“Sure, Joe,” said Sparrow. “Now, please be quiet. Save your strength.”
“First time in my life I ever belonged anywhere—really belonged—was with your crew,” said Garcia. “With Bea, sure. But that’s different.”
“You have to conserve your strength,” said Sparrow.
“Why? So Johnny Security can take me back to stand trial?”
“I’m not Security, Joe.”
“He’s a BuPsych,” said Sparrow. “They put him on to ride herd on me.”
Ramsey’s mouth dropped open.
“I spotted that the day we first went down overlimit,” said Sparrow. “It was the way he treated Les.”
“Security, too,” said Garcia.
“Only by adoption,” said Ramsey. “And I can’t—”
“If you spill this,” said Sparrow, “I’ll—”
“I was about to say that I can’t hear so well,” said Ramsey. He grinned, then frowned and looked down at Garcia. “Did you have anything to do with the death of that Security inspector?”
“Nothing, so help me God,” said Garcia.
“How about the sabotage?”
“That was my old friends just being doubly sure.” He shook his head. “I was just supposed to tip off the location of the well when we reached it. Instead, I set it off while we were still in our own waters. Thought they’d just force us up, capture us.”
“How’d you do it?” asked Sparrow.
“By stepping up the sono-pulse system, keyed to weak tube plate.”
“When did you decide not to tip them to the well?”
“I never decided to do it.”
Sparrow seemed to relax.
“I told Bea to take our kids and go to Security as soon as we were out of pursuit range with the Ram.” He fell silent.
“Try to rest,” said Sparrow.
Garcia sniffed. “What’s the needle say now, Johnny?”
Ramsey looked at Sparrow, who nodded assent.
“P-F,” said Ramsey.
“Probable fatal,” translated Garcia.
“The needle has come down some,” said Ramsey.
“Do you want to chance an overdose of de-phos and decalse?” asked Sparrow.
Garcia looked up at him. “Carry on the jolly battle a little longer, eh?” He smiled. “If you say so, Skipper. But keep me under morph, will you?” His grin became tight, like a death’s head. “Convulsions are so messy!”
Sparrow took a deep breath, hesitated.
“It’s his only chance,” said Ramsey. “If you can call that a chance.”
“All right,” said Sparrow. He stepped to the pharmacy rack, readied the shots, returned.
“The morphine,” reminded Garcia.
Sparrow held up an ampule.
“Thanks for everything, Skipper,” said Garcia. “One favor: Will you look after Bea and the kids?”
Sparrow nodded curtly, bent and administered the injections—one, two, three.
They watched the morphine take effect.
“Eight more blood changes left in the machine,” said Ramsey.
“Give him maximum flow rate,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey adjusted the valve.
“Now, Johnny, I want the whole story from you,” said Sparrow. He spoke without taking his gaze from Garcia.
“Evidently, you already know it,” said Ramsey.
“Not in detail. That’s what I want now.”
Ramsey thought: The cloak-and-dagger role is a farce. Sparrow’s had me spotted for some time—and that’s probably Garcia’s doing. I’ve been flying blind and didn’t know it. Or did I? He thought back over his vague feelings of misgiving.
Sparrow said, “Well?”
Stalling for time to think, Ramsey said, “How much detail?”
“Start from the beginning,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey mentally crossed his fingers, thought: This is the crisis. If Sparrow’s really psycho, he’ll blow. But I have to chance it. I don’t know how much he’s discovered. I can’t pull any punches.
“You can start right now,” said Sparrow. “That’s an order.”
Ramsey took a deep breath, began with the message from Dr. Oberhausen and the conference with Admiral Belland in Sec. I.
“This telemetering equipment,” said Sparrow. “What does it tell you about me?”
“That you’re like a part of this submarine. You react like one of its instruments instead of like a human being.”
“I’m a machine?”
“If you want.”
“Are you sure of your little black box?”
“The body’s own juices don’t lie.”
“I suppose they don’t. But interpretations can be mistaken. For instance, I don’t think you’ve correctly evaluated the adjustment we have to make to exist down here in the deeps.”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you recall the day you broke down in the shack?”
Ramsey remembered his fear, his inability to move, the reassuring influence of Sparrow. He nodded.
“What would you call that experience?”
“A temporary psychotic break.”
“Temporary?”
Ramsey stared at Sparrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Would you say that all of your actions aboard the Ram have been completely sane?”
Ramsey colored, feeling the hot flush of blood in his face. “What kind of a machine are you now, Skipper?”
“A computing machine,” said Sparrow. “Now listen to me and listen carefully. Here in the subtugs, we have adapted to about as great a mental pressure as human beings can take and still remain operative. We have adapted. Some to a greater degree than others. Some one way and some another. But whatever the method of adaptation, there’s this fact about it which remains always the same: viewed in the light of people who exist under lesser pressures, our adaptation is not sane.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had to know,” said Sparrow. “As you’ve observed, my particular adaptation has been machine-like. Considered in the light of human normality, you psych people have a name for that adaptation.”
“Schizoid.”
“So I’ve compartmentalized my life,” said Sparrow. “I have a part of me—call it a circuit if you want—which keeps me going down here. It believes in the hereafter because it has to—”
Ramsey caught the third-person reference to self; he tensed.
“Who’s to deny me the right to be whatever I have to be down here?” asked Sparrow. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his long-fingered hand. “I had to know what it was I was doing. So I studied me. I analyzed me. I computed me against every background I could think of. It was completely ruthless with me.” He fell silent.
Cautiously, Ramsey said, “And?”
“I’m nuts,” said Sparrow. “But I’m nuts in a way which fits me perfectly to my world. That makes my world nuts and me normal. Not sane. Normal. Adapted.”
“You’re saying the world’s schizoid, fragmented.”
“Hasn’t it always been?” asked Sparrow. “Where are there completely unbroken lines of communication? Show me complete social integration.” He shook his long head from side to side in a slow negation. “It’s the pressure, Johnny.”
Ramsey made a minute adjustment on the flow meter controlling the exchange of blood in Garcia’s body. He looked down at the drugged engineering officer. Face relaxed, peaceful. Pressures gone for the moment.
“We look to a Utopian existence as sanity,” said Sparrow. “No pressures against survival. That’s why we get a dreamy nostalgia about us when we think of the old South Seas. Minimum threat to survival.” Again he shook his head. “Whatever the pressure and whatever the adaptation, that adaptation is definable by your science as non-sane. I sometimes think that’s the proper interpretation of the biblical phrase: ‘A child shall lead them.’ Children generally don’t have survival pressures. Ergo: They’re more sane than adults.”
&n
bsp; “They have their pressures,” said Ramsey.
“Of a different character,” said Sparrow. He bent, felt Garcia’s pulse. “How many changes left?”
“Two.”
“What’s the radiation reading?”
Ramsey’s head jerked as he turned to stare fully at the dial. “Fifty-fifty.”
“He’ll live,” said Sparrow. His voice carried a tone of absolute decision, an irrevocable judgment.
Ramsey fought down an unaccountable irritation. “How can you be so damned sure?”
“You were startled when you focused on the meter,” said Sparrow.
“It’s a miracle he’s come this far.” In spite of himself, Ramsey’s voice betrayed his irritation.
“That’s right, a miracle,” said Sparrow. “Listen to me, Johnny. In spite of all your science and your medicine, there’s something you people often refuse to admit.”
“Which is?” Now his voice was openly hostile.
“There’s such a thing as being on God’s side. Being right with the world. That’s really the thing behind miracles. It’s quite simple. You get in … well, phase. That’s the mechanical way of saying it. You ride the wave instead of bucking it.” Sparrow’s voice carried a tone of calm detachment.
Ramsey pressed his lips together to keep from speaking his thoughts. And over it all, his own psychological training was feeding data to a train of thought: Religious fanaticism. Fragmentation. Impenetrable belief in own righteousness. The evidence for a diagnosis of paranoiac type is very strong.
“Your particular adaptation is dictation by your psychological training,” said Sparrow. “You have a function: to keep operating. Call it normal. You have to believe I’m insane and that your diagnosis of insanity type is accurate. That way, you’re on top; you’re in control. It’s your way to survival. You can guide me and direct me like the proper animal that I am, and I’ll take you back where the pressures are reduced.”
“This is nonsense,” barked Ramsey. “Psychological nonsense! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“If your diagnosis is correct, what’s the probable course of my life?” asked Sparrow.
Before he could stop himself, Ramsey said, “You’ll go completely psychotic! Completely—” He broke off.
Sparrow laughed. He shook his head. “No, Johnny. I’ll go back where the pressures are less. And I’ll take a deep breath. And I’ll play a little poker at Garden Glenn. And I’ll get drunk a time or two because it’s expected of me. I’ll have another honeymoon with my wife. She’ll be very nice to me. Very contrite because of all the times she’s cuckolded me while I’ve been away. That’s her adaptation. It doesn’t really hurt me. Why should it?”
Ramsey stared at him.
“And, of course, I’ll do some more wondering: What’s this all about? What are we human animals? What’s the meaning behind all this? If there is a meaning. But my roots are solid, Johnny. I’ve seen miracles.” He nodded toward Garcia. “I’ve known the outcome of events before even the events. That gives me a—”
The warning buzzer sounded on the blood-exchange unit. Ramsey slapped the transfer switch. Sparrow moved around the cot, disengaged the artery and vein taps.
“Sixty-forty,” said Ramsey.
“We’ll be at Charleston in twenty-two hours,” said Sparrow. He looked at Ramsey. “What do you intend to tell Admiral Belland’s boys about Joe?”
“I don’t remember anything about Joe worth telling Belland,” said Ramsey.
A slow smile formed on Sparrow’s lips. “That’s normal,” he said. “Not sane, but normal.”
Ramsey sniffed. Why am I irritated? he asked himself. And his psychological training gave him the unavoidable answer: Because I’m not facing something about myself. There’s something I don’t want to see.
“Let’s talk about Heppner,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey suppressed an urge to shout: For Christ’s sake! What for?
“He got to wondering about sanity,” continued Sparrow. “And one day the truth dawned on him that I’m not particularly sane. Then he got to wondering: What is sanity? He talked about some of his thoughts. And he found he couldn’t define sanity. Not for sure. Which meant to him that he himself was off balance.” Sparrow closed his eyes.
“So?” whispered Ramsey.
“So he applied for a transfer out of the subtugs. He gave me the application to submit when we landed. That last trip.”
Ramsey said, “He cast himself adrift.”
Sparrow nodded. “And he’d already admitted to himself that he had no anchor, no point of reference from which to navigate.”
Ramsey felt a curious internal stimulation, as though he were on the brink of a great revelation.
“And that,” said Sparrow, “is why I have to train another new electronics officer. You have to go back to BuPsych where you have your roots. That’s an ocean in which you can navigate.”
Ramsey could contain the question no longer. “What’s your definition of sanity, Skipper?”
“The ability to swim,” said Sparrow.
Ramsey felt a cold shock, as though he had been immersed suddenly in freezing water. He had to force himself to continue breathing normally. As though from a great distance, he heard Sparrow’s voice:
“That means the sane person has to understand currents, has to know what’s required in different waters.”
Ramsey heard a heavy thundering, counterpoint to Sparrow’s matter-of-fact tones.
“Insanity is something like drowning,” said Sparrow. “You go under; you flounder without direction; you—Johnny! What’s wrong?”
He heard the words, but they lacked meaning. The room was a spinning centrifuge with himself at the rim … faster … faster … faster … . He caught at the blood-exchange unit, missed, crashed to the floor. A detached part of him sensed hands on his face, a finger lifting an eyelid.
Sparrow’s voice squeaked insanely down an inverted funnel: “Shock!”
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
footsteps
slamming of cabinet door
clinking of glass
He floated in a gelatin hammock, bound in upon himself. A miniature stage opened before his eyes. Sparrow, Garcia, and Bonnett stood arm in arm, doll figures staring across Lilliputian footlights.
Puppets.
In a dull monotone, the miniature Sparrow said, “I am a Commander, Submarine, Portable, Mark I.”
The miniature Garcia said, “I am an Engineering Officer, Submarine, Portable, Mark I.”
The miniature Bonnett said, “I am a First Officer, Submarine, Portable, Mark I.”
Ramsey tried to speak, but his lips would not respond.
On the doll stage, Sparrow said, “I am not sane; he is not sane; you are not sane; we are not sane; they are not sane.”
Garcia said, “I regret to report the failure of a component: myself.” He dissolved, leaving Sparrow and Bonnett separated by a space.
Bonnett said, “That Ramsey is a catalyst.”
Sparrow said, “I cannot help you; he cannot help you; we cannot help you; they cannot help you; you cannot help yourself.”
Garcia’s voice came from the empty space: “I regret that I cannot thank you in person.”
Bonnett said, “My generation doesn’t believe in vampires.”
Again Ramsey tried to speak, but no sound came.
In unison, Sparrow and Bonnett began to recite: “Be quiet … be quiet … be quiet … be quiet … be quiet … be quiet …”
fainter
fainter
fainter
Garcia’s voice was a faint echo, slightly off beat.
deep enfolding darkness
an amniotic darkness
Ramsey felt movement, a humming: the motors. Bonnett’s voice: “I think he’s coming around.”
Sparrow: “Can you hear me, Johnny?”
He didn’t want to answer. That would take energy. It would give substance to the world. His years of psych
ological training abruptly said to him: You are in a tight fetal position.
Sparrow: “Let’s try to straighten him out. That may help.”
Bonnett: “Break it to him gently, Skipper.”
Hands touched his legs, his arms, pulling him from the curled ball. He wanted to resist, but his muscles felt like weak putty.
Break what gently?
Sparrow’s voice was imperative: “Johnny!”
Ramsey wet his dry lips with a reluctant tongue. Break what gently? His voice came out faintly: “Yeah.”
“Open your eyes, Johnny.”
He obeyed, looked straight up into a crosshatch of pipes and conduits. Control room. He sensed Sparrow beside him, turned. The skipper looked down at him, a worried frown tensing the long face. Beyond him, Bonnett stood at the controls, back to them.
“Wha’s—wha’s——” He tried to clear his throat.
Sparrow said, “We brought you in here where we could keep an eye on you. We’re almost at Charleston.”
Ramsey sensed the life pulse of subtug around him, sank into it momentarily. Break what gently? He said, “What happened?”
“You reacted to something,” said Sparrow. “Maybe the decalcification shot. It may have had something to do with our overpressure dives, increased anhydrase. How do you feel?”
“Lousy. How’s Joe?”
Sparrow seemed to retreat within himself. He took a deep breath. “Joe ran out of red cells. Nothing we could do.”
And there went your miracle, thought Ramsey. He said, “I’m sorry, Skipper.”
Sparrow passed a hand over his eyes. “Perhaps it was for the best.” He shrugged. “He was too—”
“I have something on the ranging scope,” said Bonnett. He keyed the IFF circuits, tested them. “It’s a Monitor. One of ours. Coming fast.”
Sparrow whirled, went to the communications board, tested the relays from the shack. “Are we close enough for voice?”
Bonnett studied his instruments. “Yes.”
Sparrow turned a rheostat, closed the microphone key. “This is Able John. Repeat. This is Able John. We have a full slug. One crewman down with radiation sickness. Request clearance for Charleston. Over.”
A voice came from the wall speaker with the eerie wavering of pulse modulation. “Hello, Able John. You’re a bit hot. Stand by for snooping. Over.”
Bonnett depressed the drive bar and their speed slackened.