Beth said, “The divers who are down there now—what exactly are they doing?”
“Looking for the front door.” Barnes smiled. “For the time being, we’ve had to fall back on classical archaeological procedures. We’re digging exploratory trenches in the coral, looking for an entrance or a hatch of some kind. We hope to find it within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Once we do, you’re going in. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Ted said. “What was the Russian reaction to this discovery?”
“We haven’t told the Russians,” Barnes said.
“You haven’t told them?”
“No. We haven’t.”
“But this is an incredible, unprecedented development in human history. Not just American history. Human history. Surely we should share this with all the nations of the world. This is the sort of discovery that could unite all of mankind—”
“You’d have to speak to the President,” Barnes said. “I don’t know the reasoning behind it, but it’s his decision. Any other questions?”
Nobody said anything. The team looked at each other.
“Then I guess that’s it,” Barnes said.
The lights came on. There was the scraping of chairs as people stood, stretched. Then Harry Adams said, “Captain Barnes, I must say I resent this briefing very much.”
Barnes looked surprised. “What do you mean, Harry?” The others stopped, looked at Adams. He remained seated in his chair, an irritated look on his face. “Did you decide you have to break the news to us gently?”
“What news?”
“The news about the door.”
Barnes laughed uneasily. “Harry, I just got through telling you that the divers are cutting exploratory trenches, looking for the door—”
[[36]] “—I’d say you had a pretty good idea where the door was three days ago, when you started flying us in. And I’d say that by now you probably know exactly where the door is. Am I right?”
Barnes said nothing. He stood with a fixed smile on his face.
My God, Norman thought, looking at Barnes. Harry’s right. Harry was known to have a superbly logical brain, an astonishing and cold deductive ability, but Norman had never seen him at work.
“Yes,” Barnes said, finally. “You’re right.”
“You know the location of the door?”
“We do. Yes.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Ted said, “But this is fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! When will we go down there to enter the spacecraft?”
“Tomorrow,” Barnes said, never taking his eyes off Harry. And Harry, for his own part, stared fixedly at Barnes. “The minisubs will take you down in pairs, starting at oh eight hundred hours tomorrow morning.”
“This is exciting!” Ted said. “Fantastic! Unbelievable.”
“So,” Barnes said, still watching Harry, “you should all get a good night’s sleep—if you can.”
“ ‘Innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,’ ” Ted said. He was literally bobbing up and down in his chair with excitement.
“During the rest of the day, supply and technical officers will be coming to measure and outfit you. Any other questions,” Barnes said, “you can find me in my office.”
He left the room, and the meeting broke up. When the others filed out, Norman remained behind, with Harry Adams. Harry never moved from his chair. He watched the technician packing up the portable screen.
“That was quite a performance just now,” Norman said.
“Was it? I don’t see why.”
“You deduced that Barnes wasn’t telling us about the door.”
“Oh, there’s much more he’s not telling us about,” Adams [[37]] said, in a cold voice. “He’s not telling us about any of the important things.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact,” Harry said, getting to his feet at last, “that Captain Barnes knows perfectly well why the President decided to keep this a secret.”
“He does?”
“The President had no choice, under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“He knows that the object down there is not an alien spacecraft.”
“Then what is it?”
“I think it’s quite clear what it is.”
“Not to me,” Norman said.
Adams smiled for the first time. It was a thin smile, entirely without humor. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he said. And he left the room.
TESTS
Arthur levine, the marine biologist, was the only member of the expedition Norman Johnson had not met. It was one of the things we hadn’t planned for, he thought. Norman had assumed that any contact with unknown life would occur on land; he hadn’t considered the most obvious possibility—that if a spacecraft landed at random somewhere on the Earth, it would most likely come down on water, since 70 percent of the planet was covered with water. It was obvious in retrospect that they would need a marine biologist.
What else, he wondered, would prove obvious in retrospect?
He found Levine hanging off the port railing. Levine came [[38]] from the oceanographic institute at Woods Hole, Massachusetts. His hand was damp when Norman shook it. Levine looked extremely ill at ease, and finally admitted that he was seasick.
“Seasick? A marine biologist?” Norman said.
“I work in the laboratory,” he said. “At home. On land. Where things don’t move all the time. Why are you smiling?”
“Sorry,” Norman said.
“You think it’s funny, a seasick marine biologist?”
“Incongruous, I guess.”
“A lot of us get seasick,” Levine said. He stared out at the sea. “Look out there,” he said. “Thousands of miles of flat. Nothing.”
“The ocean.”
“It gives me the creeps,” Levine said.
“So?” Barnes said, back in his office. “What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“Of the team, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s the team I chose, six years later. Basically a good group, certainly very able.”
“I want to know who will crack.”
“Why should anybody crack?” Norman said. He was looking at Barnes, noticing the thin line of sweat on his upper lip. The commander was under a lot of pressure himself.
“A thousand feet down?” Barnes said. “Living and working in a cramped habitat? Listen, it’s not like I’m going in with military divers who have been trained and who have themselves under control. I’m taking a bunch of scientists, for God’s sake. I want to make sure they all have a clean bill of health. I want to make sure nobody’s going to crack.”
“I don’t know if you are aware of this, Captain, but psychologists can’t predict that very accurately. Who will crack.”
“Even when it’s from fear?”
“Whatever it’s from.”
Barnes frowned. “I thought fear was your specialty.”
[[39]] “Anxiety is one of my research interests and I can tell you who, on the basis of personality profiles, is likely to suffer acute anxiety in a stress situation. But I can’t predict who’ll crack under that stress and who won’t.”
“Then what good are you?” Barnes said irritably. He sighed. “I’m sorry. Don’t you just want to interview them, or give them some tests?”
“There aren’t any tests,” Norman said. “At least, none that work.”
Barnes sighed again. “What about Levine?”
“He’s seasick.”
“There isn’t any motion underwater; that won’t be a problem. But what about him, personally?”
“I’d be concerned,” Norman said.
“Duly noted. What about Harry Adams? He’s arrogant.”
“Yes,” Norman said. “But that’s probably desirable.” Studies had shown that the people who were most successful at handling pressure were people others didn’t like—individuals who were described as arrogant, cocksure, irritating.
“Maybe so,” Barnes said. “But what about his famous research paper? Harry was one of the biggest supporters of SETI a few years back. Now that we’ve found something, he’s suddenly very negative. You remember his paper?”
Norman didn’t, and was about to say so when an ensign came in. “Captain Barnes, here is the visual upgrade you wanted.”
“Okay,” Barnes said. He squinted at a photograph, put it down. “What about the weather?”
“No change, sir. Satellite reports are confirming we have forty-eight plus-minus twelve on site, sir.”
“Hell,” Barnes said.
“Trouble?” Norman asked.
“The weather’s going bad on us,” Barnes said. “We may have to clear out our surface support.”
“Does that mean you’ll cancel going down there?”
“No,” Barnes said. “We go tomorrow, as planned.”
“Why does Harry think this thing is not a spacecraft?” Norman asked.
[[40]] Barnes frowned, pushed papers on his desk. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “Harry’s a theoretician. And theories are just that—theories. I deal in the hard facts. The fact is, we’ve got something damn old and damn strange down there. I want to know what it is.”
“But if it’s not an alien spacecraft, what is it?”
“Let’s just wait until we get down there, shall we?” Barnes glanced at his watch. “The second habitat should be anchored on the sea floor by now. We’ll begin moving you down in fifteen hours. Between now and then, we’ve all got a lot to do.”
“Just hold it there, Dr. Johnson.” Norman stood naked, felt two metal calipers pinch the back of his arms, just above the elbow. “Just a bit … that’s fine. Now you can get into the tank.”
The young medical corpsman stepped aside, and Norman climbed the steps to the metal tank, which looked like a military version of a Jacuzzi. The tank was filled to the top with water. As he lowered his body into the water, it spilled over the sides.
“What’s all this for?” Norman asked.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Johnson. If you would completely immerse yourself …”
“What?”
“Just for a moment, sir …”
Norman took a breath, ducked under the water, came back up.
“That’s fine, you can get out now,” the corpsman said, handing him a towel.
“What’s all this for?” he asked again, climbing down the ladder.
“Total body adipose content,” the corpsman said. “We have to know it, to calculate your sat stats.”
“My sat stats?”
“Your saturation statistics.” The corpsman marked points on his clipboard.
“Oh dear,” he said. “You’re off the graph.”
[[41]] “Why is that?”
“Do you get much exercise, Dr. Johnson?”
“Some.” He was feeling defensive now. And the towel was too small to wrap around his waist. Why did the Navy use such small towels?
“Do you drink?”
“Some.” He was feeling distinctly defensive. No question about it.
“May I ask when you last consumed an alcoholic beverage, sir?”
“I don’t know. Two, three days ago.” He was having trouble thinking back to San Diego. It seemed so far away. “Why?”
“That’s fine, Dr. Johnson. Any trouble with joints, hips or knees?”
“No, why?”
“Episodes of syncope, faintness or blackouts?”
“No …”
“If you would just sit over here, sir.” The corpsman pointed to a stool, next to an electronic device on the wall. “I’d really like some answers,” Norman said.
“Just stare at the green dot, both eyes wide open. …”
He felt a brief blast of air on both eyes, and blinked instinctively. A printed strip of paper clicked out. The corpsman tore it off, glanced at it.
“That’s fine, Dr. Johnson. If you would come this way …” “I’d like some information from you,” Norman said. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”
“I understand, sir, but I have to finish your workup in time for your next briefing at seventeen hundred hours.”
Norman lay on his back, and technicians stuck needles in both arms, and another in his leg at the groin. He yelled in sudden pain.
“That’s the worst of it, sir,” the corpsman said, packing the syringes in ice. “If you will just press this cotton against it, here …”
* * *
[[42]] There was a clip over his nostrils, a mouthpiece between his teeth.
“This is to measure your CO2” the corpsman said. “Just exhale. That’s right. Big breath, now exhale. …”
Norman exhaled. He watched a rubber diaphragm inflate, pushing a needle up a scale.
“Try it again, sir. I’m sure you can do better than that.” Norman didn’t think he could, but he tried again anyway. Another corpsman entered the room, with a sheet of paper covered with figures. “Here are his BC’s,” he said.
The first corpsman frowned. “Has Barnes seen this?”
“Yes.”
“And what’d he say?”
“He said it was okay. He said to continue.”
“Okay, fine. He’s the boss.” The first corpsman turned back to Norman. “Let’s try one more big breath, Dr. Johnson, if you would. …”
Metal calipers touched his chin and his forehead. A tape went around his head. Now the calipers measured from his ear to his chin.
“What’s this for?” Norman said.
“Fitting you with a helmet, sir.”
“Shouldn’t I be trying one on?”
“This is the way we do it, sir.”
Dinner was macaroni and cheese, burned underneath. Norman pushed it aside after a few bites.
The corpsman appeared at his door. “Time for the seventeen-hundred-hours briefing, sir.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Norman said, “until I get some answers. What the hell is all this you’re doing to me?”
“Routine deepsat workup, sir. Navy regs require it before you go down.”
“And why am I off the graph?”
“Sorry, sir?”
“You said I was off the graph.”
“Oh, that. You’re a bit heavier than the Navy tables figure for, sir.”
“Is there a problem about my weight?”
“Shouldn’t be, no, sir.”
“And the other tests, what did they show?”
“Sir, you are in very good health for your age and lifestyle.”
“And what about going down there?” Norman asked, half hoping he wouldn’t be able to go.
“Down there? I’ve talked with Captain Barnes. Shouldn’t be any problem at all, sir. If you’ll just come this way to the briefing, sir …”
The others were sitting around in the briefing room, with Styrofoam cups of coffee. Norman felt glad to see them. He dropped into a chair next to Harry. “Jesus, did you have the damn physical?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Had it yesterday.”
“They stuck me in the leg with this long needle,” Norman said.
“Really? They didn’t do that to me.”
“And how about breathing with that clip on your nose?”
“I didn’t do that, either,” Harry said. “Sounds like you got some special treatment, Norman.”
Norman was thinking the same thing, and he didn’t like the implications. He felt suddenly tired.
“All right, men, we’ve got a lot to cover and just three hours to do it,” a brisk man said, turning off the lights as he came into the room. Norman hadn’t even gotten a good look at him. Now it was just a voice in the dark. “As you know, Dalton’s law governs partial pressures of mixed gases, or, as represented here in algebraic form …”
The first of the graphs flashed up.
PPa = Ptot x % Vola
[[44]] “Now let’s review how calculation of the partial pressure might be done in atmospheres absolute, which is the most common procedure we employ—”
The words were meaningless to Norman. He tried to pay attention, but as the graphs continued and the voice droned on, his eyes grew heavier and he fell asleep.
“—be taken down in the submarine and once in the habitat module you will be pressurized to thirty-three atmospheres. At that time you will be switched over to mixed gases, since it is not possible to breathe Earth atmosphere beyond eighteen atmospheres—”
Norman stopped listening. These technical details only filled him with dread. He went back to sleep, awakening only intermittently.
“—since oxygen toxicity only occurs when the PO2 exceeds point 7 ATA for prolonged periods—
“—nitrogen narcosis, in which nitrogen behaves like an anesthetic, will occur in mixed-gas atmospheres if partial pressures exceeds 1.5 ATA in the DDS—
“—demand open circuit is generally preferable, but you will be using semiclosed circuit with inspired fluctuations of 608 to 760 millimeters—”
He went back to sleep.
When it was over, they walked back to their rooms. “Did I miss anything?” Norman said.
“Not really.” Harry shrugged. “Just a lot of physics.”
In his tiny gray room, Norman got into bed. The glowing wall clock said 2300. It took him a while to figure out that that was 11:00 p.m. In nine more hours, he thought, I will begin the descent.
Then he slept.
THE DEEP
DESCENT
In the morning light, the submarine Charon V bobbed on the surface, riding on a pontoon platform. Bright yellow, it looked like a child’s bathtub toy sitting on a deck of oildrums.
A rubber Zodiac launch took Norman over, and he climbed onto the platform, shook hands with the pilot, who could not have been more than eighteen, younger than his son, Tim.
“Ready to go, sir?” the pilot said.
“Sure,” Norman said. He was as ready as he would ever be.
Up close, the sub did not look like a toy. It was incredibly massive and strong. Norman saw a single porthole of curved acrylic. It was held in place by bolts as big as his fist. He touched them, tentatively.
The pilot smiled. “Want to kick the tires, sir?”
“No, I’ll trust you.”
“Ladder’s this way, sir.”
Norman climbed the narrow rungs to the top of the sub, and saw the small circular hatch opening. He hesitated.
“Sit on the edge here,” the pilot said, “and drop your legs in, then follow it down. You may have to squeeze your shoulders together a bit and suck in your … That’s it, sir.” Norman wriggled through the tight hatch into an interior so low he could not stand. The sub was crammed with dials and machinery. Ted was already aboard, hunched in the back, grinning like a kid. “Isn’t this fantastic?”
Norman envied his easy enthusiasm; he felt cramped and a little nervous. Above him, the pilot clanged the heavy hatch [[48]] shut and dropped down to take the controls. “Everybody okay?”
They nodded.
“Sorry about the view,” the pilot said, glancing over his shoulders. “You gentlemen are mostly going to be seeing my hindquarters. Let’s get started. Mozart okay?” He pressed a tape deck and smiled. “We’ve got thirteen minutes’ descent to the bottom; music makes it a little easier. If you don’t like Mozart, we can offer you something else.”
“Mozart’s fine,” Norman said.
“Mozart’s wonderful,” Ted said. “Sublime.”
“Very good, gentlemen.” The submarine hissed. There was squawking on the radio. The pilot spoke softly into a headset. A scuba diver appeared at the porthole, waved. The pilot waved back.
There was a sloshing sound, then a deep rumble, and they started down.