While Trout sat on the edge of a bunk, Gamay went into the head and ran cold water over a towel. Trout placed the towel on his temple to keep the swelling down. Sandy and Gamay took turns going back to the sink to replenish the cold-water compress. Eventually, the swelling was reduced. With great care, Trout adjusted his bow tie, which was hanging half off his neck, and he combed his hair with his fingers.
'Better?' Gamay said.
Newly refreshed, Trout grinned and said, 'You always told me that I'd get a big head someday.'
Sandy laughed in spite of her fears. 'How can you two be so calm?' she said in wonder.
Trout's unflappability was less bravado than pragmatism and faith in his own abilities. As a member of NUMA's Special Operations Team, Trout was not unused to danger. His laid-back academic demeanor disguised an innate toughness passed down by his hardy New England forebears. His great-grandfather had been a surf man in the Lifesaving Service, where the motto was 'You have to go out, but you don't have to come back.' His fishermen grandfather and father had taught him seamanship and respect for the sea, and Trout had learned to rely on his own ingenuity.
With her slim athletic body and graceful movements, her luxuriant dark red hair and flashing smile, Gamay was sometimes mistaken for a fashion model or an actress. Few would have believed that she had been a tomboy growing up in Wisconsin. Although she had grown into a woman who possessed every desirable feminine trait possible, she was no hothouse flower. Rudi Gunn, the assistant director at NUMA, had recognized her intelligence when he suggested she be brought into the agency with her husband. Admiral Sandecker readily accepted Gunn's suggestion. Since then, Gamay had displayed her intelligence and cool resourcefulness on many missions with the Special Assignments Team.
'Calmness has nothing to do with it,' Gamay said. 'We're simply being practical. Like it or not, we're stuck here for the time being. Let's use deductive reasoning to figure out what happened.'
'Scientists are not supposed to draw any conclusions until we're ready to support them with facts,' Sandy said. 'We don't have all the facts.'
'You learned the scientific method well,' Trout said. 'As Ben Jonson said, there's nothing like the prospect of a hanging to focus a person's mind. Since we don't have all the facts, we can use scientific dead reckoning to get us where we want to go. Besides, we don't have anything else to do. First, we know for sure that we've been kidnapped and we're being held prisoner in a large submarine of curious design.'
'Could this be the vehicle that made those tracks through the Lost City?' Sandy said.
'We don't have the facts to support that theory,' Trout said. 'But it wouldn't be impossible to design a submersible that could crawl along on the sea floor. NUMA had something like that a few years ago.'
'Okay, then what's it doing here? Who are these people? And what do they want with us?'
'I have the feeling that those questions will soon be answered,' Gamay said.
'You're talking more like a swami than a scientist,' Sandy said. Gamay touched her finger to her lips and pointed at the door. The handle was turning. Then the door opened and a man stepped into the cabin. He was so tall he had to duck his head under the jamb. The newcomer was dressed in a jumpsuit like the others, except for its lime-green color. He closed the door quietly behind him and gazed at the captives.
'Please relax,' he said. 'I'm one of the good guys.' 'Let me guess,' Trout said. 'Your name is Captain Nemo and this is the Nautilus.'
The man blinked in surprise. He had expected the prisoners to be cowed.
'No, it's Angus MacLean he said with a soft Scottish burr. 'Dr. MacLean I'm a chemist. But you're right about this submarine. It's every bit as wonderful as Nemo's vessel.'
'And we're all characters in a Jules Verne novel?' Gamay said. MacLean replied with a heavy sigh. 'I wish it were that easy. I don't want to unduly alarm you,' he said with a quiet seriousness,
'but your lives may depend upon our conversation in the next few minutes. Please tell me your names and what your profession is. I plead with you to be truthful. There is no brig on this vessel.'
The Trouts understood the unspoken message. No brig meant no prisoners. Trout looked into MacLean kindly blue eyes and decided to trust him.
'My name is Paul Trout. This is my wife, Gamay. We're both with NUMA. This is Sandy Jackson, the pilot of the Alvin.'
'What's your scientific background?'
'I'm an ocean geologist. Gamay and Sandy are both marine biologists.'
MacLean serious face dissolved into a smile of relief. 'Thank God,' he murmured. 'There's hope.'
'Perhaps you'll answer a question for me,' Trout said. 'Why did you kidnap us and hijack the Alvin?'
MacLean replied with a rueful chuckle. 'I had nothing to do with it. I'm as much a prisoner on this vessel as you are.'
'I don't understand,' Sandy said.
'I can't explain now. All I can say is that we are fortunate that they can use your professional expertise. Like me, they will keep you alive only as long as they need you.'
'Who are they?' Trout asked.
MacLean ran his long gray fingers through his graying hair. 'It would be dangerous for you to know.'
'Whoever you are,' Gamay said, 'please tell the people who kidnapped us and took our submersible that our support ship will have people looking for us the second we're missed.'
'They told me that won't be a problem. I've no reason to disbelieve them.'
'What did they mean?' Trout said.
'I don't know. But I do know that these people are ruthless in the pursuit of their goals.'
'What are their goals?' Gamay said.
The blue eyes seemed to deepen. 'There are some questions it is not wise for you to ask or for me to answer.' He rose from his chair and said, 'I must report the results of my interrogation.' He pointed at the light fixture and touched his fingers to his lips in a clear warning of a hidden microphone. 'I'll return shortly with food and drink. I suggest you get some rest.'
'Do you trust him?' Sandy said after MacLean left them alone once more.
'His story seems crazy enough to be true,' Gamay said. 'Do you have any suggestions on what we should do?' Sandy said, looking from face to face.
Trout lay back in a bunk and attempted to stretch out, although his long legs hung off the edge of the mattress. He pointed to the light fixture and said, 'Unless someone wants this bunk, I'm going to do as MacLean suggested and get some rest.'
MacLean returned about half an hour later with cheese sandwiches, a thermos of hot coffee and three mugs. More important, he was smiling.
'Congratulations,' he said, handing around the sandwiches. 'You are now officially employed in our project.'
Gamay unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. 'What exactly if this project?'
'I can't tell you everything. Suffice it to say that you are part of a research team. You will each be working on a need-to-know basis. I've been allowed to give you a tour as a way of acclimating you to the task ahead. I'll explain on the way. Our babysitter is waiting for us.'
He rapped on the door, which was opened by a grim-faced guard who stood aside to let MacLean and the others out. With the guard trailing behind, MacLean led the way along a network of corridors until they came to a large room whose walls were covered with television monitors and glowing arrays of electronic instrument panels.
The guard took up a position where he could keep a close eye on them, but otherwise didn't interfere.
'This is the control room,' MacLean said.
Trout glanced around. 'Where's the crew?'
'This vessel is almost entirely automated. There is only a small crew, a contingent of guards and the divers, of course.'
'I saw the moon suits in the room near the air lock.'
'You're very observant,' MacLean said with a nod of his head. 'Now if you look at that screen, you'll see the divers at work.'
A wall screen showed a picture of a column typical of the Lost City. As they watched, there was movement at the bottom of the screen. A diver clad in a bulbous moon suit was rising up the side of the column, propelled by
