The Dolphins of Altair

by Margaret St. Clair

  Djuna’s high, rapid speech stopped. (When we sea people talk to Splits, we have to take pains to pitch our voices low and speak slowly; our communication with each other is out of human auditory range, and very rapid.) There was a silence. The gulls overhead gave their harsh cries. Then Dr. Lawrence, still holding his briefcase, got to his feet.

  He cleared his throat and teetered on the balls of his feet for a moment. Then he said, “It’s obviously impossible to get the dolphins out by land. Transporting three hundred pygmy whales, each seven feet long, back to the water is something that couldn’t possibly be done secretly. We’d be stopped before we got more than a couple out. And Djuna has told us, pretty convincingly, that nobody can get close enough to the sea walls to set off a bomb. But a severe earthquake would break down the walls and give the dolphins access to the sea. We must have an earthquake.”

  “You mean that we must have a miracle?” Madelaine asked wonderingly.

  “No, we must make it happen,” Dr. Lawrence answered.

  Rain began to fall from the leaden sky, at first a soft pattering, and then bigger drops. “How?” Sven asked, over the growing noise of the rain. He glanced at Madelaine. “It seems to me it would be more difficult to cause an earthquake to order than it would be to get through the guards with a bomb.”

  Dr. Lawrence squatted down on his heels. He seemed to be uncomfortable standing upright in the increasing rain. “I’m no geologist,” he answered. “But sometimes a small initial cause can create great effects.

  “The whole California coast is part of the Pacific ring of fire. The San Andreas Rift—a major fault—runs through the San Francisco Bay area, and can be traced along the coast for about six hundred miles. All the DRAT stations are located within this six-hundred-mile stretch.

  “A big quake on this part of the coast is long overdue. Sooner or later there will be a major quake, and without human intervention. But we need not wait for that. A quake is, so to speak, waiting to happen. It is up to us to trigger it.”

  Sven was frowning intently. “How?” he asked again.

  Dr. Lawrence drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped at his streaming face. The rain was coming down steadily now. “With a bomb,” he said.

  He coughed. “If a powerful bomb were placed at a suitable spot, a spot underwater, which would augment the force of the explosion, I think it might do the trick. Of course, we can’t be sure till we try it. But I think it would work.”

  “What would be a suitable spot?” Sven asked.

  Dr. Lawrence rubbed the lower part of his face with his right hand. “Ask your sea people,” he said. “They must be familiar with the edges of the continental shelf. Ask them if they know a suitable spot.”

  Through the blur ring rain, I could see that Sven and Madelaine were looking at me. “Amtor, do you know of a place like that?” asked Madelaine.

  I would have liked to avoid answering. “Yes,” I replied reluctantly, “I think I do.”

  “Where?” Madelaine asked.

  “Perhaps—off the coast near Monterey. There’s a submarine canyon there.”

  “Would one bomb do it?” Sven inquired. “I think so, if it were powerful.”

  “How do you know that the submarine canyon would-be a good place to trigger an earthquake?” Sven asked, frowning. “Ho w can you know a thing like that?”

  I was silent, baffled by the impossibility of communicating to him any of the grounds for my belief. Sven was an ally, and almost as close to us psychologically as Madelaine. Even so, our contacts were contacts between a “human” species and a nonhuman one. We communicated across a narrow bridge.

  “Our senses are different from yours,” I said at last. “You would have to be one of us to know how we know. But we have been aware for a long time that in the canyon was a sensitive spot.”

  “You didn’t mention this when we were discussing how to break down the sea walls on the pools,” Dr. Lawrence observed mildly.

  “Of course not,” I answered. “To cause a quake deliberately would be a violation of the covenant”

  Pettrus—a half-brother of mine, and the other dolphin who had escaped with Djuna from the pools at Capitola—came coasting through the water and stopped as close as he could get to where the Splits were sitting on the beach. “A violation of the covenant would be justified in self-defense,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “But a quake would kill people, perhaps millions of them, who haven’t harmed us and whose deaths wouldn’t benefit us. We can’t do that.”

  “But it—” said Dr. Lawrence, and then stopped. He got to his feet, peering through the blur of raindrops toward a commotion in the distant water, a hundred yards or so from the rocky shore. Madelaine had risen, too, and was pressing her hands to her head. She told me afterwards that she had had a sharp, sudden impression of urgency and distress.

  We had all turned and were swimming outward. The water held the smell of suffering. Djuna and I bore the messenger—it was Baldus, a full brother of mine—up between our bodies and swam gently with him through the parting ranks of the sea people toward the beach. He was hurt; he would have drowned without our help.

  “What is it?” Sven asked. “What’s happening?”

  No one answered him immediately. We were all clustered around Baldus, listening to his painfully gasped message. Then his body relaxed, and Djuna and I knew he was dead. The smell of death spread through the sea.

  “What is it?” Sven repeated. “What’s happening?”

  We let his body drop gently to the bottom. We would take Baldus later to one of the places where we leave our dead.

  “He was a messenger,” I told the Splits, who were looking eagerly toward us. “He came to say that the navy has been hunting down sea people with an electric shock device. They have captured about fifty more of us. He was hurt, but managed to escape to tell us what was happening. Now—he is dead.”

  Dr. Lawrence coughed. The rain showed no sign of slackening. “There’s your answer,” he said. “If your scruples still bother you, let me point out that human beings wouldn’t be bothered by them for an instant. Generally speaking, they are not deterred from an action by respect for their own or any other sort of life.”

  “Yes,” Pettrus answered, rather wobblingly (Baldus had been his half-brother, too, and we sea people love one another), “but we have rather higher standards of conduct for ourselves than Splits do.”

  Madelaine had been standing immobile, her hands pressed to her breast. Now she said, in a low, carrying voice, “There must be a quake.”

  We were all looking at her, sea people and Splits alike, “Dr. Lawrence forgot the final argument,” she went on slowly. “He says that a quake is long overdue, that it may happen at any time. That means—there might be a quake on a weekday, when children were in school, the stores full of people, the freeways roaring with traffic. But if we make the quake, we can choose the time for it. We can select a time for it when the loss of life will be kept to a minimum, “Late Sunday night—before sunrise Monday morning—would be best, I think. Yes, that would be a good time. But we must have a quake.”

  “I ought to have thought of that,” Dr. Lawrence said in a rather dissatisfied voice. “But she’s right, of course. There will be much less destruction this way than if we merely leave it to nature.”

  “Can’t we warn them a quake is coming?” Pettrus asked hesitantly.

  “No. If we warned them, they would strengthen the walls or evacuate the dolphins,” Madelaine answered. There was something odd in her voice—there had been something odd ever since she had said, “There must be a quake”—and she stood in the pouring rain without appearing to notice it at all. I did not realize until much later what was affecting her.

  “Let’s have a vote on it,” Dr. Lawrence said, stepping forward. “We three are in favor of having a quake, I kn ow. Amtor, what do your sea people say?”

  I felt their minds. It seemed to be unanimous, but I wanted to be positive. “Is there an
yone opposed to triggering an earthquake by exploding a bomb in Benthis Canyon?” I asked in the high pitch that is inaudible to human ears.

  Silence. “We all think we should try to cause the quake,” Pettrus said after a minute. “But it must be on Sunday night, as Moonlight” (that was one of the names we had for Madelaine) “said.”

  “We are all in favor of the earthquake,” I reported. “But it must be on Sunday night.”

  “Good,” said Dr. Lawrence. “Today is Thursday. Sven, you used to be a demolitions expert. Do you think you can get a bomb for us, perhaps from Port Chicago or Benecia, by sometime on Saturday?”

  The doctor seemed to have elected himself our leader. He was intelligent, his plans were realistic, And yet, I did not trust him. I did not trust him at all.

  Chapter 3

  How can an unarmed man get safely away with a bomb from a U.S. Navy arsenal? Sven had devoted a lot of thought to this problem, but the plan of action he had come up with was rudimentary indeed. For the most part, he felt he would have to rely on luck.

  He left the Rock before sunset. Madelaine and Dr. Lawrence gave him what money they had with them, and Dr. Lawrence got a prescription pad out of his briefcase and wrote a prescription for a powerful, quick-acting hypnotic.

  “I’ve made the signature ‘To be taken as needed’,” he told Sven, unsmiling. “Any drugstore ought to be able to ill it for you.” He put the prescription inside his rubber-lined tobacco pouch and handed it to Sven.

  Sven put the pouch in his pants pocket, beside his pocket knife. “Does the stuff dissolve quickly?” he asked.

  “Yes. It might taste a little bitter. Beer would be a good medium to administer it in.”

  They shook hands. The doctor wished Sven good luck. Madelaine, more demonstrative, kissed him on both cheeks. Then Sven got on Djuna’s back—Djuna and Pettrus were ferrying him to Port Chicago—and was carried away from the Rock. He turned to wave good-bye at Madelaine and Lawrence, standing on the shingle in the glowing light. He was gone.

  I should have liked to go with them. A historian ought to be where the action is. But my deformity would have slowed the party down, and three dolphins and a man were a little more apt to attract attention than two dolphins and a man. We didn’t want to attract any attention at all. So I stayed behind, near Noonday Rock.

  Sven, astride Djuna’s back, experienced again the extraordinary contentment he had found before in physical contact with one of the sea people. The contentment was always there, like a basic theme in a piece of music, and when he speculated about it, he was always surprised by its intensity. The conscious part of his mind was occupied, however, with the problem of the night: how can an unarmed man get safely away with a bomb from a navy arsenal? Not quite unarmed, perhaps—the knife in his pocket had a sharp two-and-a-half-inch blade. But it was splitting hairs to think of the knife in his dungarees as a weapon. He had never used it for anything more serious than stripping the insulation from electric wires.

  Sven had been stationed at Port Chicago for two months’ special training before he had been shipped out to the Middle East. He’d got to know several of the civilian dockside workers well enough to be on drinking terms with them. He’d liked a fellow Scandinavian, a man named Karl Eting, particularly well. If he could find Karl now—but it had been several years; Karl might not be working at the arsenal any more.

  Sven shifted his position on Djuna. To cut down wind resistance, he was leaning far forward, like a jockey. Even so, he knew that carrying him had more than halved her normal cruising speed. Pettrus swam beside them silently, making hardly a ripple in the water. And how cold the water was! When they got to Port Chi, Sven thought, he would have to spend some time rubbing his feet before they would be much use for walking.

  The man and the dolphins passed under the Golden Gate Bridge. Sven saw the lights and heard the rush of traffic high over his head. Then they were inside the bay. The water was very slightly warmer here.

  The moon had come up. San Francisco was a long blaze of light away to the south. Abruptly Djuna’s sleek body shuddered. Sven saw ripples run away from it in the moonlit water. In her high, quick voice she said, “Get on Pettrus’ back. Be quick.”

  Sven made the transfer hastily, asking no questions. When Djuna was relieved of his weight, she shot away northeastward in a great burst of speed.

  “What’s the trouble?” Sven asked Pettrus. The male dolphin was swimming strongly straight on; Sven had the impression he too was using his reserves of speed.

  “Shark,” Pettrus said in his quick gabble. “She’s gone to try to head it off.”

  Sven felt a thrill of alarm. He knew, without being told, that the sea people would have nothing to fear from any shark if it were not for him. Their speed, their incredible speed—they were the fastest thing in the whole world of water—was their great safety. But Pettrus was burdened with Sven’s weight. And Djuna had shot unhesitatingly away to try to divert the shark.

  Sven swallowed and licked his lips. He had said that he would help the sea people; He had not meant that his friends should run any risk because of him.

  He was bent almost flat against Pettrus’ back. The question was no longer, how can an unarmed man get safely away with a bomb? but, more immediately and pressingly, how can a man, armed only with a pocket knife, fight off a shark? His head pressed close to the dolphin’s, Sven said, “I have a pocket knife.”

  “Good. Get it ready.” Pettrus plainly didn’t want to waste breath on words.

  For a few moments Pettrus swam steadily on to the east. Sven had got the knife from his pocket and was holding it open in his hand. As the moments lengthened, he began to hope that Djuna had succeeded in her mission and that the shark had gone after easier prey. Then a quiver ran through Pettrus’ body. Sven raised his head quickly. To the right, unmistakable in the moonlight, was a triangular fin.

  Well, but it might not attack; sharks were cautious, wary animals. It might find a man on a dolphin’s back a combination too disconcerting to molest, it might not attack, it might not… might not…

  Pettrus appeared to share Sven’s uncertainty as to the predator’s intentions. He had almost ceased to move through the water. Then the fin cut sharply across Pettrus’ forward path. It banked, returned, banked, and came back again, each time closer to Pettrus and Sven. The shark was moving in.

  There wasn’t much doubt now what it intended. Sven felt an odd sort of pressure inside his head, over his eyeballs. It wasn’t fear, it came from outside; and Sven, though he disliked it, had sense enough not to resist. He open ed his mind to it.

  The shark made another pass at them, this time so close that Sven felt the water it disturbed churn around his legs. In a moment it would turn belly up and—Pettrus attacked. He gave Sven no instructions; it wasn’t necessary. Sven knew he must try for the enemy’s eyes.

  He bent far over, his arm outstretched. Even burdened with a rider, Pettrus could get up a very respectable speed. He had launched himself toward the shark like an arrow shot from a bow.

  The shark—angry?, frightened ?—had stopped its ominous cruising and was bearing down on them with equal speed. At the last moment Pettrus winced aside. Sven leaned over and struck.

  Even a shark’s eye is tough. But Sven’s knife had the whole force of Pettrus’ muscular body behind it. The blade drove in.

  The force of the impact almost wrenched the knife from Sven’s hand. He held on, gripping Pettrus with his knees. The dolphin turned sharply, at an angle to his former course, and the knife was dragged out of the eye again. A gush of blood followed it.

  The shark had gone wild with pain and rage. The water frothed white with the fury of its movements. But it still had one eye left; Sven and Pettrus must try again.

  The shark had turned belly up and was driving at them. Sven caught a glimpse of its enormous open shearing jaws. Pettrus veered accurately, at the last moment, but Sven’s blow went wild. The shark’s file-rough hide took off part of his t
rouser leg.

  Once more. The shark was losing blood, but this did not make it any less formidable an antagonist. Pettrus had been motionless for an instant, trying, Sven thought, to guess what the enemy would do next. Now he gathered himself and drove toward the shark’s tail.

  It was a feint. Pettrus turned, raking his velvet body against the cruel integument. Sven struck. The knife went deep into the eye. Sven felt it grate against the bone of the eye socket.

  Pettrus made a quick turn. The knife stayed in the eye. But this time it did not matter. The enemy was blind. The shark could not even track them by smell; the water was too full of the smell of its own blood.

  Sven drew a deep breath. The sense of pressure in his head relaxed. Pettrus began to swim eastward again, toward Port Chicago. They left the shark behind them, churning the water dirty white with its furious blood.

  “That was good, Sven,” Pettrus said after a little while.

  Sven did not answer immediately. He felt that in the struggle just over he had been as much a part of Pettrus as if he had been an arm the dolphin had grown to help in the fight.

  “Was it Udra?” he asked at last.

  “Yes-s-s. Something like Udra, anyhow. I’m sorry I had to do it so quickly. There wasn’t time to ask your permission, Sven. It was an emergency.”

  “I’m glad you did it,” Sven answered sincerely. “How about you? I notice you’re swimming a little less smoothly than usual.”

  Pettrus made a blowing noise with his lips. “I lost some skin that last time, when you put out the other eye. That’s one reason we sea people hate the sharks—their hides are so rough. But it’s not serious, only unpleasant. It will grow back.”

  “Is Djuna all right?”

  “I think so. There was only the one shark. I think—Yes-s, she’s coming this way. She ought to be here in a little while.”