Eventually the bottom came into view in the range of my own lights.

It wasn’t luminous this time. I thought at first that they must have turned their lights off; then I realized that the storm must have carried me some distance, and there was no reason to expect to be very near the tent. This was ordinary sea bottom complete with crab burrows; I could tell, because after reaching it the sub reeled in most of the tow line and left me only about twenty feet up. This gave me a good look at the boat itself, too, and I could see that it wasn’t my former antagonist. For one thing, it was about twice as big.

It wasn’t very different in general design, though. There was still plenty of equipment on the outside — more, if anything. It was meant for work, not travel. Even without the drag of my tank it wouldn’t have made very good speed over the bottom, but I could see that we were moving. I had no doubt we were heading either for the entrance I’d seen earlier or for some other one and kept looking ahead for its lights.

As it turned out, we reached a different one. We were a couple of hours getting there, though that’s an academic point since I didn’t know where we’d started from anyway. This pit was smaller than the other, and the lighted tent roof was nowhere in sight when we reached it.

This entrance was only about twenty-five feet across, much too small for the sub that was towing me and borderline for the other two. It was perfectly cylindrical, with vertical sides, and opened from the bottom of a shallow bowl just as the other had. It was very well lighted, so I had no trouble making out details.

There were many ladders around the rim. At first they led down out of sight, but as I came closer I found I could see the bottom ends of those on the farther side of the opening. The pit was apparently a hole in the roof of a chamber something like forty feet deep.

There were several more swimmers in and above the hole who seemed to be waiting for us. As we approached, they paddled out rather casually and gathered around the tank as the sub that was towing me settled to the bottom just beside the entrance.

My tank drifted upward and slightly forward until the tow rope was vertical. One of the swimmers waved a signal, and an escort sub swung back in and hung another slug of ballast onto my net. That took the rest of the tension off the rope, and I began to sink.

The swimmer signaled again, and the tow line came free of the big sub. Several men grabbed it; the rest took hold of the net, and they all began to work me toward the pit as I settled. This seemed to be the last lap. Unless they had the stupidity to leave me right under their hole in the roof, which would be too much to expect even in twentieth-century realistic literature, the most remote chance of my getting back without their consent and assistance would vanish once I was inside that entryway.

I was nearly frantic. Don’t ask me why I felt so scared at one time and so calm and steady at another; I can’t tell you. It’s just the way I am, and if you don’t like it you don’t have to live with it, at least.

I don’t know what I did or thought in those few minutes, and I’d probably not want to tell anyone if I did remember. The fact was that there was nothing whatever I could do. I had all the power of a goldfish in his bowl, and that sometimes upsets a man — who, after all, is used to having at least a little control over his environment.

I was a little more calm as I reached the edge of the pit; I don’t know the reason for that, either, but at least I can report the incident. There was a pause as we reached the tops of the ladders, and the subs and swimmers both clustered around and began hanging more ballast onto my net, adding insult to injury. The swimmers also picked up what looked like tool belts from hooks near the ladder tops and buckled them around their waists, though I couldn’t see why they should have more need of these inside than out. At least, I couldn’t see any reason at first; then it occurred to me that tools might be useful in opening up my tank. I decided not to think of that just yet.

From inside, the pit looked even more like a hole in a ceiling. The chamber below was much larger than I had realized, fully a hundred feet on each side. The entrance was simply a black circle above me, and as I watched it ceased to be above me. The swimmers were pushing me toward one of the walls.

I thought for a moment that rolling across the ceiling would at least be easier than the same action on the sea bottom, but dismissed the point as irrelevant and academic. My morale was rising, but was still pretty low.

At least, I was still alive, and in a way I’d done some of my job. I’d dropped-the transponder near one entrance, and there seemed a decent chance that it hadn’t been found. My pick-me-up broadcast had been going for several hours at the surface, and the chance that it had been received was excellent. The Board would know I’d done something, and would certainly be moved to check up on what had become

of me. If they swept the bottom with high-resolution sonar they could hardly miss the smooth surface of the tent, even if the transponders didn’t work. In fact, considering how big the tent seemed to be, it was rather surprising that ordinary depth-meter records hadn’t picked it up some time or other.

I should have given more thought to that point, though it would have sent my morale downhill again. As it was, I could believe that this installation would be found fairly soon, even if I myself wasn’t.

The big room had little detail to mention. I assumed at first that it would turn out to be a pressure lock or the vestibule to one, but the big tunnel opening from it had no door. There were smaller panels on the walls which might have been locks — some of them were big enough to admit a human figure.

The swimmers towed me toward the tunnel mouth and into it. It was fully twenty feet in diameter, much more than large enough for the tank, and was lighted almost as well as the chamber we had just left. I found myself getting angry again at this bunch who were being so free with their energy. I was also beginning to wonder where they got so much of it. I’d run into power-bootleggers before in the course of business, naturally, but never an outfit with so much of it to throw around.

We went only a few yards — twenty or so — down the tunnel before coming to another large room which opened from it. They towed me into this. It had several much smaller tunnels — maybe I should say shafts — opening from its floor; I counted eight in my first glance. None of these openings had lids or doors either. Apparently a large part of the installation was flooded and under outside pressure. Maybe it was a mine; that would account for the energy, if the product were uranium or thorium, and it would not be practical to try to keep all the windings and tunnels of a submarine mine free of water.

I had just about time to run that thought through my mind while the swimmers were putting me and my tank down on the floor. It started to roll a little, and I put out three legs to prop it. Luckily all three got through the meshes of the net which was still around me without being jammed.

With that settled, I looked at the bunch of people around me to see what they’d do next. It was clearly up to them.

I’m used to it now, but I still don’t like the memory of what they did and what it did to me.

They took off their helmets. A mile under the sea, in pressure that would crush sponges, metal into foil, they took off their helmets.