Chapter 1: Machine-Fish

“Full stop. Rest ready.”

These words glowed in vivid red against the black background of the NX-1’s control order-board. A wheel was spun over, a lever pulled back, and in the hull of the submarine descended the peculiar silence found only in mile-deep waters. Men rested at their posts, eyes alert.

Above, in the control room, Hemingway Bowman, youthful first officer, glanced at the teleview screen and swore softly.

“Keith,” he said, “between you and me, I’ll be damned glad when this monotonous job’s over. I joined the Navy to see the world, but this charting job’s giving me entirely too many close-ups of the deadest parts of it!”

Commander Keith Wells. U. S. N., grinned broadly. “Well,” he remarked, “in a few minutes we can call it a day--or night, rather--and then it’s back to the Falcon while the day shift ‘sees the world.’” He turned again to his dials as Hemmy Bowman, with a sigh, resumed work.

“Depth, six thousand feet. Visibility poor. Bottom eight thousand,” he said into the phone hung before his lips, and fifty feet aft, in a small cubby, a blue-clad figure monotonously repeated the observations and noted them down in an official geographical survey report.

Such had been their routine for two tiring weeks, all part of the NX-l’s present work of re-charting the Newfoundland banks.

As early as 1929 slight cataclysms had begun to tear up the sea-floor of this region, and of late--1935--seismographs and cable companies had reported titanic upheavals and sinkings of the ocean bed, changing hundreds of miles of underwater territory. Finally Washington decided to chart the alterations this series of sub-sea earthquakes had wrought.

And for this job the NX-1 was detailed. A super-submarine fresh from the yards, small, but modern to the last degree, she contained such exclusive features as a sheathing of the tough new glycosteel, automatic air rectifiers, a location chart for showing positions of nearby submarines, the newly developed Edsel electric motors, and automatic teleview screen. When below surface she was a sealed tube of metal one hundred feet long, and possessed of an enormous cruising radius. From the flower of the Navy some thirty men were picked, and in company with the mother-ship Falcon she put out to combine an exhaustive trial trip with the practical charting of the newly changed ocean floor.

Now this work was almost over. Keith Wells told himself that he, like Bowman, would be glad to set foot on land again. This surveying was important, of course, but too dry for him--no action. He smiled at the lines of boredom on Hemmy’s brow as the younger man stared gloomily into the teleview screen.

And then the smile left his lips. The radio operator, in a cubby adjoining the control room, had spoken into the communication tube:

“Urgent call for you, sir! From Captain Knapp!”

Wells reached out and clipped a pair of extension phones over his ears. The deep voice of Robert Knapp, captain of the mother-ship Falcon, came ringing in. It was strained with an excitement unusual to him.

“Wells? Knapp speaking. Something damned funny’s just happened near here. You know the fishing fleet that was near us yesterday morning?”

“Yes?”

“Well, the whole thing’s gone down! Destroyed, absolutely! The sea’s been like glass, the weather perfect--yet from the wreckage, what there is of it, you’d think a typhoon had struck! I can’t begin to explain it. No survivors, either, so far, though we’re hunting for them.”

“You say the boats are completely destroyed?”

“Smashed like driftwood. I tell you it’s preposterous--and yet it’s the fact. I think you’d better return at once, old man; you’re only half an hour off. And come on the surface; it’s getting light now, and you might pick up something. God knows what this means, Keith, but it’s up to us to find out. It’s--it’s got me...”

His tones were oddly disturbed--almost scared--and this from a man who didn’t know what fear was.

“But Bob,” Keith asked, “how did you--”

“Stand by a minute! The lookout reports survivors!”

Wells turned to meet Bowman’s inquisitive face. He quickly repeated the gist of Knapp’s weird story. “We saw them at dusk, last evening--remember? And now they’re gone, destroyed. What can have done it?”

For some minutes the two surprised men speculated on the strange occurrence. Then Knapp’s voice again rang in the headphones.

“Wells? My God, man, this is getting downright fantastic! We’ve just taken two survivors on board; one’s barely alive and the other crazy. I can’t get an intelligible thing from him; he keeps shrieking about writhing arms and awful eyes--and monsters he calls ‘machine-fish’!”

“You’re sure he’s insane?”

Robert Knapp’s voice hesitated queerly.

“Well, he’s shrieking about ‘machine-fish’--fish with machines over them! ... I--I’m going to broadcast the whole story to the land stations. ‘Machine-fish’! I don’t know ... I don’t know ... You’d better hurry back, Wells!”

He rang off.

Keith slipped off the headphones and told Bowman what he had learned. Hardy, staunchly built craft, those fishing boats were; born in the teeth of gales. What horror could have ripped them--all of them--to driftwood, with the weather perfect? And a half-mad survivor, raving about “machine-fish”!

“Such things are preposterous,” Bowman commented scornfully.

“But--the fleet’s gone, Hemmy,” Keith replied. “Anyway, we’ll speed back, and see what it’s all about.”

He punched swift commands on the control studs. “Empty Tanks, Zoom to Surface, Full Speed,” the crimson words glared down below, and the NX-1 at once shoved her snout up, trembling as her great electric motors began their pulsing whine. The delicate fingers of the massed dials before Keith danced exultantly. The depth-levels tolled out:

“Seven thousand ... six thousand ... five thousand--”

“Keith! Look there!”

Hemmy Bowman was pointing with amazement at the location chart, a black mesh screen that showed the position of other submarines within a radius of two miles. In one corner, a spot of vivid red was shining.

“But it can’t be a submarine!” Wells objected. “Our reports would have mentioned it!”

The two officers stared at each other.

“‘Machine-fish!’” Bowman whispered softly. “If there were machines, the metal would register on the chart.”

“It must be them!” the commander roared, coming out of his daze. “And, by God, we’re going after them!”

Rapidly he brought the NX-1 out of her zoom to the surface, and left her at four thousand feet, in perfect trim, while he read the instruments closely.

A green spot in the center of the location chart denoted the NX-1’s exact position. A distance of perhaps forty inches separated it from the red light on the meshed screen--which represented, roughly, a mile and a half. Below the chart was a thick dial, over which a black hand, indicating the mysterious submersible’s approximate depth, was slowly moving.