Free The Dragon in the Sea by Frank Herbert

it.
    Ramsey glanced at his wrist watch, noted the time. The telemeter record of Sparrow’s reactions: what will it show for this period? he asked himself.
    Garcia straightened from the lead box. “What’s the pile end like?” he asked.
    Sparrow nodded his head toward the tunnel mouth, a grotesque gesture in the bulky suit. “Just as he described it. Everything back as it should be. All except the communicator box. Smashed. Why?”

    â€œMaybe whoever did it anticipated the inspection,” said Garcia.
    â€œMaybe.”
    Ramsey’s hands moved over his portable control panel, compensating for a minor course deflection caused by an upward current. When they were back on true, he looked over the railing. Garcia and Sparrow were just sealing the Security officer’s body into the contamination bag.
    Sparrow said, “Les, when we get him out of here, flush this area out with the detergent hoses. Let me know what the radiation count is.”
    Ramsey punched the switch on his panel mike: “Skipper, that note could’ve been faked to throw us off. Did you think of that? It strikes me the man would’ve used his recorder.”
    Garcia said, “And taken the chance of having his message accidentally erased? No sir.” He dragged the sacked body under an engine-room hoist.
    Sparrow said, “Les, when you get this place cleaned, get into a suit and make another inspection of the end plate and manuals of that tunnel. I’m eight minutes from my limit.”
    Bonnett acknowledged.
    Garcia passed a snooper over the contamination bag. “Hot,” he said. “We’ll have to get him overboard within twelve hours. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be responsible for the filters clearing our air.” He racked the snooper, turned back, rigged a net under the bag.
    Meanwhile, Bonnett had gone down the starboard side of the engine room, donned an ABG suit from that side and moved to the detergent hoses at the tunnel mouth.
    Garcia took the slack out of the hoist line, turned toward
Sparrow. “Skipper, why don’t you get Les to help you here and let me crawl the tunnel? That’s my department.”
    The faceplate on Sparrow’s suit turned toward Bonnett, who hesitated beside the tunnel door. “Okay, Joe. Les, give me a hand here.”
    Bonnett stepped to Sparrow’s side.
    Garcia went to the tunnel door, turned back and looked up at Ramsey. The quartz viewplate gave him the appearance of a one-eyed monster. He turned back to the tunnel, bending down as he snaked his way inside. Presently, his voice came over the speaker to Ramsey: “You with me, Junior?”
    â€œI read you.”
    â€œMy suit snooper says it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistola where the shield curve ends here. I’m at the halfway mark. Here’s the tunnel communicator box. It’s a mess.” (Pause.) “I’m now at the manuals.” (Long pause.) “The mirrors show no visible evidence of sabotage on this face of the pile. All secure. I’m coming out.”
    In Ramsey’s mind a single thought: If Garcia’s really a sleeper, what’s he actually doing in there? Why was he so anxious to make that inspection?
    Ramsey wondered if he could think up an excuse to make a personal inspection of that tunnel.
    Probably not, he thought. Sparrow wouldn’t risk having three of his crewmen take a near-limit dosage. He’d have no reserve if something else made it necessary to crawl one of the tunnels.
    Ramsey resolved to make as thorough an inspection as possible using the internal scanners.
    Sparrow and Bonnett were hoisting the contamination
bag up to the discharge tubes below the retracted conning tower. Sparrow said, “Ramsey, take your board back against the aft bulkhead. That bag’s leaking some.”
    Ramsey complied, racking his board on the catwalk rail.
    Sparrow left the hoist to Bonnett, stepped into the decontamination chamber