[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding StoriesFebruary 1932. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that theU.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sleepily the lookout stared at the scope-screen before him, wishing forsomething that would break the monotony of the scene it pictured: theschools of ghostly fish fleeting by, the occasional shafts of palesunlight filtering down through breaks in the ice-floes above, the longsnaky ropes of underwater growth. None of this was conducive towakefulness; nor did the half-speed drone of the electric engines aftand the snores of some distant sleeper help him. The four other men onduty in the submarine—the helmsman; the second mate, whose watch itwas; the quartermaster and the second engineer—might not have beenpresent, so motionless and silent were they.
The lookout man stifled another yawn and glanced at a clock to see howmuch more time remained of his trick. Then suddenly something on thescreen brought him to alert attention. He blinked at it; staredhard—and thrilled.
Far ahead, caught for an instant by the submarine Narwhal'slight-beams, a number of sleek bodies moved through the foggy murk, witha flash of white bellies and an easy graceful thrust of flukes.
The watcher's hands cupped his mouth; he turned and sang out:
"K-i-i-ll-ers! I see killers!"
The cry rang in every corner, and immediately there was a feverishresponse. Rubbing their eyes, men appeared as if from nowhere and jumpedto posts; with a clang, the telegraph under the second mate's hand wentover to full speed; Captain Streight rolled heavily out of his bunk,flipped his feet mechanically into sea-boots and came stamping forward.First Torpooner Kenneth Torrance, as he sat up and stretched, heard theusual crisp question:
"Where away?"
"Five points off sta'b'd bow, sir; quarter-mile away; swimming slow."
"How large a school?"
"Couldn't say, sir. Looks around a dozen."
"Whew!" whistled Ken Torrance. "That's a strike!" He pulled on a sweaterand strode forward to the scope-screen to see for himself, even asCaptain Streight, all at once testy with eagerness, bawled:
"Sta'b'd five! Torpoon ready, Mister Torrance! Mister Torr—oh, here youare. Take a look."
Never in the two years of experience which had brought him to theimportant post of first torpooner had Ken failed to thrill at the sightwhich now met his eyes. Directly ahead, now that the Narwhal's bow wasturned in pursuit, but veering slowly to port, swam a pack of the twentyto thirty-foot dolphins which are called "killer whales," their bodiesso close-pressed that they seemed to be an undulating wave of black,occasionally sliced with white as the fluke-thrusts brought theirbellies into view. Their speed through the shadowed, gloomy water wasequal to the submarine's; when alarmed, it would almost double.
"Three more of 'em will fill our tanks," grunted Streight, his chunkyface almost glowing. He bit on a plug of tobacco, his eyes never movingfrom the screen. "Now, if only we hadn't lost Beddoes.... Y' think youcan bag three, Mister Torrance?"
"Well, if three'll fill our tanks—sure!" grinned Ken.
The other's eyebrows twitched suddenly. "They're speeding up!" heshouted, and then: "That torpoon ready, there? Good." His voice loweredagain as Ken pulled his belt a notch tighter and snatched a last glimpseof the fish before leaving. "I want you to try for three, son," he saidsoberly: "but—be careful. Don't take fool chances, and keep alert.Remember Beddoes."
Ken nodded and walked