Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea (12 page)

“You may not!” roared the chair.

Admiral Nelson, standing too far away from the Congressman to be able to speak privately with him, turned eyes like two radar beams on him. Parker gazed back. What passed between them is hard to say, unless one believes in telepathy. It may have been that other mysterious power, the ability of a man to size up a man. It could be that in this species of mental magic, both were adepts.

“Mr. President,” said the Admiral, his eyes still on the Congressman’s face, “with your permission, sir, I will yield to Congressman Parker.”

“Mr. President, I protest!” shouted Dr. Zucco.

The President ignored him and asked, “Congressman Parker, I must demand to know why you wish to speak at this time.”

“Mr. President,” said the Congressman, as respectfully as if he were addressing the President of the United States instead of the chairman of a meeting, “I venture to say that my speaking will resolve this question for good and all.”

“And you yield, Admiral?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Zucco yelled “I—”

“Take the rostrum,” said the President. Parker did so, and turned to face Nelson. “Is there the slightest doubt in your mind, Admiral, that your calculations are correct and that to implement your plan you must leave immediately?”

“They are, and I must,” nodded the admiral.

“And you are aware, are you not, how an American citizen gets into Congress?” And before Nelson could answer, if indeed he was going to answer, Parker swung about and turned his back. He put his elbows on the lectern and leaned forward confidentially. “My friends,” he said confidentially, “thirty years ago, when I was a young man with the paint wet on the sign on the door of my law offices back in Springfield, I had little thought that the day would come when I would find myself standing here in such distinguished company. I love Springfield, mind you; why, one day I said to my wife, ‘Mrs. Parker,’ I said—(I used to call her Mrs. Parker)—‘Mrs. Parker, I love Springfield, and I don’t ever want to leave it.’ And she said, ‘Mr. Parker’—she didn’t always call me that; just when I called her Mrs. Parker—‘Mr. Parker,’ she said, ‘One day you will leave, no matter how much you love Springfield. And that will be the day you find out how much Springfield loves you.’ And for the longest time I didn’t know whatever in the world she meant by that, and when I’d ask her she’d just smile. Well, sir, the time came when I was a candidate, and it was the vote of my own home town that swung the balance and sent me to Washington. Then I knew what she meant. And that’s a story I tell you with humility, gentlemen, not with pride.”

One of Zucco’s younger and noisier supporters shouted, “Get to the point!”

The President rapped sharply, and the young man subsided. Parker gave him a long, still stare, holding it until he heard the first impatient murmur and foot-shuffling, and then went on:

“I took the floor today, thanks to the courtesy and kindness of the speaker and of the President there, promising you that by my doing so, you would see a resolution of this unfortunate deadlock. And see it you shall, for in my thirty years in Congress—and mind you, in thirty years you make a lot of enemies—there is one thing I may say in all humbleness I am known for, and that is that I am a man of my word.

“Now this deadlock here is not one whit different from the deadlock over the issue of the Public Health Bill in the 89th Congress. Let me sketch briefly the issues. Here we are engaged in a matter of life and death—we were there also. Here it is a question of—well, not law, not precedent, but what’s the human thing to do. Back there in Washington, D.C., we faced the same grave question. Now this bill, this public health measure, was—”

Back on the submarine, Chip Morton, having slowly reached a profound scowl which had begun with a puzzled frown when the Congressman began to speak, growled, “Now what the hell is that old windbag up to? He’s sitting smack on the ways, holding up the whole shebang.”

“I don’t know, said the Captain. “There’s something here that doesn’t quite meet the eye. I feel like I just got a letter I knew was important but it was written in invisible ink.”

“Aw, Parker just couldn’t resist the sight of a lectern.”

“Chip, you may not like him—not many folks do—but you never heard of him doing anything without a reason. I never heard him talk unless he had something to say . . . Where’s the O.O.M.?”

They peered at the screen, where the Congressman was asking his audience to bear in mind the point he had just made, and, “On the other hand, certain pressure groups in the pharmaceutical industry, of course from the best of motives—I never doubted that they were honorable men—”

“I thought I saw those five stripes to the left of the picture, but I sure don’t now,” said Chip Morton. “I wish they’d give us another camera angle . . .”

As by magic, his wish was granted. The director in the TV booth, having tired of the head-on view of Congressman Parker, cut to a profile. Behind him could be seen a few officials and some empty seats.

“He’s gone! There’s B.J., but Cathy’s not there, nor the Old Old Man!”

Crane grabbed the exec’s biceps so hard that Chip yelped. “Chip!” rapped the Captain. “How does a citizen get into Congress?”

“He runs for it. What’s that got to do with—Oh, Holy sweet Pete!”

The Captain shouldered past him and dove to the console. He palmed the klaxon, snatched up the P.A. mike and roared, “Condition yellow! Condition yellow! Now all hands, hear this! Mr. Gleason, lay up on deck with a detail and cast off bow, stern and both spring lines. Everything but the gangplank. On the double, man, jump! Once your lines are off, bring all hands inboard and you personally stand by the hatch control. Engines!”

“Engines,” the speaker acknowledged.

“Stand by for full operation. Mr. O’Brien!”

“O’Brien here, sir.”

“Watch your trim, mister. Call for what way you need, but hold her where she is, to the eyelash. A yard out and you’ll carry away the gang plank: that must not happen. Dr. Jamieson!”

“Sick bay: Jamieson.”

“Doc, is that castaway fit to go ashore? Can you get him on the dock in thirty seconds?”

“Not in thirty seconds, sir.”

“Then forget it. Dr. Hiller!”

The clear cool voice came floating out of the speaker: “Yes, Captain Crane.”

“Get ashore. You have twenty seconds. Goodbye.”

“Gleason reporting, sir. All lines off.”

“Good. See anybody on the dock?”

“Yes, sir. UN Security guards is all.”

“How many?”

“Six, sir.”

“Very good. Chip, put a scanner on Number Two screen for me, and let’s have a look at the gangplank and the dock area.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Captain looked anxiously at the big screen, where Parker was holding forth about a citizen’s group, a grass-roots group, un-financed, small, weak, but gentlemen, citizens, at loggerheads with the big drug combines. And gentlemen, the little man has to be heard, or you don’t have a democracy at all.

The Captain wagged his head and barked, “Where the hell’s my dockside scanner?”

“Engine-room’s got ‘em all locked up, Cap’n,” said Chip. “O’Brien’s using all the eyes he can get to hold her steady and spare you your gangplank.”

“Third. Where the hell’s the—oh, there you are, Hodges. Go squat in the nose there and get a fix on a piling. If she so much as creeps an inch, sing out which way and how much.” As the third officer sprinted into the glass bows, Crane turned to the console. “O’Brien!”

“O’Brien here, sir.”

“Turn loose a scanner for me. I’ve got Hodges watching in the bows and he’ll report if she shifts at all.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Okay, Chip, get me that dockside pic.”

The smaller screen flickered and then spread out a picture of the wide apron of the pierhead. In the foreground could be seen the shore end of the gangway. Six UN guards lounged about, two at the gangplank and the other four back near the far side of the wide apron.

The Congressman’s voice continued to drone out of the TV. Crane grinned up at the image admiringly, and was in time to see Zucco rising like a thunderhead. “Mr. President!” he roared.

The Congressman stopped politely and cocked his head, birdlike.

“Mr. President,” bellowed the scientist, “may I ask the interminably sesquipedalian legislator to be kind enough to make his point and let us get on with the day’s business?”

Instead of attempting to answer, Parker turned and looked appealingly at the chair. The President banged down the rustle of reaction with his gavel and said, conciliatingly, “Mr. Parker, what you have had to tell us is certainly of great interest, but as yet I fear I do not connect it with—”

“Mr. President,” said Parker with dignity, “I am here to assure you that I am a man of my word.”

“That is of course not the point at issue,” said the president courteously but firmly.

“And I promised you that I would see to it that this deadlock was resolved, did I not, sir?”

“You implied, sir, that it would be quickly resolved.”

“And so it will, sir, so it will. If interruptions can be kept to a minimum, sir.”

“Proceed, Congressman,” said the President tiredly. Zucco snorted audibly and sat down. He instantly sprang to his feet again, his jaws and eyes wide. He was staring at the back of the hall. He swung his big head to the left, and the empty seats there, and again to the back of the hall.

Congressman Parker, his eyes fixed on Zucco’s face, said levelly, “As a matter of fact, Mr. President, I venture to say that the situation is resolved as of right now.” Then, for the second time, the crew of the
Seaview
were treated to the almost unheard of spectacle of Congressman Parker, the petulant, the fault-finder, the little-old-lady-who-pokes-in-the-neighbors’-trash (as one adverse columnist had it) the vinegar-visaged—with a broad smile on his face.

“
Mister Pres-i-dent!
” screamed Zucco, so loud that even his mighty voice cracked. “Nelson’s gone! Don’t you understand? He’s gone! Gone back to that killer-boat of his, on his way to slaughter us all! Get the guards! After him! Stop him! Stop him! Don’t let that submarine leave the dock!”

The chamber boiled, it churned with running, leaping, shouting figures. Men poured up the center aisle, got in each other’s way.

The last of the episode seen on the screen was one long pan shot across the rapidly emptying hall, with no one left in the foreground but the President, slowly rising and coming toward Parker with his hand out, and B.J. Crawford, sitting limply in the second row behind the podium, shaking from head to foot, his bull laughter rising at last above the pandemonium.

“There!” barked Chip Morton. The Captain moved to the smaller screen and saw the doors to the warehouse tunnel still swinging violently, and three figures pounding toward the gangplank. Crane could pride himself on having handled as many details as he had in the past few minutes, but he was always to regret not having ordered the recorders on that unforgettable scene.

Admiral Nelson, blocky and big, ran like the fabled Babe Ruth, his long legs seeming to gain a little on him so that he tilted backwards a bit as he hurtled along. Commander Emery, on the other hand, ran leaning forward like a ski-jumper about to take off, getting all his speed from the sustained act of falling. Each had an arm hooked around one of Cathy Connors’ elbows, which protruded like the handles on an old-style sugar bowl, for her hands, low on her hips, held her skirts gathered to completely free her legs. She neither galloped, like the Admiral, nor sprinted, like the Commander, but scampered, an all but indescribable scamper, as the Admiral’s back-leaning gait and the Commander’s nose-down bird-dog method tilted her torso about thirty degrees to the left of her course. The Captain watched this spectacle with feelings joltingly mingled, and all of them strong: amusement, excitement, laughter, and a good salting of fury as he saw Chip Morton delightedly taking in the sight of those long, flashing, untrammeled legs.

The guards straightened their lounging spines and got on the balls of their feet, but as yet they apparently had no orders and only watched wall-eyed as the trio broke through the pair by the warehouse and then passed one, then the other who were out on the apron.

“Come on!” rapped Crane, and practically in lock-step, he and Morton sprang down the corridor to the main control room. There O’Brien stood, the engine-room mike captured between chin and collar-bone, his left hand on the master trim control and his right on the rudder, and his eyes flicking back, forth, up and down a panel studded with TV images, each showing a portion of hull and the dock nearest it. It was to the Diving Officer’s profound credit that yelling and pounding feet behind him did not make him shift so much as an eyeball away from his task.

At the foot of the conning tower ladder stood the CPO, Gleason, his hand on the closing lever.

His only movement was to step smartly out of the way as the Captain and the Exec leapt upward and swarmed the ladder.

Crane swung over the lip and down in one smooth motion, with Morton still virtually synchronized behind him. The three fugitives were fifty yards away and coming fast. The two UN guards all too obviously did not know what to do except be alert.

“If only they keep off their p.a. system,” Morton prayed—a prayer which was promptly answered, or rejected, by the blare of the big speaker horns over the warehouse entrance. These horns were designed to punch information through the largest predictable din of loading and unloading ships and chattering passengers; now, in this silent place, they came on like Gabriel.

“
Arrest those submarine personnel! The submarine is impounded. Repeat, the submarine
Seaview
is impounded and its entire complement under arrest!
”

The four guards by the warehouse began running toward the sub. Crane and Morton began running with equal purpose down the deck to the gangplank. The two guards at the head of the gangplank turned toward the fugitives, as indeed any human being must; such a sight is seldom offered here below. The two were therefore taken utterly by surprise as Crane and Morton, coming up the gangplank like two Navy jets off a flat-top catapult, hit them from behind, Crane to the left, Morton to the right. It was an amazing performance; even the short hard chop to the guards’ medullae oblongata was identical. One would have sworn the whole thing was rehearsed.