Verne, still in something like a state of shock, caught him by the arm. “What are you doing?” he said.
“Taking off my wet clothes, what does it look like I’m doing?” Finn said.
“But, my good man, have you forgotten? There is a woman present..” His voice trailed off as he saw that Andre had stripped down to the buff and was stepping into one of the jumpsuits. He gaped at her, then quickly turned his head. “Mon Dieu!”
The diving Klaxon sounded and Verne jerked as if stung. “What on earth was that?” he said, alarmed.
“Unless I miss my guess,” said Lucas, “it is the signal the submarine is about to dive.”
The submarine tilted as it began its descent and both Verne and Land, not knowing what to expect, were thrown off-balance. Lucas sat down at the table and caught the tray with the coffee cups. It had started to slide.
“I suggest we all drink some of this coffee,” he said. “You, especially, Jules. You’re shivering like an epileptic.”
“I cannot cease marveling at this!” said Verne, sitting down at the table. “The water outside is freezing, yet it is as warm in here as on a summer’s day. What a superb accomplishment this vessel is! I must know more about it. What is its power source? How is the air stored for us to breathe? How-”
“I’d leave all those questions for later if I were you, and get out of those wet clothes,” said Finn. “Andre, turn your head so Jules doesn’t die of embarrassment.”
“What I can’t figure is how this submarine boat managed to sink our ship,” said Land. “It ain’t likely that it rammed us, because of the explosion. But how could they have fired when they were under the water?”
“It’s called a torpedo, Ned,” said Lucas.
“What, you mean a mine?” said Land.
“No, this is a different sort of device,” said Lucas. “It’s fired from a tube within this boat while-”
“Yes, of course!” said Verne, interrupting him, carried away by his own enthusiasm. “The self-propelled torpedo! Built by the Englishman, Robert Whitehead. I have read of it. Whitehead worked from a design by the Austrian naval officer, Giovanni Luppis. But the Whitehead-Luppis torpedo is still only an experimental stage device. It is 14 feet long and 14 inches in diameter, as I recall, weighing some 300 pounds and carrying 18 pounds of dynamite in its nose. It is powered by a compressed-air engine which turns a small propeller and impels it at a speed of 6 knots for a maximum range of 700 yards.”
“By Heaven, does this man know everything?” said Land.
“Admittedly, I do have a certain eclectic expertise in various fields,” said Verne, “but I am a mere dabbler in such matters, a dilettante. The fact is, my friends, I have recently been giving a great deal of consideration to writing a novel, one of my voyages extraordinaires, about a submarine vessel much like this one. I have been doing a considerable amount of research to that end, but never did I dream I would actually find myself aboard such a craft! To think of the book I shall he able to write after this experience!”
“Assuming we survive it,” Andre said. “And assuming you don’t catch pneumonia from standing around with your pants down around your legs.”
“Sacre bleu!” Verne flushed a deep crimson and quickly pulled his soaking trousers back up. Finn laughed and tossed him one of the jumpsuits.
“Try one of these,” he said.
“I promise not to look,” said Andre, turning around.
Verne quickly removed his wet clothing and slipped into the jumpsuit.
“So that’s what happened to the Scotia,”. Land said. “She was sunk by one of them torpedo devices.” He shook his head. “What ship would stand a chance ‘gainst a vessel with such weapons?”
“I’m afraid this submarine is equipped with weapons far more deadly,” Lucas said. “We were very fortunate. The Abraham Lincoln might just as easily have been obliterated without a trace in less than an instant.”
Land frowned. “How is it that you know these things, Professor?”
“Because he is not a professor, Mr. Land,” said a deep voice from behind them. The door had opened silently without their noticing it. In the doorway, flanked by two men with drawn automatic pistols, stood a tall, heavily muscled man with raven-black hair lightly streaked with white and unusually bright, emerald-green eyes. His face would have possessed a classic, almost Byronic beauty were it not for the knife scar which ran from beneath his left eye in a straight line across his cheekbone to just above the corner of his mouth. His features were Slavic; a high forehead, blade-straight nose and a prominent jawline with a square chin. His posture was elegant; ramrod straight, yet somehow languid. He was dressed in a tailored naval uniform of dark blue cotton with gold captain’s bands upon the sleeves of his coat and shoulderboards. The insignia was incongruously British. The coat had double rows of heavy brass buttons and, in a quite unmilitary touch, he had a deep-purple silk handkerchief neatly folded in the left-hand breast pocket. The handkerchief matched the purple ascot tie held down with a diamond stickpin. That pin was his sole adornment with the exception of a large ruby worn on the left hand.
Andre caught her breath. “Drakov!”
“It’s so nice to be remembered, Miss Cross,” he said with a smile. “And Mr. Delaney and Mr. Priest, as well. Quite a reunion. I had an intuition we might meet again. Tell me, is my father well?”
“He’s better than he would be if he knew you were behind this,” said Finn.
“Would one of you mind explaining what the devil this is all about?” said Land.
“Certainly,” said Drakov. “If someone would be so kind as to introduce us, sir, I would be happy to oblige.”