The enormous anchor, half hidden by its drapery of weeds, was still patiently waiting to be lowered. It almost dwarfed Marvin, and its dangling tons of mass appeared so ominous that Bradley gave it a wide berth as he cruised slowly down the line of portholes, staring blankly into nothingness like the empty eye sockets of a skull.
He had almost forgotten the purpose of his mission, when the voice from the world above jolted him back to reality.
‘Explorer to Marvin. We’re waiting.’
‘Sorry — just admiring the view. She is impressive — cameras don’t do her justice. You’ve got to see her for yourself.’
This was an old argument, which as far as Bradley was concerned had been settled long ago. Though robots and their electronic sensors were invaluable — indeed, absolutely essential — both for reconnaissance and actual operations, they could never give the whole picture. ‘Telepresence’ was marvelous, but it could sometimes be a dangerous illusion. You might believe you were experiencing a hundred percent of some remote reality but it was only ninety-five percent — and that remaining five percent could be vital: men had died because there was still no good way of transmitting those warning signals that only the sense of smell could detect. Although he had seen thousands of stills and videos of the wreck, only now did Bradley feel that he was beginning to understand it.
He was reluctant to tear himself away, and realized how frustrated Robert Ballard must have been when he had only seconds for his first sighting of the wreck. Then he actuated the bow thrusters, swung Marvin away from the towering metal cliff, and headed toward his real target.
The Mole was resting on a cradle about twenty meters from Titanic, pointing downward at a forty-five-degree angle. It looked rather like a spaceship headed in the wrong direction, and there had been many deplorable ethnic jokes about launchpads built by the engineers of certain small European countries.
The conical drilling head was already deeply buried in the sediment, and a few meters of the broad metal tape that was the Mole’s ‘payload’ lay stretched out on the seabed behind it. Bradley moved Marvin into position to get a good view, and switched the video recorders to high speed.
‘We’re ready,’ he reported to topside. ‘Start the countdown.’
‘We’re holding at T minus ten seconds. Inertial guidance running . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . liftoff! Sorry — I mean, dig in!’
The drill had started to spin, and almost at once the Mole was hidden by clouds of silt. However, Bradley could see that it was disappearing with surprising speed; in only a matter of seconds it had vanished into the seabed.
‘You’ve cleared the tower,’ he reported, keeping the spirit of the occasion. ‘Can’t see anything — the launchpad’s hidden by smoke. Well, mud. . . .
‘Now it’s settling. The Mole’s vanished. Just a little crater, slowly filling in. We’ll head around the other side to meet it.’
‘Take your time. Quickest estimate is thirty minutes. Longest is fifty. Quite a few bets riding on this baby.’
And quite a few million dollars as well, thought Bradley, as he piloted Marvin toward Titanic’s prow. If the Mole gets stuck before it can complete its mission, Parky and company will have to go back to the drawing board.
He was waiting on the port side when the Mole resurfaced after forty-five minutes. It was not attempting any speed records; its maiden voyage had been a complete success.
Now the first of the planned thirty belts, each capable of lifting a thousand tons, had been safely emplaced. When the operation had been completed, Titanic could be lifted off the ocean floor, like a melon in a string bag.
That was the theory, and it seemed to be working. Florida was still a long way off, but now it had come just a little closer.
29 SARCOPHAGUS
‘We’ve found it!’
Roy Emerson had never seen Rupert Parkinson in so exuberant a mood; it was positively un-English.
‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Ninety-nine — well, ninety-five percent. Just where I expected. There was an unoccupied suite — wasn’t ready in time for the voyage. On the same deck as G.G. and only a few yards away. Both doors are jammed so we’ll have to cut our way in. The ROV’s going down now to have a crack at it. You should have been here.’
Perhaps, thought Emerson. But this is a family affair, and he would feel an interloper. Besides, it might be a false alarm — like most rumors of sunken treasure.
‘How long before you get inside?’
‘Shouldn’t take more than an hour — it’s fairly thin steel, and we’ll be through it in no time.’
‘Well, good luck. Keep me in the picture.’
Roy Emerson went back to what he pretended was work. He felt guilty when he was not inventing something, which was now most of the time. Trying to reduce the electronic chaos of his data banks by rearranging and reclassifying did give the illusion of useful employment.
And so he missed all the excitement.
The little group in Rupert’s suite aboard Glomar Explorer was so intent upon the monitor screen that their drinks were virtually ignored — no great hardship, because according to long tradition on such vessels, they were nonalcoholic.
A record number of Parkinsons — almost a quorum, someone had pointed out — had assembled for this occasion. Though few shared Rupert’s confidence, it had been a good excuse to visit the scene of operations. Only George had been here before; William, Arnold, and Gloria were all newcomers. The rest of the group watching ROV 3 gliding silently across Titanic’s deck were ship’s officers and senior engineers, recruited from half a dozen ocean-oriented firms.
‘Have you noticed,’ somebody whispered, ‘how the weeds have grown? Must be due to our lights — she wasn’t like this when we started ops — bridge looks like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. . . .’
There was very little other comment, still less any conversation, as ROV 3 dropped down into the yawning cavity of the grand staircase. A century ago, elegant ladies and their sleek escorts had strolled up and down the thick-piled carpet, never dreaming of their fate — or imagining that in little more than two years the guns of August would put an end to the gilded Edwardian Age they so perfectly epitomized.
ROV 3 turned into the main starboard corridor on the promenade deck, past the rows of first-class staterooms. It was moving very slowly in these confined quarters, and the TV image was now limited to freeze-frame black and white, with a new picture every two seconds.
All data and control signals were now being relayed over an ultrasonic link through a repeater placed on the deck. From time to time there were annoying holdups, when the screen went blank and the only indication of ROV 3’s continued existence was a high-pitched whistle. Some obstacle was absorbing the carrier wave, causing a momentary break in the connection. There would be a brief interval of electronic ‘handshaking’ and error correction; then the picture would return and ROV 3’s pilot, four kilometers above, could resume progress. These interruptions did nothing to lessen the suspense; it had been several minutes before anyone in Parkinson’s suite had said a word.
There was a universal sigh of relief as the robot came to rest outside a plain, unmarked door, its white paint blindingly brilliant in ROV 3’s floodlights. The decorators might have left only yesterday; apart from a few flakes that had peeled away, almost all the paint was still intact.
Now ROV 3 began the tricky but essential task of anchoring itself to the job — a procedure just as important underwater as in space. First it blasted two explosive bolts through the door, and clamped itself on to them, so it was rigidly attached to the working area.
The glare of the oxy-arc thermal lance flooded the corridor, making ROV 3’s own lights seem feeble in comparison. The thin metal of the door offered no resistance as the incandescent knife — favorite tool of generations of safecrackers — sliced through it. In less than five minutes, a circle almost a meter wide had been carved out, and fell slowly forward, knocking up a small cloud of silt as it hit the floor.
ROV 3 unclamped itself, and rose a few centimeters so it could peer into the hole. The image flickered, then stabilized as the automatic exposure adjusted to the new situation.
Almost at once, Rupert Parkinson gave a hoot of delight.
‘There they are!’ he cried. ‘Just as I said — one . . . two . . . three-four-five . . . swing the camera over to the right — six . . . seven — a little higher . . . My God — what’s that? ‘