Michael Crichton - Sphere

Where was the delay button? He looked at the darkened instrument panel, and saw a single flashing red light above a button marked “TIMER HOLD.” He pressed the button.

The red light stopped flashing, and now remained steadily on. A small amber video screen glowed:

Timer Reset - Counting 12:00:00

As he watched, the numbers began to run backward. He must have done it, he thought. The video screen switched off. Still looking at all the instruments, a thought occurred to him: in an emergency, could he operate this sub? He slipped into the pilot’s chair, faced the bewildering dials and switches of the instrument array. There didn’t seem to be any steering apparatus, no wheel or joystick. How did you work the damned thing?

The video screen switched on:

DEEPSTAR III - COMMAND MODULE

Do you require help?

Yes No Cancel

Yes, he thought. I require help. He looked around for a “YES” button near the screen, but there wasn’t any that he could see. Finally he thought to touch the screen, pressing “YES.”

DEEPSTAR III - CHECKLIST OPTIONS

Descend Ascend

Secure Shutdown

Monitor Cancel

He pressed “ASCEND.” The screen changed to a small drawing of the instrument panel. One particular section of the drawing blinked on and off. Beneath the picture were the words:

DEEPSTAR III - ASCEND CHECKLIST

1. Set Ballast Blowers To: On

Proceed To Next Cancel

So that was how it worked, Norman thought. A step-by-step checklist stored in the sub’s computer. All you had to do was follow directions. He could do that.

A small surge of current moved the sub, swaying it at its tether.

He pressed the “CANCEL” and the screen went blank. It flashed:

Timer Reset - Counting 11:53:04

The counter was still running backward. He thought, Have I really been here seven minutes? Another surge of current, and the sub swayed again. It was time to go.

He moved to the hatch, climbed out into the dome, and closed the hatch. He lowered himself down the side of the sub, touched the bottom. Out from beneath the shielding metal, his radio immediately crackled.

“-you there? Norman, are you there? Answer, please!”

It was Harry, on the radio.

“I’m here,” Norman said.

“Norman, for God’s sake-”

In that moment, Norman saw the greenish glow, and he knew why the sub had surged and rocked at its moorings. The squid was just ten yards away, its glowing tentacles writhing out toward him, churning up the sediment along the ocean floor.

“-Norman, will you-”

There was no time to think. Norman took three steps, jumped, and pulled himself through the open hatch into DH-7.

He slammed the hatch door down behind him but the flat, spade-like tentacle was already reaching in. He pinned the tentacle in the partially closed hatch, but the tentacle didn’t withdraw. It was incredibly strong and muscular, writhing as he watched, the suckers like small puckered mouths opening and closing. Norman stomped down on the hatch, trying to force the tentacle to withdraw. With a muscular flip, the hatch flew open, knocking him backward, and the tentacle reached up into the habitat. He smelled the strong odor of ammonium.

Norman fled, climbing higher into the cylinder. The second tentacle appeared, splashing up through the hatch. The two tentacles swung in circles beneath him, searching. He came to a porthole and looked out, saw the great body of the animal, the huge round staring eye. He clambered higher, getting away from the tentacles. Most of the cylinder seemed to be given over to storage; it was crammed with equipment, boxes, tanks. Many of the boxes were bright red with stencils: “ CAUTION NO SMOKING NO ELECTRONICS TEVAC EXPLOSIVES.” There were a hell of a lot of explosives in here, he thought, stumbling upward.

The tentacles rose higher behind him. Somewhere, in a detached, logical part of his brain, he thought: The cylinder is only forty feet high, and the tentacles are at least forty feet long. There will be no place for me to hide.

He stumbled, banged his knee, kept going. He heard the slap of the tentacles as they struck the walls, swung upward toward him.

A weapon, he thought. I have to find a weapon.

He came to the small galley, metal counter, some pots and pans. He pulled the drawers open hastily, looking for a knife. He could find only a small paring knife, threw it away in disgust. He heard the tentacles coming closer. The next moment he was knocked down, his helmet banging on the deck. Norman scrambled to his feet, dodged the tentacle, moved up the cylinder.

A communications section: radio set, computer, a couple of monitors. The tentacles were right behind him, slithering up like nightmarish vines. His eyes burned from the ammonia fumes.

He came to the bunks, a narrow space near the top of the cylinder.

No place to hide, he thought. No weapons, and no place to hide.

The tentacles reached the top of the cylinder, slapped against the upper curved surface, swung sideways. In a moment they would have him. He grabbed the mattress from one bunk, held it up as flimsy protection. The two tentacles were swinging erratically around him. He dodged the first.

And then with a whump the second tentacle coiled around him, holding both him and the mattress in a cold, slimy grip. He felt a sickening slow squeeze, the dozens of suckers gripping his body, cutting into his skin. He moaned in horror. The second tentacle swung back to grip him along with the first. He was trapped in a vise.

Oh God, he thought.

The tentacles swung away from the wall, lifting him high in the air, into the middle of the cylinder. This is it, he thought, but in the next moment he felt his body sliding downward past the mattress, and he slipped through the grip and fell through the air. He grabbed the tentacles for support, sliding down the giant evil-smelling vines, and then he crashed down onto the deck near the galley, his head banging on the metal deck. He rolled onto his back.

He saw the two tentacles above, gripping the mattress, squeezing it, twisting it. Did the squid realize what had happened, that he had gotten free?

Norman looked around desperately. A weapon, a weapon. This was a Navy habitat. There must be a weapon somewhere.

The tentacles tore the mattress apart. Shreds of white padding drifted down through the cylinder. The tentacles released the mattress, the big pieces falling. Then the tentacles started swinging around the habitat again.

Searching.

It knows , he thought. It knows I have gotten away, and that I am still in here somewhere. It is hunting me.

But how did it know?

Norman ducked behind the galley as one of the flat tentacles came crashing through the pots and pans, sweeping around, feeling for him. Norman scrambled back, coming up against a large potted plant. The tentacle was still searching, moving restlessly across the floor, banging the pans. Norman pushed the plant forward, and the tentacle gripped it, uprooted it easily, sweeping it away into the air.

The distraction allowed Norman to scramble forward. A weapon, he thought. A weapon.

He looked down to where the mattress had fallen, and he saw, lining the wall near the bottom hatch, a series of silver vertical bars. Spear guns! Somehow he had missed them on the way up. Each spear gun was tipped in a fat bulb like a hand grenade. Explosive tips? He started to climb down.

The tentacles were sliding down, too, following him. How did the squid know where he was? And then, as he passed a porthole, he saw the eye outside and he thought, He can see me, for God’s sake.