“We’re getting close. It didn’t seem fair to spring this on you by surprise when you see what Clementine has. But I’m gonna tell you—what we’re doing out here isn’t just important for the United States. It’s important for the whole human race. And you’re part of it. It’ll be something to tell your grandchildren about, that you were here for this.” He chuckled wryly. “If you ever get cleared to talk about it at all, I mean.”

He sat down again. Several people called questions. He ignored them. The messroom buzzed. “Hey, Mr. Steinberg, what’s goin’ on?” the sailor named Tony asked from the next table over.

“We’ll all find out pretty soon,” Jerry said. Or we’ll get fried like bacon, or the ship’ll break in half even if we don’t. Not mentioning any of that seemed a good plan.

VI

Jerry wanted to watch the guys who’d spent so much time and hard work on the simulator doing their things with the genuine, gigantic Clementine. He saw that none of the other people who knew Midlothian nested inside Azorian made a beeline for the Control container, though, so he also stayed away. He knew he wouldn’t have wanted kibitzers while he was doing something hard and important, either.

It turned out not to matter for the next couple of days. One glitch after another kept the claw from descending to the bottom and scooping the spaceship. And some of the replacement sensors on Clementine didn’t want to work. The engineers talked among themselves and no doubt talked to themselves, too. They couldn’t figure out what was going wrong.

Steve and Jerry found themselves with a mystery of their own. Steve said, “I hear the TV cameras down there are showing a hammer on the seafloor next to the Midlothian object. Do you remember seeing one there, Jerry?”

“I don’t think so,” Jerry answered. “It would have stood out, wouldn’t it?”

“Just a little. But I don’t remember it, either. If it wasn’t there before and it is now, how did it get there?”

“Maybe the Russians brought it over from the K-129. Maybe that’s what the dead guy who’s nothing but a skeleton in boots was doing outside the sub,” Jerry suggested.

Stephen Dole sent him a severe look. “I thought you wrote science fiction, not the kind of stuff that’s supposed to make your hair stand up on the back of your neck.”

“Well, I haven’t tried horror yet. There’s not much of a market for it,” Jerry replied. “But who knows? There wasn’t a great big market for fantasy till The Lord of the Rings made one. Now it probably sells better than sf does. Maybe somebody will come along and be, like, a Tolkien for horror.”