“Big shark coming, boys,” he announced jovially. There was a general rush to the screen.
“How do you know it’s a shark?” someone asked.
“Pretty sure to be. Couldn’t be a whale—they can’t leave the channel inside the reef.”
“Sure it’s not a sub?” said one anxious voice.
“Naow. Look at the size of it. A sub would be ten times as bright on the screen. Don’t be a nervous Nelly.”
The questioner subsided, duly abashed. No one said anything for the next five minutes, as the distant echo closed in toward the center of the screen.
“It’ll pass within a quarter of a mile of us,” said Mr. Smith. “What about changing course and seeing if we can make contact?”
“Not a hope. He’ll run for it as soon as he picks up our motors. If we stopped still he might come and sniff us over. Anyway, what would be the use? You couldn’t get at him. It’s night, and he’s well below the depth where you could operate.”
Their attention was momentarily distracted by a large school of fish—probably tuna, the captain said—which appeared on the southern sector of the screen. When that had gone past, the distinguished-looking Mr. Brown said thoughtfully: “Surely a shark would have changed course by now.”
Captain Bert thought so too, and was beginning to be puzzled. “Think we’ll have a look at it,” he said. “Won’t do any harm.”
He altered course imperceptibly; the strange echo continued on its unvarying way. It was moving quite slowly, and there would be no difficulty in getting within visual distance without risk of collision. At the point of nearest approach, Captain Bert switched on the camera and the U.V. searchlight—and gulped.
“We’re rumbled, boys. It’s a cop.”
There were four simultaneous gasps of dismay, then a chorus of “But you told us…” which the captain silenced with a few well-chosen words while he continued to study the screen.
“Something funny here,” he said. “I was right first time. That’s no sub—it’s only a torp. So it can’t detect us, anyway —they don’t carry that kind of gear. But what the hell’s it doing out here at night?”
“Let’s run for it!” pleaded several anxious voices.
“Shurrup!” shouted Captain Bert. “Let me think.” He glanced at the depth indicator. “Crikey,” he muttered, this time in a much more subdued voice. “We’re a hundred fathoms down. Unless that lad’s breathing some fancy mixture, he’s had it.”
He peered closely at the image on the TV screen; it was hard to be certain, but the figure strapped to the slowly moving torp seemed abnormally still. Yes—there was no doubt of it; he could tell from the attitude of the head. The pilot was certainly unconscious, probably dead.
“This is a bloody nuisance,” announced the skipper, “but there’s nothing else to do. We’ve got to fetch that guy in.”
Someone started to protest, then thought better of it Captain Bert was right, of course. The later consequences would have to be dealt with as they arose.
“But how are you going to do it?” asked Smith. “We can’t go outside at this depth.”
“It won’t be easy,” admitted the captain. “It’s lucky he’s moving so slowly. I think I can flip him over.”
He nosed in toward the torp, making infinitely delicate adjustments with the controls. Suddenly there was a clang that made everybody jump except the skipper, who knew when it was coming and exactly how loud it would be. He backed away, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Made it first time!” he said smugly. The torp had rolled over on its back, with the helpless figure of its rider now dangling beneath it in his harness. But instead of heading down into the depths, it was now climbing toward the distant surface.
They followed it up to the two-hundred-foot mark while Captain Bert gave his detailed instructions. There was still a chance, he told his passengers, that the pilot might be alive. But if he reached the surface, he’d certainly be dead—compression sickness would get him as he dropped from ten atmospheres to one.
“So we’ve got to haul him in around the hundred-and-fifty-foot level—no higher—and then start staging him in the air lock. Well, who’s going to do it? I can’t leave the controls.” No one doubted that the captain was giving the single and sufficient reason, and that he would have gone outside without hesitation had there been anyone else aboard who could operate the sub. After a short pause, Smith said: “I’ve been three hundred feet down on normal air.”
“So have I,” interjected Jones. “Not at night, of course,” he added thoughtfully.
They weren’t exactly volunteering, but it would do. They listened to the skipper’s instructions like men about to go over the top, then put on their equipment and went reluctantly into the air lock.
Fortunately, they were in good training and he was able to bring them up to the full pressure in a couple of minutes. “O.K., boys,” he said. “I’m opening the door—here you go!” It would have helped them could they have seen his searchlight, but it had been carefully filtered to remove all visible light. Their hand torches were feeble glow-worms by comparison, as he watched them moving across to the still-ascending torp. Jones went first, while Smith played out the line from the air lock. Both vessels were moving faster than a man could swim, and it was necessary to play Jones like a fish on a line so that as he trailed behind the sub he could work his way across to the torpedo. He was probably not enjoying it, thought the skipper, but he managed to reach the torp on the second try.
After that, the rest was straightforward. Jones cut out the torp’s motor, and when the two vessels had come to a halt Smith went to help him. They unstrapped the pilot and carried him back to the sub; his face mask was unflooded, so there was still hope for him. It was not easy to manhandle his helpless body into the tiny air lock, and Smith had to stay outside, feeling horribly lonely, while his partner went ahead.
And thus it was that, thirty minutes later, Walter Franklin woke in a surprising but not totally unfamiliar environment. He was lying in a bunk aboard a small cruiser-class sub, and five men were standing around him. Oddest of all, four of the men had handkerchiefs tied over their faces so that he could only see their eyes….
He looked at the fifth man—at his scarred and grizzled countenance and his rakish goatee. The dirty nautical cap was really quite superfluous; no one would have doubted that this was the skipper.
A raging headache made it hard for Franklin to think straight. He had to make several attempts before he could get out the words: “Where am I?”
“Never you mind, mate,” replied the bearded character. “What we want to know is what the hell were you doing at a hundred fathoms with a standard compressed-air set. Crikey, he’s fainted again!”
The second time Franklin revived, he felt a good deal better, and sufficiently interested in life to want to know what was going on around him. He supposed he should be grateful to these people, whoever they were, but at the moment he felt neither relief nor disappointment at having been rescued.
“What’s all this for?” he said, pointing to the conspiratorial handkerchiefs. The skipper, who was now sitting at the controls, turned his head and answered laconically: “Haven’t you worked out where you are yet?”
“No.”
“Mean ter say you don’t know who I am?”
“Sorry—I don’t.”
There was a grunt that might have signified disbelief or disappointment.
“Guess you must be one of the new boys. I’m Bert Darryl, and you’re on board the Sea Lion. Those two gentlemen behind you risked their necks getting you in.”
Franklin turned in the direction indicated, and looked at the blank triangles of linen.
“Thanks,” he said, and then stopped, unable to think of any further comment. Now he knew where he was, and could guess what had happened.
So this was the famous—or notorious, depending on the point of view—Captain Darryl, whose advertisements you saw in all the sporting and marine journals. Captain Darryl, the organizer of thrilling underwater safaris; the intrepid and skillful hunter—and the equally intrepid and skillful poacher, whose immunity from prosecution had long been a source of cynical comment among the wardens. Captain Darryl—one of the few genuine adventurers of this regimented age, according to some. Captain Darryl, the big phony, according to others…
Franklin now understood why the rest of the crew was masked. This was one of the captain’s less legitimate enterprises, and Franklin had heard that on these occasions his customers were often from the very highest ranks of society. No one else could afford to pay his fees; it must cost a lot to run the Sea Lion, even though Captain Darryl was reputed never to pay cash for anything and to owe money at every port between Sydney and Darwin.