Clifford Simak - The Shipshape Miracle - And Other Stories

The gauges were swinging over. Deeper and deeper, with the pressure rising. The grayness of the water held and the lights outside increased, like little fireflies rustling through the gloom.

What had happened to Old Gus? And why had his dome been smashed?

Those two questions pounded in Grant’s brain. If Gus was still alive, where was he? Out rounding up the vigilantes he had spoken of? Hurrying back to Deep End to inform the police? Or haunting the trail of the marauders?

Grant shrugged his shoulders. Old Gus probably was dead. The old coot was depth-dippy. He would fight at the drop of the hat, no matter what the odds. Somewhere a blasted tank or a shattered suit was hidden in the ocean’s mud, marking the last resting place of the old Bottom man.

But why the attack on the dome? Could Old Gus have had treasure there? It was not unlikely. He had talked of old ships loaded with treasure, he was watching a five-foot clam with a pearl as big as a man’s hat. Even at the lower price of pearls due to their greater abundance now, that pearl itself would represent a small-sized fortune.

The trail led deeper and deeper, down into a darker gray, with more fireflies dancing, with monstrous shadows slipping through the water. Weird formations began to thrust themselves out of the ocean bed and the trail dipped swiftly. The track of the larger tank wound tortuously around the outcroppings.

Without a doubt they were approaching Robber’s Deep. The depth gauge read slightly under two thousand feet and the pressure gauge sent a shiver of fear along Grant’s spine. Exposed to that pressure for an instant, a man would be jelly—less than jelly, less than a grease spot on the floor.

The trail led into a narrow canyon, with mighty rock walls rearing up straight into the water. There was barely clearance for Grant’s tank—the larger machine must have almost brushed the walls.

Suddenly the canyon debouched into a wider space, a sort of circular arena, with the walls sweeping to left and right and then closing in again narrower than ever, forming a little pocket.

Grant jerked the machine to a stop, tried frantically to spin it and retreat. For in that little arena were other tanks, a battery of them, large and small.

He had run slam-bang into a trap and as he ripped savagely at the controls he felt the cold perspiration trickling down his chest and arms.

A voice boomed in his radio receiver: “Stay where you are or we’ll blast you!”

He saw the snouts of guns mounted on the tanks swiveling around to menace him. He was beaten and he knew it. He halted the tank, switched off the motor.

“Get into your suit and get out,” boomed the voice in the receiver.

He was in for it now—clear up to his neck.

Out of the tank, he walked slowly across the arena floor. A man from one of the tanks came out to meet him. Neither of them spoke until they were face to face.

Then, in the dim light, Grant recognized the man in the other suit. It was the Rat!

“Nice hide-out you have here, Rat,” said Grant.

The Rat leered at him. “Hellion will be glad to see you,” he said. “This is a sort of unexpected visit, but he’ll be glad to see you just the same.” The Rat’s face twisted. “He liked your message.”

“Yes,” said Grant, “I figured that he would.”

Alcatraz on Ganymede had done something to Hellion Smith, had instilled in him a deeper, sharper cruelty, a keener cunning, a fouler bitterness. It showed in his squinted eyes, his twitching face with the jagged scar that ran from chin to temple, the thin, bloodless lips.

“Yes,” he told Grant, “I have a nice place here. Convenient in a good many ways. The police would never think to hunt for me down here and if they did and we wanted to make a fight of it, we could hold them off until the crack of doom. Or if we wanted to run for it, they’d never be able to trail us through those canyons that run into the Big Deep.”

“Clever,” said Grant. “But you always were clever. Your only trouble was that you took a lot of chances.”

“I am not taking them any more,” said Hellion, but his tone still held that puzzling, light note of pleasant conversation.

“By the way,” he said, “the Rat told me you remembered me. Sent your regards to me. I appreciated that.”

“Here it comes,” Grant told himself. Involuntarily his body tensed.

But nothing came.

Hellion waved his arm to indicate the mighty dome which nestled in another larger, deeper arena in the canyon. Through the quartz, even in the murkiness of the gray water, one could see the towering canyon walls that ran up from the ocean floor.

“Just like on the surface,” said Hellion proudly. “All the comforts of home. The boys like it down here. A few things to do and a good place to loaf around. Lamps that take the place of daylight, latest electrolysis equipment, generators—everything. We have it cozy.” He turned to face Grant squarely. “I wish you could stay with us a while,” he said, “but I suppose you will want to be going back.”

Grant gasped. “Why, yes,” he said. “The chief will be expecting me.”

But there was something wrong. No word or action. Nothing in the atmosphere. Nothing at all—except that Hellion Smith hated his guts. Hellion Smith wouldn’t let him walk out of this place and go back to the surface.

And yet—that was what he had said: “—you will want to be going back.”

“I’ll walk to the lock with you,” Hellion offered.

Grant held his breath, waiting for the joker. But there wasn’t any joker. Hellion chatted amiably, his scarred face twitching, his eyes a-glitter, but his voice smooth and easy. Small talk about old times back in New York, gossip of the underworld, life in the Ganymedean prison.

Grant’s suit stood within the lock, just as he had left it.

Hellion held out his hand.

“Come and see us again,” he said. “Any time. But maybe you had better get started now.” And for the first time Grant sensed a note of warning and of mockery in Hellion’s voice.

“So long, Hellion,” said Grant.

Still puzzled, he clambered into his suit, screwed shut the entrance port, snapped on the interior lights. Everything all right—dials intact, mechanism O.K. He snapped on the power and tested the controls. But there was something wrong. Something missing. A soft purr that should have been in his ears.

Then he knew, and as the realization struck him the strength seemed to go out of his body and a cold dew of perspiration dampened his entire body. “Hellion,” he said, “my electrolysis unit has gone haywire.”

Hellion stood just outside the lock, ready to slam home the port. He smiled engagingly at Grant, as if Grant might have just told him a funny joke. “Now,” he said, “isn’t that too bad.”

“Look, Hellion,” shouted Grant, “if you want to wipe me out, use your guns.”

“Why, no,” said Hellion. “I wouldn’t think of that. This is so much neater. You have your emergency reserve of oxygen, enough for three or four hours. Maybe in that time you can figure out a way to save your neck. I’m giving you a chance, see? That’s more than you gave me, you dirty little pencil pusher.” He slammed the port and Grant watched it spinning home.

Water was hissing into the lock, shattered to fog by the mighty pressure, raising the pressure inside the lock to that outside the dome.

Grant stood still, waiting, mad thoughts thundering in his brain. Four hours’ air at the most. Hours short of the time that would be necessary to get back to Deep End. If Old Gus’ dome still stood, no problem would have existed, for he could have made the dome easily. Probably there were other domes as near, but he had no idea where they were.