The Deep Range - Arthur C. Clarke [37]
After that, the rest was straightforward. Jones cut out the torp’s motor, and when the two vessels had come to a halt Smith went to help him. They unstrapped the pilot and carried him back to the sub; his face mask was unflooded, so there was still hope for him. It was not easy to manhandle his helpless body into the tiny air lock, and Smith had to stay outside, feeling horribly lonely, while his partner went ahead.
And thus it was that, thirty minutes later, Walter Franklin woke in a surprising but not totally unfamiliar environment. He was lying in a bunk aboard a small cruiser-class sub, and five men were standing around him. Oddest of all, four of the men had handkerchiefs tied over their faces so that he could only see their eyes…
He looked at the fifth man—at his scarred and grizzled countenance and his rakish goatee. The dirty nautical cap was really quite superfluous; no one would have doubted that this was the skipper.
A raging headache made it hard for Franklin to think straight. He had to make several attempts before he could get out the words: “Where am I?”
“Never you mind, mate,” replied the bearded character. “What we want to know is what the hell were you doing at a hundred fathoms with a standard compressed-air set. Crikey, he’s fainted again!”
The second time Franklin revived, he felt a good deal better, and sufficiently interested in life to want to know what was going on around him. He supposed he should be grateful to these people, whoever they were, but at the moment he felt neither relief nor disappointment at having been rescued.
“What’s all this for?” he said, pointing to the conspiratorial handkerchiefs. The skipper, who was now sitting at the controls, turned his head and answered laconically: “Haven’t you worked out where you are yet?”
“No.”
“Mean ter say you don’t know who I am?”
“Sorry—I don’t.”
There was a grunt that might have signified disbelief or disappointment.
“Guess you must be one of the new boys. I’m Bert Darryl, and you’re on board the Sea Lion. Those two gentlemen behind you risked their necks getting you in.”
Franklin turned in the direction indicated, and looked at the blank triangles of linen.
“Thanks,” he said, and then stopped, unable to think of any further comment. Now he knew where he was, and could guess what had happened.
So this was the famous—or notorious, depending on the point of view—Captain Darryl, whose advertisements you saw in all the sporting and marine journals. Captain Darryl, the organizer of thrilling underwater safaris; the intrepid and skillful hunter—and the equally intrepid and skillful poacher, whose immunity from prosecution had long been a source of cynical comment among the wardens. Captain Darryl—one of the few genuine adventurers of this regimented age, according to some. Captain Darryl, the big phony, according to others.…
Franklin now understood why the rest of the crew was masked. This was one of the captain’s less legitimate enterprises, and Franklin had heard that on these occasions his customers were often from the very highest ranks of society. No one else could afford to pay his fees; it must cost a lot to run the Sea Lion, even though Captain Darryl was reputed never to pay cash for anything and to owe money at every port between Sydney and Darwin.
Franklin glanced at the anonymous figures around him, wondering who they might be and whether he knew any of them. Only a halfhearted effort had been made to hide the powerful big-game guns piled on the other bunk. Just where was the captain taking his customers, and what were they after? In the circumstances, he had better keep his eyes shut and learn as little as possible.
Captain Darryl had already come to the same conclusion.
“You realize, mate,” he said over his shoulder as he carefully blocked Franklin’s view of the course settings, “that your presence aboard is just a little bit embarrassing. Still, we couldn’t let you drown, even