Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“They’re getting stranger all the time,” Zavala said, pointing at himself. “The locals swimming around out there must think that you and I are pretty unsavory-looking additions to their neighborhood.”

Kane’s loud guffaw echoed off the bathysphere’s curving walls.

“My apologies to the listening audience out there, hope I didn’t blow out your speakers. But Joe is right: humans have no right being where we are at this moment. The pressure on the outside of this sphere is half a ton per square inch. We’d look like jellyfish ourselves if it weren’t for the steel shell protecting us . . . Hey, there’s some more lantern fish. Man, they’re beautiful. Look, there’s-Whoops!”

The bathysphere’s descent had been smooth and without deviation, but suddenly a strong vibration passed through the sphere as Kane was talking. The B3 first lifted up, then dropped, in slow motion. Wide-eyed, Kane glanced around, as if expecting the sea to come pouring in through the sphere’s shell.

Zavala called up to the support vessel. “Please stop yo-yoing the B3, Kurt.”

An unusually mounding sea had rolled under the ship, and the cable suddenly had gone limp. The operator of the crane noticed the change and goosed the winch motor.

“Sorry for the rough ride,” Austin said. “The ca

ble went slack in the cross swell, and we moved too fast when we tried to adjust.”

“Not surprising, with the length of cable you’re handling.”

“Now that you bring up the subject, you might want to check your depth finder.”

Zavala glanced at the display screen and tapped Kane on the shoulder. Kane turned away from the window and saw Zavala’s finger pointing at the gauge.

Three thousand thirty feet.

They had exceeded the original bathysphere’s historic dive by two feet.

Max Kane’s mouth dropped down practically to his Adam’s apple. “We’re here!” he announced, “more than half a mile down.”

“And almost out of cable,” Kurt Austin said. “The sea bottom is around fifty feet below you.”

Kane slapped Joe Zavala’s palm a high five. “I can’t believe it,” he said. His face was flushed with excitement. “I’d like to take this moment to thank the intrepid William Beebe and Otis Barton,” he continued, “for blazing the trail for all who have followed. What we have done today is a tribute to their courage . . . We’re going to be busy for a while shooting pictures of the sea bottom, so we’re signing off for a few minutes. We’ll get back to you when we’re riding to the surface.”

They cut television transmission, positioned themselves next to the portholes with still cameras, and shot dozens of pictures of the strange glowing creatures that the bathysphere’s lights had attracted. Eventually, Zavala checked their time on the bottom, and said the bathysphere would have time to head back up.

Kane grinned and pointed toward the surface. “Haul away.” Zavala called Austin on the radio and told him they were ready to make the ascent.

The B3 swayed slightly, vibrated, then jerked from side to side.

Zavala pulled himself back up to a sitting position. “Getting bounced around down here, Kurt. Sea picking up again?” he inquired.

“It’s like a mirror. Wind’s died down and the swells have flattened out.”

“Joe,” Kane shouted, “there it is again . . . the monster fish!” He jabbed his index finger at the window.

A shadow passed near the edge of the searchlight beam and turned toward the bathysphere.

As Zavala pressed his face against a porthole, every hair on his scalp stood up and saluted. He was looking into three glowing eyes, one of them over the other two.

He had little time to analyze his impressions. The sphere jerked again.

“We’re seeing cable oscillations near the surface,” Kurt’s voice came over the speaker. “What’s going on?”

There was another jerking movement.

“There’s something out there,” Zavala said.

“What are you talking about?” Austin asked.

Zavala wasn’t sure himself, so he simply said, “Haul us up.”