by Nevil Shute
John Osborne started up his Ferrari and drove it out upon the road. There was no positive prohibition upon motoring at that time. There was no petrol available to anybody because officially there was no petrol in the country; the stocks reserved for doctors and for hospitals had been used up. Yet very occasionally cars were still seen in motion on the roads. Each individual motorist had cans of petrol tucked away in his garage or in some private hiding place, provision that he had made when things were getting short, and these reserves were sometimes called upon in desperate emergency. John Osborne’s Ferrari on the road did not call for any action by the police, even when his foot slipped upon the unfamiliar accelerator on his first drive and he touched eighty-five in second gear in Bourke Street, in the middle of the city. Unless he were to kill anybody, the police were not disposed to persecute him for a trifle such as that.
He did not kill anybody, but he frightened himself very much. There was a private road-racing circuit in South Gippsland near a little place called Tooradin, owned and run by a club of enthusiasts. Here there was a three-mile circuit of wide bitumen road, privately owned, leading nowhere, and closed to the public. The course had one long straight and a large number of sinuous turns and bends. Here races were still held, sparsely attended by the public for lack of road transport. Where the enthusiasts got their petrol from remained a closely guarded secret, or a number of secrets, because each seemed to have his own private hoard, as John Osborne hoarded his eight drums of special racing fuel in his mother’s back garden.
John Osborne took his Ferrari down to his place several times, at first for practice and later to compete in races, short races for the sake of fuel economy. The car fulfilled a useful purpose in his life. His had been the life of a scientist, a man whose time was spent in theorizing in an office or, at best, in a laboratory. Not for him had been the life of action. He was not very well accustomed to taking personal risks, to endangering his life, and his life had been the poorer for it. When he had been drafted to the submarine for scientific duties he had been pleasurably excited by the break in his routine, but in secret he had been terrified each time that they submerged. He had managed to control himself and carry out his duties without much of his nervous tension showing during their week of underwater cruising in the north, but he had been acutely nervous of the prospect of nearly a month of it in the cruise that was coming.
The Ferrari altered that. Each time he drove it, it excited him. At first he did not drive it very well. After touching a hundred and fifty miles an hour or so upon the straight, he failed to slow enough to take his corners safely. Each corner at first was a sort of dice with death, and twice he spun and ended up on the grass verge, white and trembling with shock and deeply ashamed that he had treated his car so. Each little race or practice run upon the circuit left him with the realization of mistakes that he must never make again, with the realization of death escaped by inches.
With these major excitements in the forefront of his mind, the coming cruise in Scorpion ceased to terrify. There was no danger in that comparable with the dangers that he courted in his racing car. The naval interlude became a somewhat boring chore to be lived through, a waste of time that now was growing precious, till he could get back to Melbourne and put in three months of road racing before the end.
Like every other racing motorist, he spent a lot of time endeavouring to track down further supplies of fuel.
Sir David Hartman held his conference as had been arranged. Dwight Towers went to it as captain of Scorpion and took his liaison officer with him. He also took the radio and electrical officer, a Lieutenant Sunderstrom, to the conference because matters connected with the Seattle radio were likely to arise. C.S.I.R.O. were represented by the director with John Osborne, the Third Naval Member was there with one of his officers, and the party was completed by one of the Prime Minister’s secretaries.
At the commencement the First Naval Member outlined the difficulties of the operation. “It is my desire,” he said, “and it is the Prime Minister’s instruction, that Scorpion should not be exposed to any extreme danger in the course of this cruise. In the first place, we want the results of the scientific observations we are sending her to make. At the low height of her radio aerial and the necessity that she remains submerged for much of the time, we cannot expect free radio communication with her. For that reason alone she must return safely or the whole value of the operation will be lost. Apart from that, she is the only long-range vessel left at our disposal for communication with South America and with South Africa. With these considerations in mind I have made fairly drastic alterations to the cruise that we discussed at our last meeting. The investigation of the Panama Canal has been struck out. San Diego and San Francisco also have been struck out. All these are on account of minefields. Commander Towers, will you tell us shortly how you stand in regard to minefields?”
Dwight gave the conference a short dissertation on the mines and on his lack of knowledge. “Seattle is open to us, and the whole of Puget Sound,” he said. “Also Pearl Harbor. I’d say there wouldn’t be much danger from mines up around the Gulf of Alaska on account of the ice movements. The ice constitutes a problem in those latitudes, and the Scorpion’s no icebreaker. Still, in my opinion we can feel our way up there without unduly hazarding the ship. If we just can’t make it all the way to latitude sixty, well, we’ll have done our best. I’d say we probably can do most of what you want.”
They turned to a discussion of the radio signals still coming from somewhere in the vicinity of Seattle. Sir Phillip Goodall, the director of C.S.I.R.O., produced a synopsis of the messages monitored since the war. “These signals are mostly incomprehensible,” he said. “They occur at random intervals, more frequently in the winter than the summer. The frequency is 4.92 kilocycles.” The radio officer made a note upon the paper in front of him. “One hundred and sixty-nine transmissions have been monitored. Of these, three contained recognizable code groups, seven groups in all. Two contained words in clear, in English, one word in each. The groups were undecipherable; I have them here if anyone wants to see them. The words were WATERS and CONNECT.”
Sir David Hartman asked, “How many hours’ transmission, in all, were monitored?”
“About a hundred and six hours.”
“And in that time only two words have come through in clear? The rest is gibberish?”
“That is correct.”
The admiral said, “I don’t think the words can be significant. It’s probably a fortuitous transmission. After all, if an infinite number of monkeys start playing with an infinite number of typewriters, one of them will write a play of Shakespeare. The real point to be investigated is this — how are these transmissions taking place at all? It seems certain that there is electrical power available there still. There may be human agency behind that power. It’s not very likely, but it could be so.”
Lieutenant Sunderstrom leaned towards his captain and spoke in a low tone. Dwight said aloud, “Mr. Sunderstrom knows the radio installations in that district.”
The lieutenant said diffidently, “I wouldn’t say that I know all of them. I attended a short course on naval communications at Santa Maria Island about five years back. One of the frequencies that was used there was 4.92 kilocycles.”
The admiral asked, “Where is Santa Maria Island?”
“That one is just near Bremerton in Puget Sound, sir. There’s several others on the Coast. This one is the main navy communications school for that area.”
Commander Towers unrolled a chart, and pointed to the island with his finger. “Here it is, sir. It connects with the mainland by a bridge to this place Manchester right next to Clam Bay.”
The admiral asked, “What would be the range of the station on Santa Maria Island?”
The lieutenant said, “I wouldn’t know for certain, but I guess it’s global.”
“Does it look like a global station? Very high aerials?”
“Oh, yes, sir. The antennas t
here are quite a sight. I think it’s a part of the regular communication system covering the Pacific area, but I don’t know that for sure. I only attended the communications school.”
“You never communicated with the station direct, from any ship that you were serving in?”
“No, sir. We operated on a different set of frequencies.”
They discussed the techniques of radio for a time. “If it turns out to be Santa Maria,” Dwight said at last, “I’d say we can investigate it without difficulty.” He glanced at the chart that he had studied before, to confirm his studies. “There’s forty feet of water right close up to it,” he said. “Maybe we could even lie alongside a wharf. In any case, we’ve got the rubber boat. If the radiation level is anywhere near reasonable, we can put an officer on shore for a while, in the protective suit, of course.”
The lieutenant said, “I’d be glad to volunteer for that. I guess I know the way around that installation pretty well.”
They left it so, and turned to a consideration of the Jorgensen effect, and the scientific observations that were needed to prove or to disprove it.
Dwight met Moira Davidson for lunch after the conference. She had picked a small restaurant in the city for their meeting and he was there before her. She came to him bearing an attaché case.
He greeted her and offered her a drink before lunch. She elected for a brandy and soda, and he ordered it. “Double?” he inquired, as the waiter stood by.
“Single,” she said. He nodded to the waiter without comment. He glanced at the attaché case. “Been shopping?”
“Shopping!” she said indignantly. “Me — full of virtue!”
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “You’re going someplace?”
“No,” she said, enjoying his curiosity. “I’ll give you three guesses what’s in it.”
“Brandy,” he suggested.
“No. I carry that inside me.”
He thought for a moment. “A carving knife. You’re going to cut one of those religious pictures out of the frame and take it away to hang in the bathroom.”
“No. One more.”
“Your knitting.”
“I don’t knit. I don’t do anything restful. You ought to know that by now.”
The drinks came. “Okay,” he said, “you win. What’s in it?”
She lifted the lid of the case. It contained a reporter’s notebook, a pencil, and a manual of shorthand.
He stared at these three items. “Say,” he exclaimed, “you aren’t studying that stuff?”
“What’s wrong with that? You said I ought to, once.”
He remembered vaguely what he had once said in an idle moment. “You taking a course or something?”
“Every morning,” she said. “I’ve got to be in Russell Street at half-past nine. Half-past nine — for me. I have to get up before seven!”
He grinned. “Say, that’s bad. What are you doing it for?”
“Something to do. I got fed up with harrowing the dung.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Three days. I’m getting awfully good at it. I can make a squiggle now with anyone.”
“Do you know what it means when you’ve made it?”
“Not yet,” she admitted. She took a drink of brandy. “That’s rather advanced work.”
“Are you taking typing, too?”
She nodded. “And bookkeeping. All the lot.”
He glanced at her in wonder. “You’ll be quite a secretary by the time you’re through.”
“Next year,” she said. “I’ll be able to get a good job next year.”
“Are many other people doing it?” he asked. “You go to a school, or something?”
She nodded. “There are more there than I’d thought there’d be. I think it’s about half the usual number. There were hardly any pupils just after the war and they sacked most of the teachers. Now the numbers are going up and they’ve had to take them on again.”
“More people are doing it now?”
“Mostly teen-agers,” she told him. “I feel like a grandmother amongst them. I think their people got tired of having them at home and made them go to work.” She paused. “It’s the same at the university,” she said. “There are many more enrolments now than there were a few months ago.”
“I’d never have thought it would work out that way,” he remarked.
“It’s dull just living at home,” she said. “They meet all their friends at the Shop.”
He offered her another drink but she refused it, and they went in to lunch. “Have you heard about John Osborne and his car?” she asked.
He laughed. “I sure have. He showed it to me. I’d say he’s showing it to everybody that will come and look at it. It’s a mighty nice car.”
“He’s absolutely mad,” she said. “He’ll kill himself on it.”
He sipped his cold consommé. “So what? So long as he doesn’t kill himself before we start off on this cruise. He’s having lots of fun.”
“When are you starting off on the cruise?” she asked.
“I suppose we’ll be starting about a week from now.”
“Is it going to be very dangerous?” she asked quietly.
There was a momentary pause. “Why, no,” he said. “What made you think that?”
“I spoke to Mary Holmes over the telephone yesterday. She seemed a bit worried over something Peter told her.”
“About this cruise?”
“Not directly,” she replied. “At least, I don’t think so. More like making his will or something.”
“That’s always a good thing to do,” he observed. “Everybody ought to make a will, every married man, that is.”
The grilled steaks came. “Tell me, is it dangerous?” she asked again.
He shook his head. “It’s quite a long cruise. We shall be away nearly two months, and nearly half of that submerged. But it’s not more dangerous than any other operation would be up in northern waters.” He paused. “It’s always tricky to go nosing around in waters where there may have been a nuclear explosion,” he said. “Especially submerged. You never really know what you may run into. Big changes in the sea bed. You may tangle with a sunken ship you didn’t know was there. You’ve got to go in carefully and watch your step. But no, I wouldn’t say it’s dangerous.”
“Come back safely, Dwight,” she said softly.
He grinned. “Sure we’ll come back safely. We’ve been ordered to. The admiral wants his submarine back.”
She sat back and laughed. “You’re impossible! As soon as I get sentimental you just — you just prick it like a toy balloon.”
“I guess I’m not the sentimental type,” he said. “That’s what Sharon says.”
“Does she?”
“Sure. She gets quite cross with me.”
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” she observed. “I’m very sorry for her.”
They finished lunch, left the restaurant, and walked to the National Gallery to see the current exhibition of religious pictures. They were all oil paintings, mostly in a modernistic style. They walked around the gallery set aside for the forty paintings in the exhibition, the girl interested, the naval officer frankly uncomprehending. Neither of them had much to say about the green Crucifixions or the pink Nativities; the five or six paintings dealing with religious aspects of the war stirred them to controversy. They paused before the prizewinner, the sorrowing Christ on a background of the destruction of a great city. “I think that one’s got something,” she said. “For once I believe that I’d agree with the judges.”
He said, “I hate it like hell.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
He stared at it. “Everything. To me it’s just phony. No pilot in his senses would be flying as low as that with thermonuclear bombs going off all around. He’d get burned up.”
She said, “It’s got good composition and good colouring.”
“Oh, sure,” he replied. “But the s
ubject’s phony.”
“In what way?”
“If that’s meant to be the R.C.A. building, he’s put Brooklyn Bridge on the New Jersey side, and the Empire State in the middle of Central Park.”
She glanced at the catalogue. “It doesn’t say that it’s New York.”
“Wherever it’s meant to be, it’s phony,” he replied. “It couldn’t have looked like that.” He paused. “Too dramatic.” He turned away, and looked around him with distaste. “I don’t like any part of it,” he said.
“Don’t you see anything of the religious angle here?” she asked. It was funny to her, because he went to church a lot and she had thought this exhibition would appeal to him.
He took her arm. “I’m not a religious man,” he said. “That’s my fault, not the artists’. They see things differently than me.”
They turned from the exhibition. “Are you interested in paintings?” she asked. “Or are they just a bore?”
“They’re not a bore,” he said. “I like them when they’re full of color and don’t try to teach you anything. There’s a painter called Renoir, isn’t there?”
She nodded. “They’ve got some Renoirs here. Would you like to see them?”
They went and found the French art, and he stood for some time before a painting of a river and a tree-shaded street beside it, with white houses and shops, very French and very colourful. “That’s the kind of picture I like,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of time for that.”
They strolled around the galleries for a time, chatting and looking at the pictures. Then she had to go; her mother was unwell and she had promised to be home in time to get the tea. He took her to the station on the tram.
In the rush of people at the entrance she turned to him. “Thanks for the lunch,” she said, “and for the afternoon. I hope the other pictures made up for the religious ones.”
He laughed. “They certainly did. I’d like to go back there again and see more of them. But as for religion, that’s just not my line.”
“You go to church regularly,” she said.
“Oh well, that’s different,” he replied.
