To Prime the Pump - A. Bertram Chandler [28]
"Ha, ha," echoed Grimes.
"No need to take your suit off for the shot, sir. I'll just pump it in where the fabric's already been torn away." He went to the first aid box and produced a syrette. "Now, sir, just stretch a little . . . Fine. Didn't feel a thing, sir, did you?"
"No," admitted Grimes.
"Then if you're all right, sir, I'll get aft and start the compressor." He reached across the Lieutenant and picked up the microphone. "Jones here, Chiefie. I've seen to Mr. Grimes; he's all right. O. K. to start pumping the air into her?"
"O. K.," came Anderson's voice. "She's all sealed and I think she'll hold. But stand by to stop the compressor at once if I give the world."
"Will do, Chiefie."
Jones left the seat by Grimes' side, made his way toward the stern. After a second or so came the steady throb of the machine; Grimes, looking overside, saw one of the heavy plastic hoses jerking rhythmically, as though alive. It reminded him unpleasantly of a rock ogre's trunk.
"She's holding," announced the Chief Petty Officer. Then, "Mr. Grimes, can I have a word with you, sir?"
"Yes, Chief?" replied Grimes into the microphone.
"She's holding all right. And, as you said, those holes aft are just made to order for blowing the water out of . . . I think she's starting to lift . . . Yes. May I suggest, sir, that you and Jones take in the hose as she comes up, in case she topples . . . Oh, yes, and tell Jones to stop the air pump. Now."
The compressor stopped. Grimes joined the rating where the hoses ran overside, helped him to bring the one that had been used inboard. It was heavy work, and soon both men were sweating uncomfortably under their skintight suits. Then Jones shouted, "There she blows!"
Yes, thought Grimes, she did look something like a whale as she broke surface, although she wasn't blowing. And then, around her, bobbed up the heads of Anderson and his men in their spherical helmets. The Lieutenant saw the petty officer's mouth moving; it seemed odd that his voice should be coming from the speaker in the boat. "Jones! Throw us a line, will you?"
Jones picked up a coil of light nylon cord, with a padded weight spliced to the end, heaved it expertly— and even more expertly Anderson raised a hand to catch it. What followed was a pleasure to watch, was seamanship rather than spacemanship. A heavier line was passed, made fast to a ringbolt that had been welded to the dynosoar's nose, the other end of it taken by Jones to the towing bitts that had been installed at the boat's stern. And then, one by one, the Chief Petty Officer last of all, the salvage crew clambered back on board, stripping off their helmets and flippers, hauling to the surface their tools and other equipment. The competent Anderson insisted on checking every item before he was satisfied. Not until then did he lower his big frame into the seat beside Grimes.
"If I were you, sir, I'd tow her in and beach her by the spaceport."
"I'll do just that, Chief."
"Feel up to handling the boat yourself, sir?"
"Of course. It was only a scratch I got, and a few bruises."
"Right you are, then, Mr. Grimes."
Grimes started up the inertial drive, lifted the boat about a foot clear of the water. He turned her, slowly and carefully, avoiding the imposition of any sudden strain on the towline. He headed for the spaceport beacon inshore from the beach. He realized that he was scanning the water for any sign of the Princess Marlene. But either she had left the lake and gone home—wherever home was—or was still disporting herself in its depths. But she could look after herself, he thought grimly. She could look after herself very well indeed, she and her murderous pilot fish.
He heard Anderson mutter something uncomplimentary and concentrated on his steering; the boat, with that sluggish