The Dragon in the Sea (26 page)

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Authors: Frank Herbert

BOOK: The Dragon in the Sea
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“Even I could've done it,” said Ramsey. “But I guess the skipper had his reasons.” He frowned. “Only I'd like to know his reason for picking me to do this snag job.”
“Did you ever get into a Con-5 game?” asked Bonnett.
Ramsey suddenly grinned. “Sure. My instructor thought he was a hotshot. So he said we'd take these two Con-5s, him controlling one, me the other. It was a touch match in the bay, first nose-hit the winner. You know, I took—”
“All right, all right,” said Bonnett. “I'm just trying to make a point. I don't want a blow by blow. That's a young man's game, or at least a school game. We've been a long time out of school. You haven't.”
“Oh.”
Bonnett chuckled. “I used to be pretty good at it, too. Tell you what: when we get back let's hunt up a fish school and I'll challenge you to a snag match. There's the fun.”
Ramsey sobered. “The skipper doesn't make mistakes, does he?”
“Not about people,” said Bonnett. “Or about machines, either.” He stopped to correct the setting on the bow planes. “And when we get back home they'll have him on the carpet for wasting too many fish. And what about all those spare parts?”
Ramsey thought:
A first-year psych man knows the leader of a group is the integrative force … the logos. Of course this crew has the top rating. Sparrow is—
“It makes my blood boil when I think about it,” said Bonnett.
Sparrow came through the doorway onto the control deck. “What makes your blood boil?”
“All the stupid red tape back at base.”
“It's supposed to make your blood boil. That's why it exists. How far to that seamount?”
“Five minutes.”
“Okay, Johnny. Let's see how good you are at Con-tag.”
Sparrow gestured toward the torpedo board at Bonnett's left.
“How's Joe?” asked Bonnett.
“I just shot him full of de-carb. If that hot stuff settles in his bones, he's a cooked engineer.”
Ramsey approached the torpedo board slowly.
Bonnett said, “We caught him in time. He'll be as good as new in a couple of days. No calcium, no carbonate, no—”
“Just call him rubber bones,” said Ramsey. “Now how about a little quiet?”
“The maestro is about to perform,” said Bonnett.
Ramsey stared up at the banks of red-handled switches, the guide screens, arming triggers. And there in front of him was the little blue stick that made a Con-5 perform. He chose one off the top of the rack, keyed it to the controls, said, “Standing by. How far is down?”
“Twenty-two hundred feet,” said Bonnett. “You can go any time now. It's directly under us.” He slowed the engines until they were barely moving.
“We'll have hose to spare,” said Sparrow.
“Shall I make a recon down to that bottom to see if I can get some muck for our hull snooper?” asked Ramsey.
“No. We have to make this one fast. An EP may pick up our control pulse. If the bottom's hot, then we'll have hot oil and they can use it to lube atomic engines.”
“Now?” asked Ramsey.
“Take her away,” said Sparrow. “Les, put the side lights on that hose reel.”
“They're already on,” said Bonnett.
Ramsey turned the guide screen to the nose eye in his Con-5, activated the multi-wave projector beside the nose
eye. The screen showed a pattern outline for the hull of the
Ram
, picked up in waves beyond the normally visible spectrum. Superimposed was the faint glow of the side light illuminating the hose reel. A second superimposition showed the relative positions of the
Ram
and the tiny Con-5.
“A little more ship speed, please,” said Ramsey. “It'll steady us.”
Bonnett moved the throttle bar forward a fractional notch and the
Ram
picked up speed.
Ramsey brought the deadly torpedo in closer. He could not see the fin prongs on his torpedo, but he knew where they were—forward projecting edges of the stabilizing fins, designed for hydrostatic balance and set just back of the needle curve of the torpedo's nose.
“Blink the side light,” said Ramsey.
Bonnett winked the light switch off, on, off, on.
The glow on Ramsey's guide screen went on and off to the movement of the switch.
“Wanted to make sure that was the correct light,” said Ramsey. He flashed the Con-5 in close and hovered it over the light. The hose projection was visible ahead, jutting at a forty-five-degree angle from the reel base.
“Okay,” he said. “Here goes.” He dropped the Con-5 back ten feet, threw full power into the torpedo's drive. It surged ahead, swooped down onto the hose, seemed to hesitate, then ranged away from the
Ram.
“You got it,” said Bonnett.
“What else?” asked Ramsey. He slacked off the speed of his torpedo, looked at the counter dial which showed how fast the hose was unreeling. Abruptly, the dial showed a slowing down, slacked off to zero.
“Lost it,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey brought the Con-5 around in a sweeping curve. The snaky line of the hose was the superimposed outline now. He brought the little torpedo in fast, tipped it at the last minute like a hungry shark and again had the hose in tow. “Got a better hold on it that time.”
“I'm bringing us around on that seamount,” said Bonnett. “I have you on the search board. I'll warn you one hundred feet from bottom. You can take it in visually from there.”
“I picked up the hose about ten feet from the end that last time,” said Ramsey. “Get the pump going the minute I touch the nozzle into the muck; that'll hold her there. I don't want to hold that firing pin any closer to a target any longer than I have to.”
“Pump ready,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey glanced sideways, saw Sparrow at the tow board. Sparrow's hands moved over the controls. “Line checks clear to the ballast compartment,” he said.
Ramsey visualized the ballast connections running aft, through the tow controls and into the web mesh which linked
Ram
and slug. If that linkage remained sound … if he could plug that hose end into ballast muck … if …
“One hundred feet,” said Bonnett. “You're bearing along the east face of the seamount.”
“I have its outline,” said Ramsey, eyes on screen.
He maneuvered the torpedo closer to the bottom.
“Ledge,” he said. “That'll have muck.”
“Pray it's cool,” said Sparrow.
“Pray it's ballast,” said Ramsey.
He edged the torpedo and its hose end closer to the bottom, closer, closer …
“She's in!”
“Pump on and … holding,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey tipped the Con-5, freed it from the hose, brought it up away from the bottom.
“Stand by with that thing,” said Sparrow. “We may have to move the hose.”
They waited.
“The slug's bow is coming down,” said Sparrow. He hit the switch of a ballast snooper. “It's cool.”
Slowly, as the
Ram
circled over the seamount, the slug came to hydrostatic balance. Presently, Sparrow said, “Okay, Johnny, find some deep bottom for that Con-5, set it down, disengage and leave it. Don't let it blow.”
“Aye.” Ramsey took the little torpedo down along the flank of the seamount, found a deep ledge and set the deadly metal fish down. He shut down the remote-control system, stepped back.
“Hose coming in,” said Sparrow. “Take us down into that thermal, Les. Course 260. Johnny, how about looking in on Joe?”
“Aye, Skipper.” He felt suddenly exhausted, but buoyed by an inner nervous exhilaration.
“Then get some rest,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey turned aft, went to the door, stepped through, and went to the rec room—sick bay.
Garcia lay on the sun-lamp cot clad only in a pair of shorts. He was on his back, one brown arm thrown across his eyes. Dots of perspiration glistened on his dark skin. As Ramsey entered the room, Garcia lifted the arm from his eyes, peered from under it.
“Oh, it's you.”
“Who'd you expect? The surgeon general?”
“Aren't we funny!”
Ramsey put the back of his hand against Garcia's forehead. “Fever?”
Garcia cleared his throat. “Some. Those damned decalcification shots.”
Ramsey glanced at the chart Sparrow had taped to the bulkhead above the cot. “You're due for another shot right now. De-carb and de-phos. Another de-sulf in an hour.” He turned away, went to the pharmacy locker across the room, saw that Sparrow had set out the hypodermics in sterile seals, labeled them.
“What have we been doing?” asked Garcia.
Ramsey turned with the hypo for the shot, said, “Getting a new cargo of ballast for the slug. Turn over.”
“This one in the left arm,” said Garcia. He held out the arm, watched while Ramsey swabbed the area, administered the injection, returned the hypo to the pharmacy rack.
Garcia spoke behind him. “Have you and your little black box finally got the skipper figured out?”
Ramsey's muscles locked. He took a deep breath to quiet his nerves, turned. “What do you mean?”
Garcia's face bore a twisted smile. “Don't play it innocent, Johnny. Remember me? I'm the guy who's capable of taking over the electronics shack if you crock out.”
“But—”
“My hobby is breaking and entering,” said Garcia. He put his hands under his head, winced as he moved his left arm. “You've heard about Pandora's box?” He managed a shrug by lifting his eyebrows and making the slightest movement of shoulders. “You shouldn't put temptation like that in front of a guy like me.”
Ramsey wet his lips with his tongue. “You mean the test equipment for the long-range—”
“Really, old boy, don't you know when the jig's up?” He stared at Ramsey, a calculating look. “The gear in that box is tied to the skipper someway. I don't know how, but—”
“Oh, come off that,” said Ramsey. “You—”
“I put it to the acid test,” said Garcia.
“Acid test?”
“You're a deuced reluctant type, Johnny. If I didn't—”
“Start at the beginning,” said Ramsey, tiredly. “I want to know what you think.”
“Fair enough,” said Garcia. He wriggled into a more comfortable position on the cot.
Ramsey brought up a stool, sat down.
“In the first place,” said Garcia, “you didn't offer to introduce me to the intricacies of your little black box. That was a mistake. Any normal E-man would've been all eager to share his gadget with another man aboard who could talk shop.” The smile tugged at the corners of Garcia's mouth. “You, by the way, don't talk shop.”
“So?”
“So there's nobody else aboard who talks your particular brand of shop.”
“Is that when you figured me for a spy?”
Garcia shook his head. “I've never figured you for a spy.” He frowned. “Sorry about that. Maybe I could've saved you a bad time with Les. I've been certain all along that you weren't a spy.”
“How could you be?”
“Too inept.” Garcia hesitated. “And besides, my wife is a cousin of Commander Gadsen of the
Dolphin
. Gad was very impressed by a fellow named Long John Ramsey from
BuPsych who pulled them out of a nasty spot when their oxy system went sour. He says this man Ramsey improvised a special vampire gauge and pulled some stunts with anhydrase that weren't in the books. Seemed to think this Ramsey saved their lives.”
“So you figured me for this same Ramsey.”
“Gad was
extremely
impressed by this Long John Ramsey except one thing: he said the redheaded bastard got on your nerves with his know-it-all attitude!”
“The world's full of redheaded—”
“Uh, uh!” Garcia shook his head. “You're BuPsych. Two things on this floating sewer pipe interest you more than anything else: the skipper and that black box in your room. So I opened the box.”
Ramsey forced himself to remain impassive. “And?”
An enigmatic grin captured Garcia's features. “There's a separate set of recording instruments in it keyed to the timelog. I copied four of your tapes, checked back on what we'd been doing.”

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