Arthur Clarke - The Ghost from the Grand Banks

“In the film,” continued Kilford, “they talked glibly about pumping foam into the hull to lift the wreck. Would that have worked?”

“Depends on how it was done. The pressure is so great—four hundred times atmospheric!—that all ordinary foams would collapse instantly. But we obtain essentially the same result with our microspheres—each holds its little bubble of air.”

“They’re strong enough to resist that enormous pressure?”

“Yes—just try and smash one!”

Parkinson scattered a handful of glass marbles across the studio coffee table. Kilford picked one up, and whistled with unfeigned surprise.

“It weighs hardly anything!”

“State of the art,” Parkinson answered proudly. “And they’ve been tested all the way down to the bottom of the Marianas Trench—three times deeper than the Titanic. ”

Kilford turned to his other guest.

“You could have done with these on the Mary Rose , back in 1982—couldn’t you, Dr. Thornley?”

The marine archaeologist shook her head. “Not really. That was a totally different problem. Mary Rose was in shallow water, and our divers were able to place a cradle under her. Then the biggest floating crane in the world pulled her up.”

“It was touch and go, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. A lot of people nearly had heart attacks when that metal strap gave way.”

“I can believe it. Now, that hull has been sitting in Southampton Dock for a quarter century—and it still isn’t ready for public display. Will you do a quicker job on Titanic , Mr. Parkinson—assuming that you do get her up?”

“Certainly; it’s the difference between wood and steel. The sea had four centuries to soak into Mary Rose ’s timbers—no wonder it’s taking decades to get it out. All the wood in Titanic has gone—we don’t have to bother about it. Our problem is rust; and there’s very little at that depth, thanks to the cold and lack of oxygen. Most of the wreck is in one of two states: excellent—or terrible.”

“How many of these little… microspheres… will you need?”

“About fifty billion.”

“Fifty billion ! And how will you get them down there?”

“Very simply. We’re going to drop them.”

“With a little weight attached to each one—another fifty billion?”

Parkinson smiled, rather smugly.

“Not quite. Our Mr. Emerson has invented a technique so simple that no one believes it will work. We’ll have a pipe leading down from the surface to the wreck. The water will be pumped out—and we’ll simply pour the microspheres in at the top, and collect them at the bottom. They’ll take only a few minutes to make the trip.”

“But surely—”

“Oh, we’ll have to use special air locks at both ends, but it will be essentially a continuous process. When they arrive, the microspheres will be packaged in bundles, each a cubic meter in volume. That will give a buoyancy of one ton per unit—a comfortable size for the robots to handle.”

Marcus Kilford turned to the long-silent archaeologist.

“Dr. Thornley,” he asked, “do you think it will work?”

“I suppose so,” she said reluctantly, “but I’m not the expert on these matters. Won’t that tube have to be very strong, to stand the enormous pressure at the bottom?”

“No problem; we’ll use the same material. As my company’s slogan says, ‘You can do anything with glass’—”

“No more commercials, please !”

Kilford turned toward the camera, and intoned solemnly, though with a twinkle in his eye: “May I take this opportunity of denying the malicious rumor that Mr. Parkinson was spotted in a BBC cloak room, handing me a shoe box stuffed with well-used bank notes.”

Everyone laughed, though behind the thick glass of the control room the producer whispered to his assistant: “If he uses that joke once again, I’ll suspect it’s true.”

“May I ask a question?” said Dr. Thornley unexpectedly. “What about your… shall I say, rivals? Do you think they’ll succeed first?”

“Well, let’s call them friendly competitors.”

“Indeed?” said Kilford skeptically. “Whoever brings their section up to the surface first will get all the publicity.”

“ We’re taking the long-term view,” said Parkinson. “When our grandchildren come to Florida to dive on the Titanic , they won’t care whether we raised her up in 2012 or 2020—though of course we hope to make the centennial date.” He turned to the archaeologist. “I almost wish we could use Portsmouth, and arrange for a simultaneous opening. It would be nice to have Nelson’s Victory , Henry Eight’s Mary Rose , and Titanic side by side. Four hundred years of British shipbuilding. Quite a thought.”

“I’d be there,” said Kilford. “But now I’d like to raise a couple of more serious matters. First of all, there’s still much talk of… well, ‘desecration’ seems too strong a word, but what do you say to the people who regard Titanic as a tomb, and say she should be left in peace?”

“I respect their views, but it’s a little late now. Hundreds of dives have been made on her—and on countless other ships that have gone down with great loss of life. People only seem to raise objections to Titanic ! How many people died in Mary Rose , Dr. Thornley? And has anyone protested about your work?”

“About six hundred—almost half as many casualties as Titanic —and for a ship a fraction of the size! No—we’ve never had any serious complaints; in fact the whole country approved of the operation. After all, it was mostly supported by private funds.”

“Another point which isn’t widely realized,” added Parkinson: “Very few people could have actually died in the Titanic ; most of them got off, and were drowned or frozen.”

“No chance of bodies?”

“None whatsoever. There are lots of very hungry creatures down there.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve disposed of that depressing subject. But there’s something perhaps more important…” Kilford picked up one of the little glass spheres, and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “You’re putting billions of these in the sea. Inevitably, lots of them will be lost. What about the ecological impact?”

“I see you’ve been reading the Bluepeace literature. Well, there won’t be any.”

“Not even when they wash to shore—and our beaches are littered with broken glass?”

“I’d like to shoot the copywriter who coined that phrase—or hire him. First of all, it will take centuries —maybe millennia—for these spheres to disintegrate. And please remember what they’re made of— silica ! So when they do eventually crumble, do you realize what they’ll turn into? That well-known beach pollutant—sand!”

“Good point. But what about the other objection? Suppose fish or marine animals eat them?”

Parkinson picked up one of the microspheres, and twirled it between his fingers just as Kilford had done.

“Glass is totally nonpoisonous—chemically inert. Anything big enough to swallow one of these won’t be hurt by it.”

And he popped the sphere into his mouth.

Behind the control panel, the producer turned to Roy Emerson.

“That was terrific—but I’m still sorry you wouldn’t go on.”

“Parky did very well without me. Do you think I’d have gotten in any more words than poor Dr. Thornley?”

“Probably not. And that was a neat trick, swallowing the microsphere—don’t think I could manage it. And I’ll make a bet that from now on, everyone’s going to call them Parky’s Pills.”