The Lost Bradbury (9 page)

“Richard, I want to see you again so very much. Oh, Richard, if we could only be together.”

“Daughter.” The gentle thought husked at her as the old woman glided up, white hair misting around her wrinkled face. “Don’t. Don’t think. Come along. There’s work. Work to be done. Much of it. Work for you and me and the ships on the surface, and for—for Richard.”

Alita didn’t move. “I don’t want to swim. I’d rather just sit here on the sand and…wait.”

“You know you can’t do that.”

The old woman touched her. “You’d be all the unhappier. You have a reason to swim or you wouldn’t be swimming. Come along. We’re almost there!”

The effects of the depth-charge, dropped from a low-flying airplane, had dispersed. Mud-streaks boiled up fogging the water, and there were a million air bubbles dancing toward the outer world like laughing diamonds. Alita let the old woman take her hand and tug her up from the sand floor. Together they progressed toward Conda, who was the nucleus of a growing congregation.

“Submarine!” somebody thought, in a tense whisper. “Over that crop of coral ahead. That’s why the airplane dropped the depth-charge!”

“What kind of submarine?” someone else asked.

“German,” said Conda grimly. His red beard wavered in the water and the red-rimmed eyes stared out with iron fury. Helene flicked by them all, swiftly, laughing. “A German submarine lying on the bottom, sleeping quietly—waiting for the
convoy!”

Their minds swirled at the words of Conda, like so many warm-cold currents intermixing with fear and apprehension.

“And the convoy will pass this spot in how long?”

“Half an hour at most, now.”

“Then there isn’t much time, is there?”

“Not much.”

“Isn’t it dangerous for us to be near it? What if the airplane returns with more depth-charges?”

Conda growled. “This is the limit to the plane range. That plane won’t be back. He’s out of bombs and out of gas. It’s our job now. And what of it? You afraid?”

Silence.

* * * *

The ring of faces looked to Conda for the plan. Alita among them; fourteen men, six women. Men with beards grown out for five months; hair long and unshorn about their ears. Pallid watery faces with determined bone under the skin, set jaws and tightened fists. All gathered like fragments of some oceanic nightmare. The pallid undead, breathing water, and thinking mute thoughts about the stormy night when the
USS Atlantic
had been torpedoed and sent to the bottom, with all of them trapped, screaming, inside her.

“We never had our chance,” said Conda, grimly, “to get where we were going to do what we had to do. But we’ll go on doing it until the war’s over because that’s all that’s worth while doing. I don’t know how we live or what makes us live except the will to fight, the will to vengeance, wanting to win—not wanting to lie on the coral shelves like so much meat for the sharks—”

Alita listened and shuddered. Why was she still alive and swimming forty fathoms under?

And then she knew. It was like sudden flame in her. She lived because she loved Richard Jameson. She lived simply because his ship might pass this way some day soon again, like it had three weeks ago, returning from England. And she might see him leaning on the rail, smoking his pipe and trying to smile, still alive.

She lived for that. She lived to keep him safe on every trip. Like the others, she had a purpose, a hot, constricting, unquenchable purpose to prevent more victims from coming down to join her in the same nightmare fashion as the
USS Atlantic.
She guessed that explained everything. There was good reason for her still to be moving, and somehow God had motivated them all in the green sea-weed plateaus and gullies.

“Now,” came Conda’s heavy thought, “we’ve this German submarine to consider. We have to knock it out of action completely. We can’t have it lying here when the convoy comes. Alita—”

Alita jerked. She came out of her thoughts, and her pale lips moved. “Yes?”

“You know what to do, Alita? And…Helene?”

Helene drifted down dreamily, laughing in answer, and opened white fingers to clench them tight.

“It’s up to you, Alita and Helene. The rest of us will deploy around the submarine. Jones, you and Merrith try to jam the torpedo openings somehow. Acton, you work on the induction valves. Simpson, see what you can do to the guns on deck; and Haines, you and the other men try your damnedest with the periscope and conning tower.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good enough, sir.”

“If we do it, this’ll be the sixth sub for us—”

“If
we do it,” said Conda.

“Alita’ll do it for us, won’t you Alita?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes! I’ll do it.” She tried to smile.

“All right then.” Conda swung about. “Spread out and go in toward the submarine under a smoke-screen. Deploy!”

* * * *

Silently the congregation split into twos and threes and swam toward the coral shelf, around it, then sank to the bottom, scooped up great handfuls of mud and darkened the water with it. Alita followed, cold, tired, unhappy.

The submarine squatted on the bottom like a metal shark, dark and wary and not making a sound. Sea-weed waved drowsy fronds around it, and several curious blue-fish eyed it and fluttered past. Sunshine slanted down through water, touching the gray bulk, making it look prehistoric, primeval.

A veil of mud sprang up as the cordon of Conda’s people closed in around the U-boat. Through this veil their pasty bodies twisted, naked and quick.

Alita’s heart spasmed its cold grave-flesh inside her. It beat salt water through her arteries, it beat agony through her veins. There, just a few feet from her through the mud-veil lay an iron-womb, and inside it grown-up children stirred, living. And out here in the cold deeps nothing lived but the fish.

Conda and Alita and the others didn’t count.

The submarine, a metal womb, nurturing those men, keeping the choking, hungry waters from them. What a difference a few inches of metal made between pink flesh and her own white flesh, between living and not living, between laughing and crying. All of that
air
inside the submarine. What would it be like to gasp it in again, like the old days just a few scant weeks ago? What would it be like to suck it in and mouth it out with talked words on it? To
talk
again!

Alita grimaced. She kicked her legs. Plunging to the U-boat, she beat her fists against it, screaming, “Let me in! Let me in! I’m out here and I want to live! Let me in!”

“Alita!” The old woman’s voice cried in her mind. A shadow drew across her lined face, softening it. “No, no, my child, do not think of it! Think only of what must be done!”

Alita’s handsome face was ugly with torture.

“Just one breath! Just one song!”

“Time shortens, Alita. And the convoy comes! The submarine must be smashed—now!”

“Yes,” said Alita wearily. “Yes. I must think of Richard—if he should happen to be in this next convoy—” Her dark hair surged in her face. She brushed it back with white fingers and stopped thinking about living again. It was needless torture.

She heard Helene’s laughter from somewhere. It made her shiver. She saw Helene’s nude body flash by above her like a silver fish, magnificent and graceful as a wind-borne thistle. Her laughter swam with her. “Open the U-boat up! Open it up and let them out and I’ll make love to a German boy!”

* * * *

There were lights in the submarine. Dim lights. Alita pressed her pale face against the port and stared into a crew’s quarters. Two German men lay on small bunks, looking at the iron ceiling doing nothing. After a while one puckered his lips, whistled, and rolled out of the bunk to disappear through a small iron door. Alita nodded. This was the way she wanted it. The other man was very young and very nervous, his eyes were erratic in a tired face, and his hair was corn-yellow and clipped tight to his head. He twisted his hands together, again and again, and a muscle in his cheek kept jerking.

Light and life, a matter of inches away. Alita felt the cold press of the ocean all around her, the beckoning urge of the cold swells. Oh, just to be inside, living and talking like them….

She raised her tiny fist, the one with Richard’s thick ring on it, from Annapolis, and struck at the port. She struck four times.

No effect.

She tried again, and knew that Helene would be doing the same on the opposite side of the sub.

The Annapolis ring clicked against thick port glass.

Jerking, the German lad pulled his head up half an inch and stared at the port, and looked away again, went back to twisting his fingers and wetting his lips with his tongue.

“I’m out here!” Alita struck again and again. “Listen to me! Listen! I’m out here!”

The German sat up so violently he cracked his head against metal. Holding his forehead with one hand he slipped out of the bunk and stepped to the port.

He squinted out, cupping hands over eyes to see better.

Alita smiled. She didn’t feel like smiling, but she smiled. Sunlight sprang down upon her dark smoke-spirals of hair dancing on the water. Sunlight stroked her naked white body. She beckoned with her hands, laughing.

For one unbelieving, stricken instant, it was as if hands strangled the German lad. His eyes grew out from his face like unhealthy gray things. His mouth stopped retching and froze. Something crumbled inside him. It seemed to be the one last thing to strike his mind once and for all insane.

One moment there, the next he was gone. Alita watched him fling himself back from the port, screaming words she couldn’t hear. Her heart pounded. He fought to the door, staggering out. She swam to the next port in time to see him shout into the midst of a sweating trio of mechanics. He stopped, swayed, swallowed, pointed back to the bunk room, and while the others turned to stare in the designated direction, the young German ran on, his mouth wide, to the entrance rungs of the conning tower.

Alita knew what he was yelling. She spoke little German; she heard nothing; but faintly the waves of his mind impinged on hers, a screaming insanity:

“God! Oh God! She’s outside. And she is swimming! And alive!”

The sub captain saw him coming. He dragged out a revolver and fired, point-blank. The shot missed and the two grappled.

“God! Oh God! I can’t stand it longer! Months of sleeping under the sea! Let me out of this god-damned nightmare! Let me out!”

“Stop! Stop it, Schmidt! Stop!”

The captain fell under a blow. The younger man wrested the gun from him, shot him three times. Then he jumped on the rungs to the conning tower, and twisted at mechanisms.

Alita warned the others. “Be ready! One is coming out! He’s coming out! He’s opening the inner door!”

Instantly, breathlessly, passionately, Helene’s voice rang: “To hell with the inner door! It’s the outer door we want open!”

“God in heaven, let me out! I can’t stay below!”

“Stop him!”

The crew scrambled. Ringing down, the inner door peeled open. Three Germanic faces betrayed the biting fear in their bellies. They grabbed instruments and threw them at Schmidt’s vanishing legs jumping up the rungs!

Conda’s voice clashed like a thrust gong in the deep sunlit waters. “Ready, everyone? If he gets the outer door open, we must force in to stop the others from ever closing it!”

Helen laughed her knifing laughter. “I’m ready!”

The submarine stirred and rolled to a strange gurgling sound. Young Schmidt was babbling and crying. To Alita, he was now out of sight. The other men were pouring pistol shots up into the conning tower where he’d vanished, to no effect. They climbed after him, shouting.

A gout of water hammered down, crushed them!

“It’s open!” Helene exulted. “It’s open! The outer seal is free!”

“Don’t let them slam it again!” roared Conda. White bodies shot by, flashing green in the sunlight. Thoughts darkened, veiling like unsettled mud.

Inside the machine-room, the crew staggered in a sloshing, belching nightmare of thrusting water. There was churning and thrashing and shaking like the interior of a gigantic washing machine. Two or three crew-men struggled up the rungs to the inner lock and beat at the closing mechanism.

“I’m inside!” Helene’s voice was high, excited. “I’ve got him—the German boy! Oh, this is a new kind of love, this is!”

There was a terrific mental scream from the German, and then silence. A moment later his dangling legs appeared half in, half out of the lock as the door started to seal! Now it couldn’t seal. Yanking desperately, the crew beneath tried to free him of the lock, but Helene laughed dimly and said, “Oh, no, I’ve got him and I’m keeping him here where he’ll do the most good! He’s mine. Very much mine. You can’t have him back!”

Water thundered, spewed. The Germans floundered. Schmidt’s limbs kicked wildly, with no life, in the steadily descending torrent. Something happened to release him. The lock rapped open and he fell face down into the rising waters.

Something came with him. Something white and quick and naked. Helene.