Michael Crichton: Sphere

On the cone, a red display flashed 20:00. Then it began counting backward: 19:59… 19:58…

The same display was repeated on the crystal display at the top of his helmet.

It took him a moment to put it together, to understand. Staring at the cone, he read the yellow lettering once again: U.S.N. CONSTRUCTION/DEMOLITION USE ONLY.

Of course! Tevac explosives weren’t weapons, they were made for construction and demolition. They had built-in safety timers-a programmed twenty-minute delay before they went off, to allow workers to get away.

Twenty minutes to get away, he thought. That would give him plenty of time.

Norman turned, and began striding quickly toward DH-7 and the submarine.

He walked evenly, steadily. He felt no strain. His breath came easily. He was comfortable in his suit. All systems working smoothly.

He was leaving. “Norman, please…” Now Beth was pleading with him, another erratic shift of mood. Norman ignored her. He continued on toward the submarine. The deep recorded voice said, “Your attention, please. All Navy personnel clear the blast area. Nineteen minutes and counting.”

Norman felt an enormous sense of purposefulness, of power. He had no illusions any more. He had no questions. He knew what he had to do.

He had to save himself.

“I don’t believe you’re doing this, Norman. I don’t believe you’re abandoning us.”

Believe it, he thought. After all, what choice did he have? Beth was out of control and dangerous. It was too late to save her now-in fact, it was crazy to go anywhere near her. Beth was homicidal. She’d already tried to kill him once, and had nearly succeeded.

And Harry had been drugged for thirteen hours; by now he was probably clinically dead, brain-dead. There was no reason for Norman to stay. There was nothing for him to do.

The sub was close now. He could see the fittings on the yellow exterior.

“Norman, please… I need you.”

Sorry, he thought. I’m getting out of here.

He moved around beneath the twin propellor screws, the name painted on the curved hull, Deepstar III . He climbed the footholds, moving up into the dome.

“Norman-”

Now he was out of contact with the intercom. He was on his own. He opened the hatch, climbed inside the submarine. He unlocked his helmet, pulled it off.

“Your attention, please. Eighteen minutes and counting.” Norman sat in the pilot’s padded seat, faced the controls. The instruments blinked on, and the screen directly before him glowed.

DEEPSTAR III - COMMAND MODULE

Do you require help?

Yes No Cancel

He pressed “YES.” He waited for the next screen to flash up.

It was too bad about Harry and Beth; he was sorry to leave them behind. But they had both, in their own ways, failed to explore their inner selves, thus making them vulnerable to the sphere and its power. It was a classic scientific error, this so-called triumph of rational thought over irrational thought. Scientists refused to acknowledge their irrational side, refused to see it as important. They dealt only with the rational. Everything made sense to a scientist, and if it didn’t make sense, it was dismissed as what Einstein called the “merely personal.”

The merely personal, he thought, in a burst of contempt. People killed each other for reasons that were “merely personal.”

DEEPSTAR III - CHECKLIST OPTIONS

Descend Ascend

Secure Shutdown

Monitor Cancel

Norman pressed “ASCEND.” The screen changed to the drawing of the instrument panel, with the flashing point. He waited for the next instruction.

Yes, he thought, it was true: scientists refused to deal with the irrational. But the irrational side didn’t go away if you refused to deal with it. Irrationality didn’t atrophy with disuse. On the contrary, left unattended, the irrational side of man had grown in power and scope.

And complaining about it didn’t help, either. All those scientists whining in the Sunday supplements about man’s inherent destructiveness and his propensity for violence, throwing up their hands. That wasn’t dealing with the irrational side. That was just a formal admission that they were giving up on it.

The screen changed again:

DEEPSTAR III - ASCEND CHECKLIST

1. Set Ballast Blowers To: On

Proceed To Next Cancel

Norman pushed buttons on the panel, setting the ballast blowers, and waited for the next screen.

After all, how did scientists approach their own research? The scientists all agreed: scientific research can’t be stopped. If we don’t build the bomb, someone else will. But then pretty soon the bomb was in the hands of new people, who said, If we don’t use the bomb, someone else will.

At which point, the scientists said, those other people are terrible people, they’re irrational and irresponsible. We scientists are okay. But those other people are a real problem.

Yet the truth was that responsibility began with each individual person, and the choices he made. Each person had a choice.

Well, Norman thought, there was nothing he could do for Harry or Beth any longer. He had to save himself.

He heard a deep hum as the generators turned on, and the throb of the propellors. The screen flashed:

DEEPSTAR III - PILOT INSTRUMENTS ACTIVATED

Here we go, he thought, resting his hands confidently on the controls. He felt the submarine respond beneath him. “Your attention, please. Seventeen minutes and counting.” Muddy sediment churned up around the canopy as the screws engaged, and then the little submarine slipped out from beneath the dome. It was just like driving a car, he thought. There was nothing to it.

He turned in a slow arc, away from DH-7, toward DH-8. He was twenty feet above the bottom, high enough for the screws to clear the mud.

There were seventeen minutes left. At a maximum ascent rate of 6.6 feet per second-he did the mental calculation quickly, effortlessly-he would reach the surface in two and a half minutes.

There was plenty of time.

He moved the submarine close to DH-8. The exterior habitat floodlights were yellow and pale. Power must be dropping. He could see the damage to the cylinders-streams of bubbles rising from the weakened A and B Cylinders; the dents in the D; and the gaping hole in E Cyl, which was flooded. The habitat was battered, and dying.

Why had he come so close? He squinted at the portholes, then realized he was hoping to catch sight of Harry and Beth, one last time. He wanted to see Harry, unconscious and unresponsive. He wanted to see Beth standing at the window, shaking her fist at him in maniacal rage. He wanted confirmation that he was right to leave them.

But he saw only the fading yellow light inside the habitat. He was disappointed.

“Norman.”

“Yes, Beth.” He felt comfortable answering her now. He had his hands on the controls of the submarine, ready to make his ascent. There was nothing she could do to him now. “Norman, you really are a son of a bitch.”

“You tried to kill me, Beth.”

“I didn’t want to kill you. I had no choice, Norman.”

“Yeah, well. Me, too. I have no choice.” As he spoke, he knew he was right. Better for one person to survive. Better than nothing.

“You’re just going to leave us?”

“That’s right, Beth.”

His hand moved to the ascent-rate dial. He set it to 6.6 feet. Ready to ascend.

“You’re just going to run away?” He heard the contempt in her voice.

“That’s right, Beth.”

“You, the one who kept talking about how we had to stay together down here?”