Admiral.
“It’s a signal,” shrugged Morton.
The music clanked to a close, and a hoarse, static-drenched voice said tiredly, as if repeating a phrase repeated already so often it had become meaningless, “Calling the U.S.O.S. Seaview. This is the Bureau of Marine Exploration, calling Admiral Nelson Come in, Seaview.”
“That’s more like it. Transmit, Sparks. Which mike is hot here? Eh? This one? Good.” Into the mike he said, a little slowly, and enunciating with care, “Admiral Nelson here, aboard U.S.O.S. Seaview .” He read the coordinates of their position, and the identity of the satellite on which they were beamed. “We don’t read you too well. Please tighten your beam if you can, and increase power. We would like to contact Inspector Bergen if he is available.” He glanced at the big screen, either to observe the rescue or to permit himself to believe that that incredible sky still roofed them. Then, “ Seaview , standing by.”
What came over the air then was devoid of officialese, crackling with weary intensity, and carrying an undercurrent of hysteria. It was Bergen himself, special officer in charge of the entire Seaview operation, whose cracked tones came out of the speaker: “Nelson! Thank God. Thank God! Have you seen it?”
The Admiral’s eyebrows came up, but without hesitation he answered, abandoning all the identifications, stand-bys, and other rituals of radio. “You mean the sky. What is it?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that,” said Bergen desperately. “I was hoping you’d have an answer . . . sorry, Admiral, but we’ve been depending on you so much . . .” (A ghost of Bergen’s usual humor crept into his voice, got cold, and fled again as he said) “The penalty of your reputation, Admiral. The whole world’s been hunting for real operating geniuses, and I guess you were the only one we know of we haven’t been able to reach. I guess a lot of people felt you could wave your hand and put that fire out . . . or at least tell us what it is.” He paused, but they could hear the hum of his carrier and could sense his conscious, forcible effort to pull himself together. “All right, Admiral, here are the facts. About fifty hours ago it just—happened. That band of fire, or whatever it is, appeared in the sky. As far as we can find out, it appeared first over the Pacific about 4 A.M. as a glowing yellow-and-red patch. Inside of fifteen minutes it acquired those flame-like streamers and began to stretch out east and west, oh, like a forest-fire in a hurricane wind. And north and south, slower . . . anyway, just over seven hours later the two growing ends of the fire joined together on the other side of the world. The band lies roughly over the equator, though it tends a little south over west Africa and a little north over south-east Asia, around the Cambodian peninsula. Then it began to grow wider, until it averaged about four degrees in width. It stopped widening about twenty-eight hours ago, thank God; for a while we thought it would englobe the planet . . . Are you reading me?”
“Much better now,” said the Admiral, and indeed it was; the boys at the Naval Observatory must have been knocking themselves out over the transmitters. “What’s the altitude of this—ah—phenomenon?”
“Near as we can check it, an average of three hundred miles. The margins shift all the time; some of those flames lick down to two-twenty or closer, and you’ll find about the same variation outwards. It’s all of a hundred and fifty miles thick.”
Nelson pursed his lips. A band of fire nearly 28,000 miles long, a thousand wide, and a hundred and fifty thick, was something to think about slowly, take in small bites. He said, “Any idea what started it?”
“Just theories. There was a certain amount of meteoric activity just then, but we haven’t been able to check on it. I mean, by the time we got to that stage, communications were so garbaged up that it got useless to try.
“It’s a signal,” shrugged Morton.
The music clanked to a close, and a hoarse, static-drenched voice said tiredly, as if repeating a phrase repeated already so often it had become meaningless, “Calling the U.S.O.S. Seaview. This is the Bureau of Marine Exploration, calling Admiral Nelson Come in, Seaview.”
“That’s more like it. Transmit, Sparks. Which mike is hot here? Eh? This one? Good.” Into the mike he said, a little slowly, and enunciating with care, “Admiral Nelson here, aboard U.S.O.S. Seaview .” He read the coordinates of their position, and the identity of the satellite on which they were beamed. “We don’t read you too well. Please tighten your beam if you can, and increase power. We would like to contact Inspector Bergen if he is available.” He glanced at the big screen, either to observe the rescue or to permit himself to believe that that incredible sky still roofed them. Then, “ Seaview , standing by.”
What came over the air then was devoid of officialese, crackling with weary intensity, and carrying an undercurrent of hysteria. It was Bergen himself, special officer in charge of the entire Seaview operation, whose cracked tones came out of the speaker: “Nelson! Thank God. Thank God! Have you seen it?”
The Admiral’s eyebrows came up, but without hesitation he answered, abandoning all the identifications, stand-bys, and other rituals of radio. “You mean the sky. What is it?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that,” said Bergen desperately. “I was hoping you’d have an answer . . . sorry, Admiral, but we’ve been depending on you so much . . .” (A ghost of Bergen’s usual humor crept into his voice, got cold, and fled again as he said) “The penalty of your reputation, Admiral. The whole world’s been hunting for real operating geniuses, and I guess you were the only one we know of we haven’t been able to reach. I guess a lot of people felt you could wave your hand and put that fire out . . . or at least tell us what it is.” He paused, but they could hear the hum of his carrier and could sense his conscious, forcible effort to pull himself together. “All right, Admiral, here are the facts. About fifty hours ago it just—happened. That band of fire, or whatever it is, appeared in the sky. As far as we can find out, it appeared first over the Pacific about 4 A.M. as a glowing yellow-and-red patch. Inside of fifteen minutes it acquired those flame-like streamers and began to stretch out east and west, oh, like a forest-fire in a hurricane wind. And north and south, slower . . . anyway, just over seven hours later the two growing ends of the fire joined together on the other side of the world. The band lies roughly over the equator, though it tends a little south over west Africa and a little north over south-east Asia, around the Cambodian peninsula. Then it began to grow wider, until it averaged about four degrees in width. It stopped widening about twenty-eight hours ago, thank God; for a while we thought it would englobe the planet . . . Are you reading me?”
“Much better now,” said the Admiral, and indeed it was; the boys at the Naval Observatory must have been knocking themselves out over the transmitters. “What’s the altitude of this—ah—phenomenon?”
“Near as we can check it, an average of three hundred miles. The margins shift all the time; some of those flames lick down to two-twenty or closer, and you’ll find about the same variation outwards. It’s all of a hundred and fifty miles thick.”
Nelson pursed his lips. A band of fire nearly 28,000 miles long, a thousand wide, and a hundred and fifty thick, was something to think about slowly, take in small bites. He said, “Any idea what started it?”
“Just theories. There was a certain amount of meteoric activity just then, but we haven’t been able to check on it. I mean, by the time we got to that stage, communications were so garbaged up that it got useless to try.
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