“I can’t talk about it,” I said briskly—and it was true, I couldn’t, because I didn’t know anything about it. There had been stories in the paper now and again about what Stewart Eden was up to in Marinia. But what I saw in the papers was everything I knew; what little I heard from my uncle was about me and my schooling, not about him and his work.
Eskow didn’t press the point. I could see, on his open face, the exact moment when he had remembered that between the Eden family and the Sperry family there was reported to be trouble…
The word got around rapidly, and before a week was out half the class was laying bets on how long it would be before there was an open outbreak between the Exec and myself. The story of Hallam Sperry’s struggle with my father and uncle was public knowledge. But my uncle had taught me, in his infrequent letters, that a wise man does not hate; and I was trying to live up to his advice in my relations with Brand Sperry.
I talked it over with Bob Eskow, one afternoon when classes were over and we had half an hour to ourselves before the evening meal. We were sitting on the sandy lawn outside the mess hall, watching the giant cumulus clouds boil up over the water. Eskow said hesitantly, “Maybe you ought to talk to Sperry, Jim. It might clear the air.”
I remembered by first encounter with him on the steps of the Hall. “He doesn’t like lubbers,” I said.
“That’s the chance you have to take. That is, if you want to. It’s your problem, Jim. I can’t tell you what to do. But I know that it’s causing a lot of talk.”
I put it off. In one week I had learned one thing for sure: Lubbers did not bother upperclassmen without an invitation. In any case, I thought, the talk would die down. The struggle between Hallam Sperry and the Edens was old stuff—the break had been long before I was born. Why revive sleeping dogs?
I didn’t know how wakeful that particular sleeping dog was!
But I had little time for personal problems, and as the days went by the talk did die down. We began to shape up as cadets, instead of bewildered civilians; we worked and studied and exercised and, little by little, began to show what we were made of.
I said that three hundred of us started the course. Within the first month, twenty-five had washed out. Some couldn’t stand the physical strain; some couldn’t seem to master even the basic scientific studies of the beginning of our first year; some could not take the discipline. Twenty- five was not a large number—it was almost certain that, by the time our class of three hundred came to graduation and the commissioning ceremony, fewer than a hundred would be left.
For the service could not afford weaklings.
Those who washed out were snapped up, by and large, by the commercial sub-sea lines. Merely passing the entrance examinations for the Academy was proof of a strong aptitude for sub-sea command. Of the two hundred who washed out of an average class, at least half would become maritime officers in a civilian capacity.
I wondered often if I could make the grade. Just the list of our studies in the first year was frightening: Undersea mining. Submarine motor and hull design. Vau’lain cell operation and repair. Troyon tube-lights. Synthetic air generators. Submarine architecture. Eden generator maintenance and overhaul.
Of course, I had a head start. In the first class on the Eden generator, Eskow was frankly envious; after all, my uncle had invented it! But, of course, the knowledge of how to balance the circuits and check the relays and gauge the capacitances of the weirdly complex Eden generator did not run in the blood. I knew what Edenite was, of course—but so did everyone in the class.
What did help very much was the years of patient schooling my uncle had put me through before I entered the Academy. The scientific courses were much less difficult for me than for most of the class—I had taken the essentials already, in a civilian school where the pace was slow and the pressure infinitely less than at the Academy. At the top of the front wall in every classroom the motto was lettered: The Tides Don’t Wait. The whole Academy was built around that principle; we had to absorb in a single semester courses that civilian universities took four years to present.
But some of the courses were completely new to me. There were classes on naval warfare and tactics; the employment of naval aviation; military and naval logistics and supply. There were ordnance classes where we had to learn and recite the range, purpose and characteristics of every weapon that could conceivably be used by or against a sub-sea warship, from torpedoes to atomic dust. There were interminable classes on the strategy of naval operations; on the infinitely variable tactical problems of sub-sea operations, far more complex than any other military operation known to man since it was conducted in three dimensions.
And there was the infuriating detail of Academy discipline to keep in mind every minute of every hour of the day. There was never a second while we were on the Academy grounds (and in that first year we could be off them a maximum of three hours a week—if we weren’t confined to quarters for some infraction) when we were not liable without warning to find ourselves confronted by some officer or upperclassman hot on the trail of an unshined shoe or a failure to make a square turn going around a corner. We never walked anywhere—we marched; we never lounged back and relaxed, even in our own rooms—we sat at attention. We learned all this the hard way—in the long hours of walking punishment tours around the quadrangle, sometimes a hundred or more of us out there at once. But we learned it. And we never forgot.
For twenty-three hours and thirty minutes out of every day, this was true; but there was the half hour just before the evening meal when, if we weren’t catching up on our punishment tours or frantically boning up for a quiz, we could wander about the grounds as we liked. That half hour, the three hours liberty on Saturdays and the short time between chapel and lunch on Sundays were all of our leisure time. And it was always eaten into by some extra duty.
But what was left was worth while.
The Sub-Sea Academy is a very junior institution, when you compare it with Annapolis, from which it sprang, or ancient West Point. But it has a history and a pride of service; and the grounds of the Academy are filled with trophies of the Sub-Sea Fleet.
Eskow, for instance, was obsessed with the hulk of the old SSN-571—the Nautilus, first of the atomic-powered undersea cruisers. He dragged me there as often as he could and we spent hours of our brief leisure wandering through its cramped corridors and chambers, where it lay moored in the gentle Caribbean swell. It was hard to believe that this fragile tin-can had once been the pride of the Navy; compared with the least of our modern sub-sea corvettes, it was pitifully small and weak. Of course, the builders of the Nautilus had done the best they could with mere steel for its hull and plating; they hadn’t begun to guess, when Nautilus’s keel was laid, that my uncle would develop the thin film of Edenite that, by forcing the pressure of the water back upon itself instead of trying to hold it out by brute force, tricking the pressure itself into furnishing the necessary strength, would make it possible to plunge four miles below the surface.
My own favorite, though, was Dixon Hall. All the history of the sub-sea service was concentrated in this quiet little hall, from diagrams of the sinking of the New Ironsides back in that bloody October of the Civil War, the first successful submarine action of history, through the imposing Honor Roll of Academy graduates who had given up their lives in the Service. One whole wall was taken up with a map of the world, on Mercator’s projection—a strange map, for the continents were a vacant black, with only the rivers traced on them in white and a few great cities indicated. But every detail of the ocean floor was recorded minutely. Various shades of color marked the depths; submarine mountains and ridges stood out in relief. I spent hours tracing the lines that showed the routes of the sub-sea traders, the thin web that showed the pipelines and vacuum tubeways that carried the wealth of the sea. All the domed cities of Marinia were there—Eden Dome and Black Camp and Thousand Fathom and Gold Ridge and Rudspatt and a hundred others. I looked longingly at the dot that marked Thetis, far into the South Pacific, where my Uncle Stewart lived and performed his mysterious duties—for he never discussed his work with me, only mine.