Free Cold is the Sea by Edward L. Beach Page B

Red Baker, several turns away from his own descent into the lower compartment, handed him a glass of cold water and another salt tablet. “Get earplugs!” Rich gasped to Dusty and to the man next scheduled to go below. Then, in greater detail, he began to describe to both what he had seen and done. The man, who by prearrangement had been watching through the periscopes, appeared to understand. But Richardson, who could feel himself talking, could hear nothing as he carefully mouthed the words.
    Dusty Rhodes was swearing, the dead telephone handset still gripped tightly in his hand. “Damn him!” he spit out. “He’s the most inhuman human being I know! Here we’ve made an emergency repair to keep his reactor running, with his approval, mind you, and you know what old man Brighting just said to me?” He slammed the phone into its cradle. “He said we should have properly inspected that line before starting up this series of tests. Three weeks ago! How in the hell am I supposed to have done that? Maybe he’s a superman, but we’re not! We’re just ordinary naval officers trying to do a job right. He’s responsible for faulty construction, not me!” Rhodes’ voice trailed off. His trembling fist slowly unclenched.
    Richardson grinned. “Did you tell him my ears are a lot better now, thank you?” he said. “The old man must have been a little tensed up himself.”
    Rhodes slowly smiled back. “Maybe you’re right, Rich. Anyway, it does me good to yell back at him sometimes. After he hangs up the phone, that is. But seriously, what more does he expect of us? We went over the whole plant four months ago, just before you came. Every weld was radiographed. So was every pipe more than an inch in diameter. Those are his standing instructions, and we did it very carefully. But that steam leak wasn’t at a weld, and the pipe is less than an inch in diameter. It was a faulty piece of half-inch pipe, and it finally just gave out. Could have happened anytime!”
    â€œI know,” nodded Richardson, “and you know how he’s always harped on manufacturer’s quality control. That crummy piece of pipe just plain rotted out. It should never have got through the vendor’s inspection. It might even be made of the wrong material. You’re going to send the piece we cut out back to Washington, aren’t you?”
    â€œIt’s gone already. He just now told me to send it, and I had the pleasure of telling him it’s already on the truck and gone. A little piece of pipe in a big lead box. That was before he began to chew me out.” Rhodes’ grin now matched Richardson’s. “I see what you mean. The old man was just warming up, I guess. I’d hate to be president of that pipe company, about now!”
    Privately, Richardson had been mentally preparing himself for the telephone call from Brighting, who, reputedly, had spies everywhere in his organization, and throughout the Navy as well. Inevitably, the wizened admiral would discover Richardson’s role in the emergency, and no matter how Rich’s participation was described, it would be interpreted as a violation of his instructions. There would be one of those sudden summons to the telephone, the even-toned voice demanding an explanation to which its owner would not listen, the receiver crashing down, some sort of retribution exacted. Rich found himself thinking through the short speech he would be permitted. The admiral might not listen, but he could not avoid hearing. Perhaps a telling point could be forced into his consciousness.
    But nothing happened for three days. Daily routine went backto normal. The emergency was relegated to its place in the machinery history book, reflected only in the procedure changes necessitated by the cut in the demineralizer bypass line. When the call came, Rich could feel his nervous system gearing up for the quick