He turned off the light and headed the submarine into the depths. The sub’s nose slanted sharply, and Belov braced himself with his knees against the back of the chair. Now, over Kondratev’s shoulder, he saw the illuminated dials and the sonar screen in the upper part of the panel. Trembling sparks flared up and died out on the screen: probably blips of deep-sea fish still too far away for identification. Belov ran his eyes over the dials, looking for the depth indicator. The bathymeter was at the far left. The red needle was slowly crawling to the 200-meter mark. Then it would just as slowly crawl to the 300 mark, then 400… Under the submarine was an abyssal chasm, and the minisub was a tiny mote in an inconceivable mass of water. Belov suddenly felt as if something were interfering with his breathing. The darkness in the cabin became thicker and more unrelenting, like the cold salt water outside. It’s begun, Belov thought. He took a deep breath and held it. Then he narrowed his eyes, grabbed the back of the chair with both hands, and began to count to himself. When colored spots started swimming before his narrowed eyes he exhaled noisily and ran his hand across his forehead. The hand got wet.
The red needle crossed the 200 mark. The sight was both beautiful and ominous: the red needle and green numbers in the darkness. A ruby needle and emerald numbers: 200, 300… 1000… 3000… 5000… I can’t understand at all why I became an oceanographer. Why not a metallurgist or gardener? Ghastly stupidity. Out of every hundred people only one gets depth sickness. But this one-out-of-a-hundred is an oceanographer, because he likes to study cephalopods. He’s simply crazy out of his head about cephalopods. Cephalopods, damn them! Why don’t I study something else? Say rabbits. Or earthworms.
Nice, fat earthworms in the wet soil under a hot sun. No darkness, no horror of a saltwater grave. Just earth and sun. He said loudly, “Kondratev!”
“Yes?”
“Listen, Kondratev, did you ever get the urge to study earthworms?”
Kondratev bent over and groped into the darkness. Something clicked with a ringing sound, and an icy stream of oxygen hit Belov’s face. He breathed in greedily, yawning and choking. “Enough,” he said finally. “Thanks.”
Kondratev turned off the oxygen. No, of course he wouldn’t give a damn about earthworms. The red needle crawled past the 300 mark. Belov called once more, “Kondratev?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure it’s a giant squid?”
“I don’t understand.”
“That a giant squid is what has been getting the whales?”
“It’s probably a squid.”
“But it could be grampuses?”
“Could be.”
“Or a sperm whale?”
“It could be a sperm whale. But a sperm whale usually attacks females. There were plenty of females in the herd. And grampuses attack stragglers.”
“No, it’s ika,” Akiko said in a small voice. “O-ika.”
O-ika was the giant deep-sea squid. Fierce and quick as lightning. It had a powerful taut body, ten strong arms, and cruel, intelligent eyes. It would rush at a whale from below and instantly gnaw out its insides. Then it would force the carcass down to the bottom. Not even a shark, not even the hungriest, would dare to come close to it. It dug into the silt and feasted at leisure. If a submarine of the Oceanic Guard should catch up to it, it would not give way. It would accept battle, and sharks would gather to pick up the lumps of meat. Giant-squid meat was tough as rubber, but the sharks didn’t care.
“Yes,” said Belov. “Probably it’s a giant squid.”
“Probably,” said Kondratev. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a squid or not, he thought. Creatures even more fearsome than the giant squid could have set up housekeeping in depressions like this one. You have to find them and destroy them, for once they taste whale they’ll never leave you alone. Then he thought that if they should meet something really unknown, the trainees would doubtless hang all over his shoulders and demand that he let them “investigate.” Trainees always got the idea that a working submarine was a research bathyscaphe.
Four hundred meters.
It was very stuffy in the cabin. The ionizers weren’t correcting it. Kondratev heard Belov’s heavy breathing behind his back. On the other hand he couldn’t hear Akiko at all; you would think she wasn’t there. Kondratev let a little more oxygen into the cabin. Then he glanced at the compass. A strong current was swinging the submarine away from its course.
“Belov,” Kondratev said, “make a note: warm current, depth four hundred forty meters, direction south-southwest, speed two meters per second.”
Belov flicked the dictaphone switch with a squeak, and muttered something in a low voice.
“A regular Gulf Stream,” said Kondratev. “A little Gulf Stream.”
“Temperature?” Belov asked in a weak voice.
“Twenty-four degrees Celsius.”
Akiko said timidly, “A curious temperature. Unusual.”
“It would be very quaint if there’s a volcano somewhere under us,” Belov moaned. “Have you ever tasted giant-squid soup, Akiko-san?” he asked. He started in English and finished in Russian.
“Watch it,” said Kondratev. “I’m going to leave the current. Hang onto something.”
“Easier said than done,” muttered Belov.
“Aye, aye, Comrade Captain,” said Akiko.
You can hang onto me, Kondratev wanted to suggest to her, but he was too shy. He rolled the submarine sharply over to the port side, and plunged almost straight down.
“Uffff,” grunted Belov. He let go of the dictaphone, which hit Kondratev in the back of the head. Then Kondratev felt Akiko’s fingers grip his shoulder-grip and slide off. “Grab onto my shoulders,” he ordered.
At that instant she almost fell face first onto the edge of the control panel. He barely managed to catch her arm, and she hit her face against his elbow. “Excuse me,” she said.
“Ufff, easy there,” moaned Belov. “Take it easy, Kondratev!”
It felt like an elevator coming to a sharp stop. Kondratev took his head away from the board, fumbled to his right, and encountered Akiko’s downy hair.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
“No, sir. Thank you for asking.”
He bent down and caught hold of her by the arm. “Thank you,” she repeated. “Thank you. I can manage myself.”
He let go of her and glanced at the bathymeter. Six hundred fifty… six hundred fifty-five… six hundred sixty.
“Take it easy, Kondratev,” Belov pleaded in a weak voice. “Enough already.”
Six hundred eighty meters. Three hundred seventy-two fathoms. Two thousand two hundred thirty feet. Kondratev leveled off. Belov hiccuped loudly and pushed away from the back of the seat.
“That’s it,” Kondratev announced, and turned on the light.
Akiko hid her nose with her hand; tears were running down her cheeks. “Eyes are sparking,” she said, smiling with difficulty.
“I’m sorry, Akiko-san,” Kondratev said. He felt guilty. There had been no need for such a sharp dive. It was just that he had gotten tired of the endless spiral descent. He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked back. Belov sat hunched up, bare to the waist, holding his crumpled shirt near his mouth. His face was damp and gray, his eyes red.
“Roast duck,” said Kondratev. “Remember, Belov.”