Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea (9 page)

‘Sir,’ said the captain, with asperity. ‘For the second time upon this voyage I am compelled to rebuke you for pessimism. Morale is as important in maintaining the good running of a ship as discipline – and both are more vital than any amount of technological know-how or fanciful theorising! I must
insist
you refrain from giving voice to sentiments liable to depress and discourage the crew.’

‘But we must be realistic, Captain,’ said Lebret. ‘And plan for every eventuality. Let us try and find a refuge in this new place, and not yearn hopelessly after the return home.’

The captain snapped, ‘You are dismissed, sir! Please return to your cabin!’

Languidly, Lebret complied.

7

LEAVING THE
PLONGEUR

Cloche summoned de Chante, Avocat and Capot to the bridge and asked for volunteers; but none of the three men came forward. ‘Come, come!’ chided Cloche. ‘You don’t want me to ask Pannier, surely?’

‘He’s drunk,’ said Capot, running fingers through his greasy, rust-coloured hair. ‘And Castor is chief engineer, too important to risk on such an undertaking – I see. You’ve gathered the three of us because we are the most dispensable; and you don’t know what hell-monsters lurk in the water outside.’

‘Monsieur!’

‘We all know, Captain – we all know what’s happened. We’ve been sucked alive into Satan’s hell, and you’re looking for a volunteer to swim out and meet the demons.’

The captain stood up from his chair. ‘Sailor!’ he said, sternly. ‘I am undecided as to whether I shall shoot you for insubordination or lock you in the brig!’

Capot had gone white. ‘Might as well shoot me, Captain,’ he returned. ‘We’re all doomed to a drawn-out death sailing through this godless cess-pit for evermore. I’d rather get it out of the way.’ His voice was level, but his hands were visibly trembling.

Cloche slowly unbuttoned the flap on his holster and brought out his pistol. He levelled this at Capot’s head. ‘Sailor,’ he said. ‘You may have given up hope, but I have not. And luckily for you it is
my
will that matters. Lieutenant! Lock Matelot Capot in the brig. Avocat!’

‘Captain?’

‘Suit up. Get Castor to help you. You’re going outside to take a look at the ballast tank intakes, and see what must be done to fix them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want my vessel brought back under my control!’

Boucher led Capot away, and Cloche re-holstered his weapon. ‘Messieurs,’ he announced. ‘We have drifted, and sunk, for long enough. It is time to take charge of our destiny!’

Below the observation deck (the steel shutters still closed upon the oval porthole), down a blue-painted metal ladder, was a compact chamber from which, via an airlock, egress from the vessel could be effected. This space contained two cupboards, in each of which hung a thick, rubber diving suit and tanks of compressed air.

Down into this place climbed de Chante, Avocat and Lebret. Matters did not get off to a good start: de Chante opened one cupboard, and one of the vessel’s freak breezes blew suddenly up, making the empty arms of the suit flap and thrash, as if warning Avocat away. The motion was so unexpected that Avocat yelped in fear and recoiled flinching.

He rebuked himself for his foolishness. Lebret and de Chante dragged the heavy rubber outfit from its space, and wrangled it down as Avocat clambered inside. Sensing that his nerves were jangled, Lebret attempted to keep the diver’s spirits up. ‘Have no fear, Monsieur,’ he said, lighting them both a cigarette. ‘You are certainly safer in
this
ocean – whatever it is, and wherever we are – than you would be in the South Seas or the Mediterranean. There will be no sharks to trouble us here.’

‘You think so, M’sieur?’

‘I am certain. We know the water is not excessively cold; we know that it is ordinary water – we are breathing it, after all. I have even tasted it! The sonar shows nothing – no shoals of strange fish, no leviathans. It is a huge swimming pool, nothing more.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir.’

Avocat’s helmet was fixed around his skull, the light embedded above his faceplate switched on and the air supply checked and double-checked. Finally, a yard-long spanner and a long-handled hammer were strapped to each leg, and he was helped through into the airlock. The door closed with a chunky sound, and the handle spun through two complete revolutions. Through the little window, no broader than a handspan, it was possible to see the water swirl in until the entire chamber was full.

The exterior hatch swung open and Avocat ventured into the unknown.

De Chante remained below; Lebret climbed back up and joined Castor and Cloche in the forward hull where the main ballast tanks were located. ‘If we can only get air back in our ballast tanks,’ growled the captain, ‘then it won’t matter that regaining the control of the propeller seems to have been no use in arresting our descent. We can begin to
ascend
, retrace our path.’

‘There’s also the question of the vanes, Captain,’ said Boucher.

‘The vanes, yes,’ grumbled Cloche. ‘But ballast tanks first! A submarine without functioning tanks is just an iron bar dropped in the water.’

They waited. Distant clanging and knocking could be heard.

‘There!’ said Lebret, putting his head on one side like a dog. ‘Avocat has reached the inlets. He is effecting repairs!’ A series of distant, muffled noises of metallic percussion could be heard.

Suddenly the whole vessel shook, rotating a metre to the left. Then it rolled back through to right itself. Some mechanical arrangement of the vessel’s workings audibly caught, and with a whir of motors the vent on the starboard ballast tank began to close. ‘I’m inflating the tanks now, Captain,’ cried Le Petomain.

The men in the slant space began spontaneously to cheer.

The downwards angle of the deck began to right itself. In moments, the slope of the decks reduced considerably. The vessel was not perfectly horizontal, but the angle was agreeably reduced.

‘It is done!’ cried Cloche, uncharacteristic delight distorting his face. ‘Once the vanes are sorted, we will have full control of our
craft and can arrest this interminable descent! We can turn our trajectory about, and return to the surface!’

Lebret shook his head, slowly, with a sly smile on his face – as if to say that the captain’s optimism was sadly misplaced.

The banging stopped. ‘Is our descent slowing?’ Cloche demanded.

‘A little, sir,’ said Le Petomain.

‘Assemble the men in the mess!’ ordered Cloche. ‘Get Pannier to bring out some bottles! We must celebrate!’

‘We
are
still descending, though, sir …’ Le Petomain said.

But Cloche appeared not to hear. ‘Once the
vanes
are repaired,’ he announced, ‘we shall start our ascent. And if Avocat could repair the main tank vents so easily, then the vanes should be a simple matter!’

‘Sir—’ Le Petomain said again.

‘A drink!’ Cloche bellowed. ‘Celebration! Soon we shall return home, my comrades!’

Boucher hurried along the now-horizontal corridor and went through to the kitchen. He found Pannier immediately – once again dead drunk, slumped unconscious on his knees with his face on the seat of a chair, in a parody of prayer. The lieutenant didn’t waste time tutting; he rummaged through the stores until he found two bottles, and a corkscrew, and came back through to the mess.

From below climbed de Chante, and Avocat in his rubber suit, shinily wet. The diver was the only man not grinning.

‘Bravo Avocat!’ yelled somebody.

But the diver merely shook his head.

‘Cheer up man,’ instructed Cloche. ‘You have done a great thing!’ He pulled on a cork and it emerged from the bottleneck with a gloopy noise. But he was clumsy, and spilled a portion of the wine – a freak breeze caught the droplets and spattered them upwards at the ceiling. Cloche, cursing, put his thumb over the top.

‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ said Avocat, glumly.

‘No matter! Most of the bottle remains!’

Avocat shook his head again. ‘I don’t mean the wine.’ The breeze
was certainly flowing vigorously around the cabin (although, oddly, it did not chill the skin). But when Avocat lifted his arm to rub his face, droplets were lifted from the wet rubber and flew about the space.

The diver stood to attention. ‘Captain – I’m sorry,’ he announced, stiffly, ‘sorry to have failed to complete my mission. I have let you down!’

‘Don’t be absurd!’ barked Cloche, his brow crumpling. ‘What are you saying? Nonsense!’

‘My captain,’ said Avocat, looking crushed. ‘I didn’t
get
to the vents—’

‘What? What?’

‘I dared not venture out! I dared not let go my hold on the lip of the airlock! The waters—the waters are treacherous.’

Cloche’s expression grew fierce. ‘What on earth are you talking about man? The vents have closed!’

‘They have?’ Avocat looked confused. ‘I don’t—I don’t understand.
I
did not leave the airlock.’

‘You’re saying you
didn’t
fix the ballast vents?’

‘No, Captain.’

‘But we heard you banging away!’

‘That,’ said de Chante, in an awkward voice, ‘was Monsieur Avocat banging the door of the airlock with his spanner. He was … keen to come back inside.’

‘You never
left
the airlock?’ thundered Cloche.

‘I
intended
to swim out, Captain. I promise you, I did. But no sooner did I put my legs out, a whirlpool seized me.’

Cloche closed his eyes, and opened them again, as if he expected to see Avocat no longer there, vanished like a chimera. ‘This is a poor joke, sailor,’ he glowered.

‘I am not joking, my Captain! It sucked at my legs – I could feel the
pull
of the water. The dark. I was there, a cone of light no bigger than a baseball bat spilling from my helmet, in … all this dark. And the whirlpool was pulling me down—down to hell!’

‘You’re imagining things, man!’ put in Boucher. He uncorked the second bottle, took a swig and passed it to the dripping man.
‘There’s nothing out there – a whirlpool would have registered on the ship’s sensors.’

‘I felt it! It was horribly strong,’ Avocat insisted, shuddering. ‘It must be this current that is pulling the entire vessel downwards! That is how we are descending as fast as we are.’

‘Nonsense! When we fully inflate the ballasts we will start to rise …’ boomed the captain.

‘Monsieur,’ noted the practical-minded Ghatwala addressing Avocat. ‘I must respectfully agree with these officers, that what you are saying makes no sense. If there were a current pulling the ship down it would pull you down at the same rate. ‘You would not feel it. And in point of fact, if the ship were being sucked down a whirlpool we would be spun round and round. We would feel that!’

‘If not a whirlpool,’ said Avocat, growing angry, ‘then some linear current – but strong! Strong, like a creature pulling at my legs. I could feel it
pulling
at my legs.’

Ghatwala possessed a mind supple and fast-thinking, but so perfectly logical that it found it difficult comprehending the slower, less rational mentition of other people. He spoke again, in a level voice. ‘In that case – assuming there were some purely vertical force dragging you down – it would also act upon the entire vessel. There would be no perceptual difference from your point of view. You could not feel such a current.’

Avocat shrieked. ‘I know what I felt! It almost sucked me away! I had to hang on to the bottom of the lock-door, grasping desperately as it pulled at my legs! I only just got back inside the airlock!’

There was an awkward pause. Castor took a noisy glug from one of the open bottles of wine.

‘If you
didn’t
go, then how did the ballast vents get fixed?’ asked Lebret.

‘I don’t know!’ And he began to weep.

‘Get a grip on yourself, sailor,’ the captain insisted. ‘It won’t do you any good being hysterical like this. You’ll need to keep a level head when you go out again.’

Avocat’s reaction was immediate. ‘Go out again? No!’ he cried, his eyes round as oranges. ‘Sir – send me out again and you’ll be sending me to my death. Don’t, I beg of you!’