Arthur Clarke - The Ghost from the Grand Banks

“Don’t let it lose you any sleep; I mention it just in case someone brings it up. It’s not likely, because in all other respects your qualifications are superb. Even Ballard admitted that.”

“Oh—he did?”

“Well, he said you were the best of a bad bunch.”

“That sounds like Bob.”

The D.G. continued to examine the readout, then sat for a moment with a thoughtful expression.

“This has nothing to do with your appointment, and please excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn. I’m talking to you as man to man—”

Hello, thought Jason, they know about the Villa! I wonder how they got through Eva’s security?

But it was a much bigger surprise than that …

“It seems that you lost contact with your son and his mother more than twenty years ago. If you wish, we can put you in touch.”

For a moment, Bradley felt a constriction in his chest; it was almost as if something had happened to his air supply. He knew the sensation all too well, and felt the clammy onset of that disabling panic which is a diver’s worst enemy.

As he had always managed to do before, he regained control by slow, deep breathing. Director-General Jantz, realizing that he had opened some old wound, waited sympathetically.

“Thank you,” Bradley said at last. “I would prefer not to. Are they… all right?”

“Yes.”

That was all he needed to know. It was impossible to turn back the clock: he could barely remember the man— boy! —he had been at twenty-five, when he had finally gone to college. And, for the first and last time, fallen in love.

He would never know whose fault it was, and perhaps now it did not matter. They could have contacted him easily enough, if they had wished. (Did J.J. ever think of him, and recall the times they had played together? Bradley’s eyes stung, and he turned his mind away from the memory.)

He sometimes wondered if he would even recognize Julie if they met in the street; as he had destroyed all her photographs (why had he kept that one of J.J.?), he could no longer clearly remember her face. There was no doubt, however, that the experience had left indelible scars on his psyche, but he had learned to live with them—with the help, he wryly admitted, of Dame Eva. The ritual he had institutionalized at the Villa had brought him mental and physical relief, and had allowed him to function efficiently. He was grateful for that.

And now he had a new interest—a new challenge—as deputy director (Atlantic) of the International Seabed Authority. He could just imagine how Ted Collier would have laughed his head off at this metamorphosis. Well, there was much truth in the old saying that poachers made the best gamekeepers.

“I’ve asked Dr. Zwicker to come and say hello, as you’ll be working closely together. Have you ever met him before?”

“No—but of course I’ve seen him often enough. Last time was only yesterday, on the Science News Channel. He was analyzing the Parkinson scheme—and didn’t think much of it.”

“Between you and me, he doesn’t think much of anything he hasn’t invented himself. And he’s usually right, which doesn’t endear him to his colleagues.”

Most people still thought it slightly comic that the world’s leading oceanographer had been born in an alpine valley, and there had been endless jokes about the prowess of the Swiss Navy. But there was no getting away from the fact that the bathyscaphe had been invented in Switzerland, and the long shadow of the Piccards still lay across the technology they had founded.

The director-general glanced at his watch, and smiled at Bradley.

“If my conscience would allow it, I could win bets this way.” He started a quiet countdown, and had just reached “One” when there was a knock on the door.

“See what I mean?” he said to Bradley. “As they’re so fond of saying, ‘Time is the art of the Swiss.’ ” Then he called out: “Come in, Franz.”

There was a moment of silent appraisal before scientist and engineer shook hands; each knew the other’s reputation, and each was wondering, “Will we be colleagues—or antagonists?” Then Professor Franz Zwicker said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Bradley. We have much to talk about.”

“There can’t be many people,” said Marcus Kilford, “who don’t know that it’s now less than four years to the Titanic centennial—or haven’t heard about the plans to raise the wreck. Once again, I’m happy to have with me three of the leaders in this project. I’ll talk to each of them in turn—then you’ll have a chance of calling in with any specific questions you have. At the right time, the number will flash along the bottom of the screen…

“The gentleman on my left is the famous underwater engineer Jason Bradley; his encounter with the giant octopus in the Newfoundland oil rig is now part of ocean folklore. He’s currently with the International Seabed Authority, and is responsible for monitoring operations on the wreck.

“Next to him is Rupert Parkinson, who almost brought the America’s Cup to England last year. (Sorry about that, Rupert.) His firm is involved in raising the forward portion of the wreck—the larger of the two pieces into which the ship is broken.

“On my right is Donald Craig, who’s associated with the Nippon-Turner Corporation—now the world’s largest media chain. He will tell us about the plans to raise the stern, which was the last part to sink—carrying with it most of those who were lost on that unforgettable night, ninety-six years ago…

“Mr. Bradley—would it be fair to call you a referee, making sure that there’s no cheating in the race between these two gentlemen?”

Kilford had to hold up his hand to quell simultaneous protests from his other two guests.

“Please, gentlemen! You’ll both have your turn. Let Jason speak first.”

Now that I’m disguised as a diplomat, thought Bradley, I’d better try to act the part. I know Kilford’s trying to needle us—that’s his job—so I’ll play it cool.

“I don’t regard it as a race ,” he answered carefully. “Both parties have submitted schedules which call for the raising mid-April 2012.”

“On the fifteenth itself? Both of them?”

This was a sensitive matter, which Bradly had no intention of discussing in public. He had convinced ISA’s top brass that nothing like a photo finish must be allowed. Two major salvage operations could not possibly take place simultaneously , less than a kilometer apart. The risk of disaster—always a major concern—could be greatly increased. Trying to perform two difficult jobs at once was a very good recipe for achieving neither.

“Look,” he said patiently, “this isn’t a one-day operation. Titanic reached the bottom in a matter of minutes. It’s going to take days to lift her back to the surface. Perhaps weeks.”

“May I make a point?” said Parkinson, promptly doing so. “We have no intention of bringing our section of the wreck back to the surface. It’s always going to remain completely underwater, to avoid the risk of immediate corrosion. We’re not engaged in a TV spectacular.” He carefully avoided looking at Craig; the studio camera was less diffident.

I feel sorry for Donald, thought Bradley. Kato should have been here instead: he and Parky would be well matched. We might see some real fireworks, as each tried to be more sardonically polite than the other—in, of course, the most gentlemanly way possible. Bradley wished that he could help Donald, toward whom he had developed a warm, almost paternal feeling, but he had to remember that he was now a friendly neutral.