Cold as Ice (3 page)

Which at the moment happens to be nothing.
Nell stared out into three empty cones of brightness.
Not one hint of fish. Amazing, I can see everywhere. The
Spindrift
admits light completely from all directions. Even the chairs are transparent.
"Progress in ceramic materials since the war, Miss Cotter." Perry had patted the side of the clear globe as they were first boarding. "We can make everything in the submersible as transparent as the best glass . . . except the crew, of course. We're working on that."
(Joke!)
"And so strong that the
Spindrift
could descend to the deepest part of the Marianas Trench."

To which, thank God, they were not going. The hydrothermal vents lay at what Jon Perry described as a "modest" depth of a couple of thousand meters.

Which means that we're going more than a mile straight down. Two thousand tons of force on every square meter of the hull. Smash in this Christmas ornament, and no one would ever find the broken shell. Or its contents. God, I hate the deep sea—and I never knew it before. Feel like I have to go to the bathroom. Hope I don't pee in my pants (and be sure to edit that out, too, when I get back).

Still they were descending, through cold, lifeless water. Jon Perry had his free-swimmers on autopilot, their lighthouse beams creating cones of green, fading in the distance. Over to the left, Nell finally caught a glimpse of movement. Something dark, something faint, a wisp of smoke at the limit of vision.

"Dr. Perry, I see a big object swimming. Over on your side."

But he was shaking his head. "Not swimming. That's the first sign of what we came down here to look at. You're seeing the top of the plume from the smoker. Look at the water temperature."

Nell—and the camera—looked. It was eight degrees above freezing, warmer than it ought to be. They were descending into the region of the hydrothermal vent. A feathery plume of darker water—like up-flowing oil—was the first sign of the vent's proximity.

Jon Perry had listened well when she briefed him before the descent. He picked up his cue now without a hint from her. "From this point, the water as we descend will become hotter and hotter, all the way to the entry chimney of Hotpot—a crack in the seafloor, the hydrothermal vent that leads right to Earth's hot interior. Actually, this is both the newest and the hottest of the known vents. Those in the Galapagos Rift are deeper, and they have been studied for a long time: Mussel Bed and Rose Garden, Clambake and Garden of Eden. But even the hottest of them, the 'black smokers,' don't run over three-fifty Celsius. Hotpot here tops out at over four-twenty, a super black smoker. If it weren't for the
pressure
down here, this would all be superheated steam . . ."

And if it weren't for the
calmness
down here, this would all look damned good on camera. Beautiful clear eyes, total technical confidence. Pale complexion, because he spends too much time in the dark. Editing color balance will take care of that easy enough. But you need a few pins sticking into you, Jon Perry. We have to liven you up. Because let's face it, what you're saying to our vast but shrinking audience is
bloody dull stuff.

And Nell's experienced ear and eye told her that it was getting worse. Given that the average audience member had an attention span shorter than the time it took to blink. And given that there was not much to look at outside anyway. As they descended farther, the water was becoming steadily more turbid. The lights stopped a few yards beyond the glassy wall of the
Spindrift
, and in those few yards she could see
nothing.

"There are live organisms thriving down here," Perry was saying, "at temperatures far above the usual boiling point of water—temperatures that would kill a human being in a few seconds. But even that's not the most interesting thing about the black smokers. Every creature on the land surface of the earth or in the upper levels of the oceans depends on the sun for its existence. Plants trap the energy of sunlight, animals eat plants, and animals eat each other. So it all comes back to sunlight and solar energy. But the animals that form colonies around the black smokers don't rely on the sun at all. Their life cycle starts with bacteria that are
chemosynthetic
, not
photosynthetic.
They depend on chemical energy, breaking down sulfur-based compounds and using the energy from that to power processes within their cells. If the sun were to go out completely, all life on the surface of the earth would vanish. But it might be centuries before life down here even
noticed.
It would go on as usual, energized by the earth's own minerals and internal heat . . ."

Pictures.
Nell stared desperately at the roiling darkness out beyond the
Spindrift. Great God of the Boob Tube, give me
pictures.
I've recorded enough talking-head material in the past five minutes for an hour's program.

It was duller than her worst fears. And she knew what was coming next, because Jon Perry had told her even before they left the surface. They were going to scoop up exciting things like clams and mini-crabs and tube worms and sulfur-munching bacteria from the seabed around Hotpot, with the aid of the
Spindrift
's remote handling arms. And they were going to push the creatures into the viewers' disgusted or bored faces.

I told you, Glyn, I didn't need this bloody job. I should have stayed in bed.

But before Nell had finished that subvocal thought, Jon Perry had moved. He was sitting up straight in his seat, and his face suddenly had an
expression
on it. A live, interested look, like a real human being. He had stopped speaking in mid-sentence, and he was ignoring the cameras. Nell felt a movement of the
Spindrift
, an upward bobbing that she had last experienced when the submersible was on the surface.

"What's happening?"

He did not reply, did not look at her. But he jerked his head toward the instrument panel, which told Nell nothing. She saw only dozens of dials and digital readouts, most of them unlabeled and unintelligible.

What
was
intelligible was the sudden disappearance of every scrap of outside illumination. The free-swimmers' lights had vanished. Nell Cotter and Jon Perry sat at the center of a jet-black globe, dim-lit from within. She saw a streak of dark movement outside—opaque liquid swirling around them. It was followed by another and more violent rocking of the
Spindrift.
The vessel tilted far to one side, until Nell was thrown across to collide with Jon Perry.

"Pressure wave." He finally spoke. "A big one. We have to get away from here. The
Spindrift
was designed for uniform external pressure. It can't take much of this." His voice was calm, but his hands were skipping across the controls at unbelievable speed.

Nell gasped. Something had reached out in the darkness, grabbing and holding her at her waist, chest, and shoulders in soft, cool tentacles.

"It's all right." Perry had heard her indrawn breath. "That's only the restraining harness. It operates automatically if we exceed a ten-degree tilt."

Which we should never do, except when we're bobbing around on the surface.
Nell remembered at least that much of her briefing.
What's wrong with the attitude stabilizers? They're supposed to keep us level.

"I saw the temperature rising," Perry went on calmly, "faster than it ought to, but I didn't know how to interpret it. We arrived here at just the wrong time."

"But what's
happening
?" Nell could feel all of her weight transfer to the harness on her right side. The
Spindrift
had rolled through ninety degrees.

"Undersea eruption. Seafloor quake. The area around the smokers is seismically active, and it chose now to release built-up compressions."

Nell heard a low, pained moaning.
The seabed, crying out in agony? No. It's the
Spindrift,
groaning because the hull is overstressed. Can't take much of this, Perry says. So when the ship's had all that it can take—

The submersible shuddered and spun. Nell no longer had any sense of direction. The seafloor could be right beneath her feet—or directly over her head. Jon Perry was still busy at the controls. And, incredibly, he was talking in the same lecturer's voice as before.
Narrating
his comments, as though they were still making a video documentary.

"It is necessary that we leave the eruption zone at once, but it's no use to head straight up toward the surface. The pressure waves fan up and out from the seabed fracture zone to fill a wedge-shaped volume, broadest at the top. We must travel
laterally
and
down
to take us out of the active zone. That's what I'm doing now. It's going to be touch and go, because we've already had two pressure pulses that exceed the hull's nominal maximum tolerance. Hold tight. Here comes another one."

The
Spindrift
groaned again, a sound like creaking timbers. Nell glanced around. Outside there was nothing but turbid black water at killing pressure. How could Perry have any idea of where he was going? She could see no instruments that told direction or attitude. Yet his dim-lit fingers were never still. He was making continuous adjustments to
something.
Nell could hear another noise behind her: the whirring of electric motors, driving the
Spindrift
's propulsion system at maximum thrust.

Does he know what he's doing? Or is he trying anything, just at random?

The submersible shuddered and changed direction again, so violently that Nell was convinced that it must be the end. The hull moaned, surely ready to collapse. But in that same moment, Jon Perry was lifting his hands clear of the controls.

"Are we—" Nell didn't know how to finish the question.
Are we doomed
? didn't seem likely to receive a useful answer.

"Almost. Almost clear. Another few seconds."

The front of the submersible was admitting a faint, faded glow. The water ahead was clearer, no longer filled with dense, suspended solids ejected by the seafloor eruption. Nell could see one of the free-swimmer light sources, leading the way to safety like a pilot fish. The
Spindrift
rolled slightly, responding to a faint, final tremor from behind. And then Nell could feel no evidence of movement, although the sound of the motors continued from behind. Her restraining harness released and slipped away, retracting into the seat.

"We're right out of it. All clear." Perry slapped his hand on the panel in front of them. Able to see his profile for the first time in what seemed like hours, Nell found that he was grinning like a madman.

Nell wasn't.
Look at that! The crazy bastard, he acts like he loved it.

"Are you all right, Miss Cotter?"

Nell gulped, trying to clear her throat for anything more than subvocal rage. Before she could say a word, he was turning to face her, his expression changing from excitement to concern.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take us back to the surface. I'm really sorry about your show. I realize that we didn't get the materials I promised you, but there's no way we could examine Hotpot today. It's too dangerous. Anyway, there'll be so much
ejecta
from the vent that we wouldn't be able to see a thing for hours. We can come back another day."

Nell looked at the cameras. Still in position. Still working. They would have recorded everything: the eruption, the abyssal darkness, the
Spindrift
tossed and stressed by forces that had come close to shattering the little vessel.

Relief and excitement washed away tension. Nell wanted to laugh hysterically.
He's apologizing! He brings us back from the brink of death, then he worries because he didn't get me camera shots of his godawful slime-worms. And he must get his kicks from danger, because he was grinning like a loony a second ago, and not a sign of perspiration. And here I am, sweating like a pig in a sauna.

"Dr. Perry." A maniacal laugh came gurgling up from her throat.
Edit that out.
"You don't need to say you're sorry. We didn't get the show we expected—we got something a whole lot better. You promised chemosynthesis and photosynthesis and sulfur-chewing clams. You delivered a
seaquake
, an eruption with us in the middle of it. And a recording of everything. The viewers will love it."

He's surprised—at the idea that someone might prefer high drama to tube worms?
But now Nell could not control her own grin. To be sure that you were dead, and then to know you had survived . . . there was no feeling like it. In that moment of greatest satisfaction, she saw a red alarm winking on the control panel. She pointed to it without speaking.

"Oh, that's all right. Nothing to do with our onboard status. The ship is fine." He leaned over to activate a small display screen, angled so that Nell could not read it. "That signal shows that the
Spindrift
has received a message from the surface."

"I thought that was hard to do."

"It's damned hard. It takes a tight-focused sonic beam to find us, and an even tighter one to send a signal. Lots of energy waste. That's why it's done so seldom." He was frowning. "It must be for you."

"I'm sure it's not."

"Well, I can't believe it's for me. There's nothing in my projects so urgent it can't wait until we return to the surface. But here it comes."

Nell watched as he read the contents of the screen. She saw his expression change again.

Bye-bye, Ice Man. I don't know what this is, but it's something that sure frightens or upsets Jon Perry. He's excited by physical danger, and it doesn't worry him—but he's sure worried now.

"What is it? Is the message for me?"

Jon Perry was shaking his head. "It's for me. I'm sorry, Miss Cotter, but we have to head for the surface at top speed. The undersecretary's office called, and they say there's a major problem."

"With our descent? I hope it hasn't caused trouble."

"It has nothing to do with today's descent. There's a problem with my project to explore the life forms around the hydrothermal vents—the thing I've spent the past six years working on."