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He leaned across the tiny control board and spoke into the mike. But there was no reason why they should fail, and the accidents one foresaw, Don told himself reassuringly, were never those that happened. If any one of these failed, he would be sinking in a steel coffin down toward the pelagic ooze, as Johnnie Tyndall had done the season before last. Air - fuel - power - this was the triumvirate that ruled his life. As long as that pattern was unchanged, as long as none of those emerald stars winked to red, all was well with Don and his tiny craft. The pattern of green lights on the telltale board was a glowing symbol of security. If that was so, Don and all his fellow wardens were in for a busy time. The obvious assumption was that, somehow, a pack of killer whales had managed to penetrate the barriers protecting the range. What could have happened? The brief message had given no details it had merely reported a freshly killed right whale lying on the surface about ten miles behind the main herd, which was still proceeding north in panic-stricken flight. Even as he watched the instruments on which his life depended, his mind was ranging far ahead. He was glad that the alert was in his area it was the first real excitement for months. And Don Burley, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, was hunched over the control board of Scoutsub 5 as it dropped down to the twenty-fathom line.

Within seconds, the intricate warning system had been alerted from San Francisco to Brisbane, men were moving counters and drawing range circles on the charts. The South Pacific air patrol had seen the great corpse staining the sea crimson as it wallowed in the waves.

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