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  "Plenty of things left to do," Haller told him. "They can always blow out the main ballast tanks enough to lighten the ship and float her. But it's better to come up under power. Ah!"

  An indication had come onto the sonar screen. Don saw that the Triton was no longer masked by the cold wall. He switched on his microphone. "Report!"

  "Coming up," Drake said. "She's—Hey!" He was quiet for a second, then resumed his report. "Two of those fish, or whatever they were. Just caught a glimpse of them, and they still look like men in bubbles. Gone now, though—must be fast. Ah, the stern plane is working again. Depth three thousand, coming up smoothly. Ed, I'm going to head straight back to the docks as soon as we re only five hundred feet deep. I'm pulling in the antenna, so there'll be no surface trace. See you there."

  He cut off, but the sonar showed that he was still coming up, now under complete control, and heading toward the docks on the island. Haller watched it for a few moments, nodded, and went back toward the rear of the PT boat. Simpson accepted a cup of coffee one of the men brought and dropped onto a seat near his nephew.

  "Do we still run the official test?" Don asked. This was only a preliminary test run to show up any faults before the full test was made with observers on board the Triton. The ship now had only the barest skeleton crew of five aboard. Don had wanted to go on this one, but had reluctantly agreed to wait, since he was needed here.

  Simpson nodded. "We'll go over her tonight and tomorrow. But unless the bugs are worse than it seems, we'll run the full-dress test day after tomorrow."

  They were heading back to the island now, with the sonar showing the Triton cruising along below the surface toward her docks there. Under the camouflage of simple fishermen's huts and tropical growth, the little island had been turned into a small but efficient shipyard for assembling the submarine and tending her.

  Simpson stood up slowly. "Don," he said reluctantly, "I'm afraid I've got bad news for you. I've been talking to Haller, and we're going to have more observers than I expected. The Navy wants to put on its own crew, too—men having a lot of experience in submarine service. And . . ."

  "You mean I can't go?" Don asked slowly. At his uncle's faint nod, he bent further over his screens. He'd worked like a fool for three years to qualify, and the Triton had been the biggest thing in his life for long before that. But he knew his uncle couldn't help it, and he tried to sound casual as he shrugged. "Okay, then I don't go."

  Simpson's hand dropped onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Don. Everything will be made up somehow."

  Don nodded, but he knew better. Nothing could ever make up for his not being on either of the test runs. If he could even have seen those things that looked like men in bubbles. . . .

  Then he was suddenly busy as the PT boat approached the little island.

  Chapter 2 Operation Depth

  piuring the ten years since Simpson and Drake had found that each had what the other needed, there had always been secrecy, but none had been very - official. The Navy had stepped in to lend them money and help when they had found part of the funds needed and formed their company. And it had been at government insistence that they had taken over this little island, once used as a secret repair dock for small craft. Except for school, most of Don's memories centered around the island.

  It was a different place now. There were strange faces there, under uniform caps with official insigne. There had always been excitement enough; there had been the slow improvement of Drake's atomic power plant, and the trouble making it work with sea water, without minerals from the ocean caking on the boiler pipes. Lately, there had been the rush of assembling the parts of the Triton as they were shipped out secretly from factories back on the main-

  land. But now the bustle was official, and Don seemed left out of things.

  He wandered about, lost in the shuffle. He'd never before known what it was to be on the outside looking in. The cold war had gradually grown less tense when he was young, and most of the security checks of previous years had been relaxed. The Navy had been interested in the Triton as a ship to study the deeper ocean, rather than as any immediate war effort.

  Lately, though, tension had been growing again, and all controls were tightening up. If Don hadn't already been on the island and mixed up in the building of the Triton, they probably would have forbidden him to be there at all. Everything connected with atomic power, or capable of being turned into a weapon, was going quickly under official security wraps, due to the worsening condition of relations with certain other nations.

  "Hi, Miller!" a voice called, and he turned to see the long, lanky figure of Sid Upjohn, the only reporter to be admitted for the official test. Upjohn was one of those men who looked lazy and careless, but there was a keen brain under his wild thatch of red hair. He'd been the leading science writer for the Times for the last eight years, and even the scientists respected him. Don had met him the night before, on their return to the island.

  "All the bugs straightened out?" the reporter asked.

  Don nodded. "Looks like it." The ship had taken the first test beautifully, except for the exhaust valve that had failed on the bow trim tank. As for the diving planes . . .

  Nobody had that figured out. Both stern and bow planes showed signs of having had something jammed into their hinges, and there were bits of copper left in the marks. But copper didn't float in the sea, to get there accidentally. He remembered Drake's report on the metal bar in the bow planes.

  It almost looked like sabotage. Yet, unless it could be admitted that the "men in bubbles" had been real men, this was ridiculous. Haller's idea that they must have run into a bit of old wreckage was ridiculous, too, but it was easier to believe. At any event, that was something Don couldn't discuss.

  "They won't be going as deep this time, so it will be safe enough," he told the reporter. "You'll be going out tomorrow all right."

  "Yeah. Too bad you won't be along, Miller. Met your replacement yet?" As Don shook his head, Upjohn jerked his thumb back to the mess hall. "Then come on, I'll introduce you. I've met everyone by now. I was telling him about you, by the way."

  They went inside and dropped down at a table where a young man in a Navy uniform sat drinking black coffee. "Lieutenant Ricks, this is Don Miller," Upjohn introduced them. "How do you feel now?"

  The man grinned. "Lousy," he answered. "Hi, Don. Remember me?"

  Don frowned. Then it came back; Ricks had been a senior on the high-school track team when Don had first gone out as a freshman. "Glad you're the one replacing me," he told the lieutenant.

  "I'm not. I feel like a first-class heel," Ricks said. "If I could, I'd pull out fast."

  The talk then switched to old days at school, by mutual consent. When Don finally got up to return to his uncle's house, Upjohn joined him. They moved along in silence, until Shep's barking caught Don's ears. He hurried around a corner of the street and to his house.

  But Shep was only enjoying himself. Admiral Haller, still in spotless clothes, was squatting down and throwing a stick for the dog to fetch. Shep's normal hostility to strangers had completely disappeared. He stopped to greet Don happily, and then went back to the stick.

  "Hello, Don—Upjohn," Haller said casually, standing up and brushing dust from his hands. "Hope you don't mind my having a little fun with your dog? I've always been fond of schipperkes."

  Don's liking for the man increased immediately. "He seems to like you, too." '

  Upjohn motioned back toward the visitor's building. 'I see the last of the observers have come, Admiral. How come they sent Senator Kenney? I thought Meredith was supposed to be scheduled for this junket. I can see why the President sent Dexter—I've been with him before. But Kenney!"

  Don had met the two men early that morning, and his own impression fitted Upjohn's reaction. Dexter had seemed like a successful businessman of the nicer sort, but Senator Kenney acted as if all the world was wrong except himself, and all other men were fools.

  "I don't know any more about it than you do," Haller answered. "I don't pick them, after all; that's higher than I rate. In fact, I don't even have much to say about anyone's going or not going." He half smiled at Don, and then was serious again. "Don, everyone else is busy getting the Triton ready. I was wondering if you'd be good enough to show me around the ship before the test. Upjohn, if you'd like to come with us . . ."

  "It should help me know what not to report," Upjohn agreed. "And that seems to be the important thing now—knowing enough not to give away too much. Fine life for a reporter."

  They headed back toward the Triton, where men were going over every inch of her in the concealed dock. Shep bounded along behind, sniffing happily as they entered the ship. He was familiar with it, but there were always new things to smell, it seemed.

  Don spent most of the day showing the other two over the craft. It was smaller and simpler than most submarines, but there was still a lot to be seen. At the last minute, she'd been redesigned to handle torpedoes, and the tubes filled the nose, with the torpedo room behind that. Then came quarters for the crew. Just in front of the conning turret was the captain's room, an officer's wardroom and the little galley where all food was prepared. Below lay the crew's mess hall, and at the bottom were storage rooms for immense amounts of food and other necessities. The conning turret with bridge, navigating room, control room, radar-sonar room, and the periscope housing took up the center of the ship. Behind it lay other bunkrooms and the small engine-control room. And the rest of the ship was devoted to the atomic power unit, sealed off by thick layers of shielding.

  There was one other new idea, however. Under the conning turret and the stores, a low space had been left. This was filled with tank after tank of growing plants, designed to keep the air pure and breathable indefinitely. Men had been talking about that for years, but this was the first test. Men used up the oxygen and gave off carbon dioxide; the plants reversed this, under the long rows of sun lamps. With that and atomic drives, the ship could theoretically stay under the surface for years at a time.

  But like all submarines, it was a lot less simple than it sounded. There were trim tanks and ballast tanks where the amount of water admitted regulated the way the sub floated, sank or leveled off. There were pipes and fittings everywhere, control valves, damper rods, small motors, escape hatches, a garbage ejector, windlasses, machinery to drive the diving planes that looked like elevators on airships, and a host of other things. No spot seemed completely free. And nothing could ever be quite large enough, though the Triton was more comfortable than most ships. The absence of complicated engine equipment and oxygen supplies had helped, at least.

  It was late when they finally came out, but Don had the feeling that Haller had already mastered the ship. The admiral held out a hand as they parted. "Thanks, Don. I wish you were coming along."

  "He should be," Upjohn commented.

  "So you and Mr. Dexter have told me repeatedly," Haller said. "Don, I'd give in to them if I could. But except in matters of emergency, I have to accept official assistance; Ricks has been sent for the job, and I have to use him."

  Don understood, and felt no anger at Haller. He wished they'd all drop the subject. He'd been trying not to think about it, though he hadn't succeeded very well. He went up to his room and tried to work up some interest in a new signal shifter for his radio equipment, but he couldn't even concentrate on the diagram. He'd always liked electronics and the theory of communication, but his real drive had been spent in trying to get ready to be part of the crew on the first official test of his uncle's submarine. Now it all seemed pointless.

  He finally gave up and went to bed, not even bothering to go out to eat. Shep came over beside the bed, curling up where Don's fingers could reach his neck. He seemed to sense his master's feelings, since he licked at Don's hand.

  But in the morning, Don forced himself to look cheerful as he stood watching the final preparations. Haller was busy inspecting things, with Drake and Simpson beside him. Most of the men going aboard were ones in uniform whom Don had barely met. The cook, the two crewmen, Kayne, the navigator, and the helmsman, Cavanaugh. Only Drake, Simpson and the master mechanic, Walrich, were men who had helped build the Triton.

  Ricks came up late, nodding to Don. He went over to see Haller, and a long conversation followed.

  Finally, Haller shrugged and motioned for Don to come forward.

  "We've got a problem," he said, and his face was serious. There was the barest flicker of his eyelid in a quick wink. "Lieutenant Ricks reports that he is suffering from a touch of food poisoning, and feels that he is not in condition to perform his duties satisfactorily under the circumstances. Unfortunately, however, we have no official replacement. In an emergency like this, I wondered if you might be willing to volunteer, Mr. Miller?"

  Don gulped, and felt his knees turn to jelly under him. He might have guessed. He'd had hints before. But it came as a complete shock to him. He swallowed twice, before he could answer, and he could feel a completely foolish grin of pleasure creep onto his face. "I—I'd be happy to volunteer, sir!"

  "Good. Then get anything you need and report on board in ten minutes, Mr. Miller." This time Haller smiled back at him. Beyond, his uncle and Dexter were smiling, too. Only the thin, bilious face of Senator Kenney remained unsmiling. Kenney was looking on with a vague displeasure at the interruption to having his luggage carried on board.

  Simpson caught his nephew's arm and drew him aside. "By a strange coincidence, I happened to find a bag of your stuff already packed and down here, Don," he said with a chuckle. "Upjohn told me Ricks was going to try to let you on last night, and I thought Haller might go along with it. But don't let on it was a put-up job!"

  Don located Ricks, and tried to thank him. But the lieutenant was playing it very straight, acting as if he really were sick. "Got to report to the doctor," he said. "Glad you were around to replace me, Don. And have a four-oh test run, boy!"

  Don found himself assigned to the bunk he'd originally been scheduled for. He put the bag his uncle had packed into his locker, wondering why he'd need so much for a simple test. Then he remembered that there had been talk of Haller's having sealed orders, and that the trip might be one of several days duration. He doubted this, but it was probably smart to be prepared for anything.

  He reported to Haller in the captain's stateroom, and was given the routine assignment to the sonar-radar room. Inside, he dropped to his seat and stared about him. He'd been there a thousand times, but it all looked new now. The hum of the air-conditioning machinery blended with the other sounds of a ship getting ready to move. And the smell of metal, oil and machinery had a new meaning.

  Mr. Miller, electronics officer of the Triton! And all set for Operation Depth!

  He heard the closing of the after hatch, and watched the hands of the chronometer creep around to the hour of ten. Three minutes more and they'd be on their way.

  Then there was a sudden yell that blended with the closing of the fore hatch. The annunciator in the radar room announced: "All hatches closed. Lower the turret!"

  But Don was on his feet before the big conning turret began sliding down to fit flush with the deck.

  From the bow of the Triton had come the shouts of men mixed with the barking of a dog!

  Almost at once, there was a scratching on the door of the room. He threw it open, and Shep came bounding in, leaping up to lick his hand. The annunciator spoke again, but he didn't hear it. He felt the shudder of the ship, but it barely registered.

  Beyond the dog stood one of the new crewmen and Senator Kenney. And Kenney was fuming in outrage at the idea of a dog sneaking aboard at the last moment. "Get him off, at once!" he ordered the crewman.

  A metal door opened then, and Admiral Haller came through it. "What's going on here?" he demanded. Then his eyes fastened on the bouncing form of the dog, and leaped up to meet Don's. "Oh," he said. "A stowaway!"

  Don picked up the dog. He might have known that it was too good to last. They'd probably decide he was a hopeless child, more interested in bringing Shep aboard than in doing his duty. And then he'd be sent ashore with Shep, while Ricks was hastily summoned back.

  "I'm sorry, sir," he said weakly and started through the door.

  Chapter S Trouble on the Triton

  aller stopped him before he could leave. "Were you responsible for this, Mr. Miller?"

  "I didn't bring Shep on board, sir," Don answered, and something in the tone Haller had used made him more hopeful. "He just slipped in, I guess. I'm sorry—"

  "See that he keeps out of the way," the admiral ordered. He was interrupted by a stream of protests from Kenney, but shrugged them aside. "We're under way, on official orders, and I don't intend to put about. Anyhow, I don't see how it can cause trouble, and Upjohn will have something to write about. If you'll return to your quarters until we reach depth, Senator . . ."

  Kenney spun around and stalked off, muttering something about future appropriations. Don had to agree with Upjohn. Most Senators were good men, as he knew from a group who had visited the island two years before. It was a shame that Kenney had to be the one to go along.

  Haller grinned faintly at Don, and turned back to control. "Take her down," his words drifted back. Don shut the door of the radar room and returned to his work, with Shep lying quietly at his feet. The sonar screen showed that they were already well away from the island. He flipped on the television viewing panel—the Triton ran under the surface without ports, but with a number of television pickups that could be tuned in on the viewing panels. They were already diving, and there was nothing but water around them.

  The Triton could move downward in a hurry when set for it; now she must have had both stern and bow planes set for descent, and was heading down in a leisurely way on even keel. The water grew darker as they dropped, and he had to set the gain up on the viewing panel. At daybreak, there had been the threat of a storm, and it must have been brewing up above, since it was growing darker than it should have been. At two hundred fathoms, the outside lights were cut on ahead of them.