The Dragon in the Sea (6 page)

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Authors: Frank Herbert

BOOK: The Dragon in the Sea
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“We invoke the help of the Almighty upon our mean endeavors,” said Sparrow.
Bonnett slipped into a chair at the left.
Sparrow indicated the seat opposite himself. “Will you be seated, please, Mr. Ramsey?”
Ramsey lowered himself into the chair, rested one hand on the green felt of the table cover. Sparrow towered above them at the other end of the table.
The Giver of the Law with hand upon the Book.
Religious services
, thought Ramsey.
Here's one of the binding forces of this crew. Participation Mystique! The consecration of the warriors before the foray.
“What is your religion, Mr. Ramsey?” asked Sparrow.
Ramsey cleared his throat. “Protestant Episcopal.”
“It's not really important down here,” said Sparrow. “I was merely curious. We have a saying in the subtugs that the Lord won't permit a
live
atheist to dive below a thousand feet.”
Ramsey smiled.
Sparrow bent over the Bible. His voice rumbled as he read: “‘Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil: that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!'”
He closed the Bible, lifted his head. It was a movement of power, of authority. Ramsey received an impression of deep strength.
“We do our job with what we have at hand,” said Sparrow. “We do what we believe to be the
right
thing. Though it grieve us, we do it. We do it that the godless shall perish from the earth. Amen.”
Sparrow turned away, placed the Bible in a case against the bulkhead. With his back still turned to them, he said, “Stations, everyone. Mr. Ramsey, contact base, tell them we are ready to go. Get the time for the first check point.”
Ramsey got to his feet. Foremost in his thoughts was the almost physical need to examine the first telemeter record on Sparrow. “Yes, sir,” he said. He turned, ducked through the door to the companionway and across into his shack, contacted base.
First check point in four hours.
Ramsey relayed the information to Sparrow.
“Zero the automatic timelog,” said Sparrow. “Check in, everyone.”
“Garcia here. Drive and tow secure.”
“Bonnett here. Main secure.”
Ramsey looked at his board in the electronics shack. A queer sensation of belonging here passed over him. A sense of familiarity, of association deeper and longer than the five
weeks of training. “E-board secure,” he said. “Two atmospheres in the hull.” He looked to the vampire gauge on his wrist. “Diffusion normal-plus. No nitrogen.”
Back came Sparrow's voice over the intercom: “Les, slide off.”
Ramsey felt the subtug lurch, then a faint whispering pulse of power. The deck assumed a slight upward incline, leveled. Presently, it tipped down.
We're headed into the deeps,
thought Ramsey.
Physically and mentally. From here on it's up to me
.
“Mr. Ramsey, come to the control deck,” Sparrow ordered.
Ramsey closed down his board, went forward. Sparrow stood, hands behind his back, feet braced slightly apart almost precisely in the center of the control deck. He appeared framed in a background maze of pipes, wheels, levers, and dials. To his right, Garcia worked the tow controls; to his left, Bonnett held the high-speed pilot wheel. The big static pressure gauge high in the control bulkhead registered 1,310 pounds, increasing; they were below 3,000 feet.
Without turning, Sparrow asked, “What's in that little box that came aboard with your effects, Mr. Ramsey?”
“Monitoring equipment for the new search system, sir.”
Sparrow's head moved to follow the flickering of a towcontrol dial; he turned back. “Why was it locked?”
“It's extremely delicate and packed accordingly. They were afraid someone—”
“I'll want to see it at the first opportunity,” said Sparrow. He stepped over behind Bonnett. “Les, is that a leak in compartment nine?”
“There's no moisture or pressure variant, Skipper. It has to be condensation.”
“Keep an eye on it.” Sparrow stepped back beside Ramsey.
I'm going to find out quick if that disguise system in the box satisfies his curiosity
, thought Ramsey.
“What's your hobby?” he asked Ramsey.
Ramsey blinked. “Astronomy.”
Bonnett spoke over his shoulder: “That's a peculiar hobby for a submariner.”
Before Ramsey could reply, Sparrow said, “There's nothing wrong with astronomy for a man who goes to sea.”
“The basis of navigation,” said Ramsey.
Sparrow glanced sidelong at Ramsey, returned his gaze to the board. “I was thinking as we moved out across the mooring basin back at base that we were entitled to a last look at the stars before going under the sea. They give one a sense of orientation. One night before we left Garden Glenn I was struck by the clarity of the sky. The constellation of Hercules was—” He broke off as the
Ram
's nose tipped upward.
A down hands moved over his controls to correct for the deflection.
“Hercules,” said Ramsey. “Do you mean the Kneeler?”
“Not many call him that any more,” said Sparrow. “I like to think of him up there all these centuries, guiding mariners. The Phoenicians used to worship him, you know.”
Ramsey felt a sudden wave of personal liking for Sparrow. He fought it down.
I must remain clearheaded and objective
, he told himself.
Sparrow moved to the left to get a clearer view of the pilot gauges. He studied them a moment, turned to Ramsey. “Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Ramsey, that these Hell Diver subtugs are the closest things to spaceships that mankind has developed? We're completely self-contained.” He turned back to the control board. “And what do we do with our spaceships? We use them to hide under the liquid curtain of our planet. We use them to kill one another.”
Ramsey thought:
Here's a problem
—
a morbid imagination vocalized for the benefit of the crew.
He said, “We use them in self-defense.”
“Mankind has no defense from himself,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey started to speak, stopped, thought:
That's a Jungian concept
.
No man is proof against himself.
He looked at Sparrow with a new respect.
“Our underground base,” said Sparrow. “It's like a womb. And the marine tunnel. A birth canal if I ever saw one.”
Ramsey thrust his hands into his pockets, clenched his fists.
What is going on here?
he asked himself.
An idea like that should have originated with BuPsych. This man Sparrow is either teetering on the ragged edge or he's the sanest man I've ever met. He's absolutely right about that base and the tunnel and we've never spotted the analogy before. This bears on our problem. But bow?
Sparrow said, “Joe, secure the tow board on automatic. I want you to go with Mr. Ramsey now and test out the new detection gear. It should be ranged on our first check point.” He looked to the big sonoran auto-nav chart on the forward bulkhead and the red dot showing their DR
position. “Les, surface the peri-box and get a position reading.”
“Right, Skipper.”
Garcia closed the final switch on his board, turned to Ramsey. “Let's go, Junior.”
Ramsey looked at Sparrow, a wish to be part of this crew uppermost in his mind. He said, “My friends call me Johnny.”
Sparrow spoke to Garcia. “Joe, would you also initiate Mr. Ramsey into the idiosyncrasies of our atmospheric system? The carbonic anhydrase phase regulator would be a good place to start.”
Ramsey felt the rejection of his first name like a slap, stiffened, ducked through the aft door and into the companionway.
Garcia followed, dogged the door behind them, turned, said, “You'd better know something about the subtugs, Ramsey. A new hand is always known by his last name or anything else the crew feels like calling him until after the first combat. Some guys hope they
never
get called by their first name.”
Ramsey cursed inwardly. Security had missed that point. It made him appear like a green hand. Then he thought:
But this is a natural thing. A unit compulsive action by the crew. A bit of magic. Don't use the secret name of the new man lest the gods destroy him … and his companions.
In the control room, Bonnett turned to Sparrow, sniffed. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, turned back to the control board. “He's green,” he said.
“He appears willing, though,” said Sparrow. “We can hope for the best.”
Bonnett asked, “Aren't you worried about that last-minute Security check-up on the guy?”
“Somewhat,” said Sparrow.
“I can't help it,” said Bonnett. “The guy—something about him—I dunno. He strikes me as a wrongo.” Bonnett's shaggy brows drew down in thought.
“It could've been routine,” said Sparrow. “You know the going over they gave us.”
“I'm still going to keep an eye on him,” said Bonnett.
“I've some paper work,” said Sparrow. “Steady as she goes. Call me before the first check point.”
“What's the watch schedule?” asked Bonnett.
“That's what I'm going to be working on,” said Sparrow. “I want to set it up so I can spend some time with Ramsey while we're still in comparatively safe waters. I don't want him goofing when the chips are down.”
Sparrow ducked for the aft door, went down the companionway and into the wardroom. The first thing that struck him as he entered was the color of the wardroom table cover—a cover and a color he had seen thousands of times.
Why is it that Navy wardrooms always have green table covers? he asked himself. Is it a little of the color of the growing land? Is it to remind us of home?
In the electronics shack, Garcia and Ramsey closed down the board after testing the detection gear.
“What now?” asked Ramsey.
“You'd better log a little sack time,” said Garcia. “It's Les's watch. The skipper's probably setting up the schedule right now. You may be called next. Things are pretty loose the first day or so.”
Ramsey nodded, said, “I am tired.” He turned aft, said, “See you later.”
Garcia's “Righto,” floated after him.
Ramsey hurried to his room, dogged the door, dragged out the telemeter box, unlocked it, extracted the first record strips, sat back to examine them.
Pituitra and adrenaline high points showed early on the scrolls. Ramsey noted that one was before he arrived and the other coincided with the moment pressure was first bled into the hull.
The first tense moments,
he thought.
But that's normal.
He reeled the scrolls of telemeter tape forward to the moment the sabotage was discovered, double-checked the timed setting, scanned backward and forward across the area.
Nothing!
But that can't be!
Ramsey stared at the pattern of rivets on the bulkhead opposite him. The faint whispering of the drive seemed to grow louder. His hand on the blanket beside him felt every tuft, every thread. His nostrils sorted out the odors of the room: paint, oil, soap, ozone, perspiration, plastic …
Is it possible for a person to go through anxiety without glandular changes?
he asked himself.
Yes, under certain pathological circumstances, none of which fit Sparrow.
Ramsey remembered the sound of the captain's voice over the intercom during the period of stress: higher pitched, tense, clipped.
Again, Ramsey examined the tape.
Could the telemeter be wrong?
He checked it. Functioning perfectly. Could there be
dysfunction in the mechanism within Sparrow's flesh? Then the other fluctuations would not have registered.
Ramsey leaned back, put a hand behind his head, thought through the problem. Two major possibilities suggested themselves:
If Sparrow knew about the wiper-rag-oil-spray thing then he wouldn't be anxious. What if he planted the rag and set that lube-system petcock himself? He could've done it to disable the ship and stop the mission because he's lost his nerve or because he's a spy.
But there would've been other psychomotor indications which the telemeter would have registered.
This led to the other possibility:
In moments of great stress Sparrow's automatic glandular functions are taken over by the higher cortical centers. That could tie in with the known paranoiac tendencies. There could be a systematic breakdown of normal function under stress: such a turning away from fear that the whole being believes there could be no danger.

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