degrading.”
“I suppose it is,” Robert said. “I don’t think I’d enjoy being a waiter.”
“Yes, but you have a job. Remember, over sixty percent of the huge population of this planet is unemployed.”
“They have their guaranteed income—at least in this country.”
“Yes, but no status. Worse; they have negative status, negative authority, and null prestige. They are the unpeople; they live in unhousing and spend unmoney. Yellow seal money is only good for authorized purchases of government-approved goods. Government housing is—well, it’s government housing.”
“What do you think they should have?” Robert asked. “Where do you think they should live? It’s fine to pay for the necessities of the unemployed, but why should the government—the taxpayer—supply luxuries?”
“Why not? Aside from the fact that decent housing isn’t a luxury, why not?”
“Are you serious? Why should the forty percent or so that work pay to support the sixty percent that don’t?”
“You really think that’s where the money comes from?”
Robert placed his fork carefully by the side of his plate. “You, I take it, don’t pay taxes.”
“Don’t get excited. Try to think of this as a philosophical discussion. Yes, of course I pay taxes: corporate, personal, federal, state, city, income, excise, sales, inventory, property, and probably ten or twenty others I can’t think of right now. Taxes are a form of government income control. Remember, with the exception of myself and a few other irreplaceable men, any of the unemployed sixty percent could take the jobs of the working forty. Very few jobs today require any unusual talent or intelligence. Anywhere from two hours to a month’s training and anyone of average IQ can handle ninety percent of the available jobs. Only, of course, they’re not available.”
“What’s the solution, makework jobs?”
“Nonsense. Robert, do you realize that for centuries utopians have been envisioning a time when most of humanity won’t have to work; will have their days free to devote to artistic and cultural endeavors? Well, now we have arrived at that time, and we call it unemployment. The Unpeople are the wave of the future. As time goes on there are going to be less regular jobs, not more. And so, the big increase in secondary jobs: waitering and other personal service occupations. Being a waiter has more status than being an Unman. The very rich have households again: butlers, valets, upstairs maids. Of course servitude has much less of a slavey feel to it now. If Jeeves doesn’t like the way you’re treating him, he can damn well quit; so if he’s good, you’ll treat him well—and pay him well. The old titles aren’t used any more because of the old stigmas. You don’t actually have a butler—you have a personal assistant or a house manager.”
“When I get that rich, I’ll worry about it.” Robert concentrated on his crustacean.
“Don’t eat too much,” Friendly cautioned. “You don’t want to develop indigestion just as we’re infiltrating that base tonight.”
“Just as we what?” Robert demanded. “You’re crazy!”
“It’s a good thing for you that I’m not your superior officer, which I am. I might resent your tone of voice when you call me crazy. What’s going to stop us?”
“Guns,” Robert choked out. “Guard towers. Electrified fences. Land mines. Attack dogs. Searchlights. Infrared detectors. Doppler radar. Ultrasonic fields. I could probably think of a few more things if you’ll give me a minute.”
“Pfaf!” Friendly snapped his fingers. “Such devices are of no use against the élan of a well-trained, high-spirited force. Besides, I’m trickier than you give me credit for.”
Robert resigned himself to his fate. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to working with a genius. What’s your plan?”
“How should I know? I’ve never even seen the place. We will merely go there, properly garbed and equipped, and depend upon our quick wit to remove us from any unpleasantness in which circumstance might place us. A ready wit turneth away wrath and improveth the odds. What would you like for dessert?”
“No dessert, thank you. I don’t think I feel so good.”
“What’s the matter?” Addison Friendly sounded alarmed. “I thought the lobster was perfectly good, myself. You’re not getting stomach cramps, are you? Perhaps it was tainted. Industrial wastes from some illegal plant—”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” Robert assured him. “It’s the thought of breaking into a top security pos
t—an illicit one, at that—without even a ground plan of where we’re going or any idea of how to get there. We don’t even know what we’re supposed to be looking for.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Friendly advised, relaxing back into his chair. “We seek information regarding hypothesized undersea cities. We don’t know where it’s kept, but it should be there somewhere. These people don’t seem to be very subtle. It’s probably hidden in the most heavily guarded spot, thus making it easy to find.”
“Your logic frightens me,” Robert said. “What do you consider appropriate garb for this midnight trek into the lion’s den?”
“Well—” Friendly considered. “Since we’re entering a Navy base; dress blues would probably be appropriate.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Robert said. “I think I’ll have a slice of chocolate cake with my coffee. Maybe two slices.”
“Don’t be a fatalist. While you’re waiting for the cake, I’ll go call Leah and see if she’s settled.”
“She came out with you?” Robert asked.
“Yes. She stayed in Los Angeles while I came on to meet you here. Miss Nova is a valued agent. She has a variety of useful talents. I take her everywhere.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to infer that you—”
“Imply!”
“Sir?”
“Imply. You didn’t mean to imply. You imply. From what you say, I may infer something. Every word you deprive us of by running its meaning together with another leaves us that much poorer on language. Besides, I don’t give a damn what you think of my relationship with my secretary.” Friendly got up and stomped off to find a phone.
Two hours later, feeling foolishly conspicuous in his dress blue uniform, Robert sat in the floatel’s boat lounge waiting for Friendly. He had a .38-caliber revolver slung under his left shoulder, which made him feel even sillier and presented a moral problem. After all, it was a U.S. Navy base he was going to attempt to infiltrate. What right would he have to shoot anyone who tried to stop him? The base might be run by a right-wing conspiracy, but the guards were probably not a part of it. They were just doing a job. He resolved not to shoot anyone unless they shot at him first, and even then—if he could manage it—not fatally.
“Beneath this sod an iceman sleeps,” Addison Friendly clattered down the stairs to the lounge, singing in a loud quaver that hovered around tenor.
“They brought him here today;
He lived the life of Reilly
While Reilly was away!”
He reached the bottom step, coming full into Robert’s view. Robert stared. “What,” he demanded, “is that?”
Friendly took off his stiff cocked hat and tucked it under his arm. “You see something wrong with my dress uniform?” he asked, looking critically at the gold lace going down the front of his fitted jacket.
“That’s not a uniform, it’s a costume!”
“Nonsense!” Friendly did a slow pirouette. “This is a perfectly proper, even elegant, dress uniform of the United States Navy.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his sleeve. “It took me a lot of research to establish this. Here, listen: ‘Philadelphia, September 5, 1776. Extract from the minutes of the Marine Committee, John Brown, Secretary. Resolved, That the uniform of the Officers in the Navy of the United States be as follows: Captains; Blue cloth with red lapels, slash cuffs, stand-up collar, flat yellow buttons, blue britches, red waistcoat with narrow lace.’”
“What about that gold pasteboard on your shoulder and the gold lace around the cuffs and down the front of the jacket?”
“I refer you to a memorandum to be found among the Paul Jones Manuscripts in the Congressional Library, dated March, 1777: ‘Gold epaulettes on the right shoulder, the figure of a rattlesnake embroidered on the straps of the epaulettes, with the motto, “Don’t tread on me.” The waistcoat trimmed with gold lace.’ Appended is a list of captains who signed the memorandum approving this variant.” He handed the paper to Robert.
“Waistcoat,” Robert said. “It says gold lace on the waistcoat. That’s the vest, not the jacket.”
“I know, my boy,” Friendly said. “But, after all, nobody can see the waistcoat when the jacket is buttoned.”
“I may be wrong,” Robert said, “but I don’t think that makes sense.”
“This case,” Friendly said, holding up a small, leather, case, “is a replica of a genuine dispatch case, dating to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Unfortunately, it’s a British Admiralty model. Paul Jones would never approve.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Captain,” Robert said, “because I sure as hell don’t.”
“It’s not a matter of understanding, Lieutenant. It’s more that I have something you lack.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“Panache. In English, I suppose, a flair.”
“I’ll see that it’s written on your tombstone. Addison Friendly—he had a certain flair for the insane.”
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“No. I just think that I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“That is probably—almost certainly—so. Come along now; the submarine is ready.” Friendly adjusted the gold-hilted sword at his side to hang straighter, and then strode off with a measured step toward the boat dock. He was whistling Yankee Doodle.
“Submarine,” Robert said fatalistically, catching up to him as they reached the dock.
“I have requisitioned a two-person sub. Which is logical, if you think about it.”
They walked out on the dock and Robert peered around. “It is?”
Friendly chuckled. “You search among the boats as though you expect to find a fastitocalon. Of course it is; there are only two of us.”
The boat bobbed low in the water, and they had to climb down a rickety wooden ladder to reach it. Friendly undid the latch and slid back the stresglass top. It was a plastic-hulled vessel about twelve feet long with a pressure cylinder going down the center. There was one low bucket seat on each side of the cylinder, like a primitive sports car, with a double row of rechargeable fuel cells behind the seats and twin motors at the rear. The motors were inductance-coupled to exterior flexible shafts, which led to twin screws mounted on the rudder.
“It’s a sporter sub,” Robert said.
“Of course. What did you expect, torpedos?”
They clambered on board carefully, Friendly in the lead. Robert unhitched the mooring line and gingerly eased himself into his seat. “This thing sways and bobs worse than a canoe.”
Friendly pulled the hatch closed and tightened the sealing clamp. “Of course it does,” he said. “The ballast tanks are empty. When we’re under way and under water she’ll be a lot steadier.” He reversed the throttle and gently backed away from the dock. When they were far enough out, he started forward and circled out into the Pacific. The A-below-middle-C hum of the motors sounded softly through the hull as the tiny boat bounced through the slight swell.
Slowly, Friendly filled the ballast tanks until they were three-quarters full. At quarter buoyancy the bulk of the boat was submerged; only the stresglass bubble hatch stayed at the waterline. The water was up to their chins outside the sub now, and every swell washed over it; but the bouncing had stopped and the ride was smooth and gentle.
“Oh!” Friendly said suddenly, “I almost forgot!”
“What?”
“Air.” He unsnapped a plastic bag at the head of the cylinde-rspine of the boat and pulled out two plastic tubes with mouthpieces attached. “Very hygienic; sterile, disposable mouthpieces. Here, put this between your teeth and breathe through it. In through the mouth and out through the nose; you know the drill? The air’s metered by a demand valve, so you don’t have to breathe unless you want to.”
“I want to,” Robert assured him. “What happens to the exhaled air?”
“It builds up in the cabin until it’s equal in pressure to the water at whatever depth the sub is operating, then it bleeds o
ut through that valve behind your head. That gives the cabin a ten-to-fifteen minute air reserve, and means we won’t implode if anything cracks the hull. It also means we’d have to surface at a speed regulated by the diving time charts to prevent the bends if we went to any depth, but that won’t concern us tonight. I’ll take us completely under as soon as we round those rocks ahead; she goes smoother and faster submerged. But we won’t go more than two fathoms or so down, and we’ll come up every ten or fifteen minutes to take our bearings. It should be a thoroughly enjoyable trip. Do you play cribbage?”
“How long will this trip take?”
“About three hours, plus or minus fifteen minutes. The sea is not as swift as the land for travel, but it’s a damn sight sneakier.”
The sea past the little cove was calm, the sky was clear, and the air inside the cabin was chilled. Addison Friendly took a childish pleasure in maneuvering the submarine on its three-dimensional course, and attempting to teach a shivering Robert to play cribbage when his hand wasn’t needed on the wheel.
They surfaced for the twelfth time. Captain Friendly took a bearing and punched figures into his calculator tieclasp for a while. Then he unfolded a large map and stared at it. “There are two possibilities,” he said.
“What sort of possibilities?”
“If my calculations are correct, we are now at the intersection of Market and Montgomery. Now, either I’ve made a mistake in my navigation, or the city of San Francisco has sunk into the Pacific within the past three hours.”
“Are you offering odds?” Robert asked.
Friendly released the sealing clamp and slid back the hatch. “Stand up and take a look over to the right,” he said. “There’s a pair of nightsight binoculars in the gear locker—here. There should be a three-story white house on the cliff edge about here.”
Robert took the binoculars and stood gingerly on his seat. “Turn the cabin lamp off,” he said. “There’s too much glare.”
Friendly switched the tiny lamp off, and Robert scanned the eastern horizon. The scene, through the image-intensifier binoculars, looked like a badly-lighted movie set; daylight with no shadows. “There!” Robert said. “Only house in sight. Three-story white—I think it’s white, it’s hard to tell—with a gabled roof. Seems to be a mast in the ground next to it. Some kind of antenna?”
Psi Hunt Page 12
