You can smell fear. You can smell it and you can see it, and I could do both as I hauled my way into the control center of the «Dolphin» that morning. Not one man as much as flickered an eye in my direction as I passed by the sonar room. They had no eyes for me. They had no eyes for anybody: tense, strained, immobile, with hunted faces, they had eyes for one thing only — the plummeting needle on the depth gauge.

The needle was passing the six-hundred-feet mark. Six hundred feet. No conventional submarine I'd ever been on could have operated at this depth. Could have survived at this depth. Six hundred and fifty. I thought of the fantastic outside pressure that represented and I felt far from happy. Someone else was feeling far from happy also: the young seaman manning the inboard diving seat. His fists, were clenched till the knuckles showed, a muscle was jumping in his cheek, a nerve twitching in his neck, and he had the look of a man who sees the bony finger of death beckoning.

Seven hundred feet. Seven hundred and fifty. Eight hundred. I'd never heard of a submarine that had reached that depth and lived. Neither, apparently, had Commander Swanson.

"We have just set a new record, men," he said. His voice was calm and relaxed, and although he was far too intelligent a man not to be afraid, no trace of it showed in tone or manner. "Lowest recorded dive ever, as far as I am aware. Speed of descent?"

"No change."

"It will change soon. The torpedo room must be about full now — apart from the pocket of air compressed under high pressure." He gazed at the dial and tapped his teeth thoughtfully with a thumbnail — this, for Swanson, was probably the equivalent of going into hysterics. "Blow the diesel tanks: blow the fresh-water tanks." Imperturbable though he sounded, Swanson was close to desperation for this was the counsel of despair: thousands of miles from home and supplies, yet jettisoning all the diesel and drinking water, the lack of either of which could make all the difference between life and death. But, at that moment, it didn't matter; all that mattered was lightening the ship.

"Main ballast tank's empty," the diving officer reported. His voice was hoarse and strained.

Swanson nodded, said nothing. The volume of the sound of the compressed air had dropped at least seventy-five per cent and the sudden comparative silence was sinister, terrifying, as if it meant that the «Dolphin» was giving up the fight. Now we had only the slender reserves of the fresh water and diesel to save us; at the rate at which the Dolphin was still diving, I didn't see how it could.

Hansen was standing beside me. I noticed blood dripping from his left hand to the deck, and when I looked more closely, I could see that two of his fingers were broken. It must have happened in the torpedo room. At the moment, it didn't seem important. It certainly didn't seem important to Hansen. He was entirely oblivious of it.

The pressure gauge fell further and still further. I knew now that nothing could save the «Dolphin». A bell rang. Swanson swung down a microphone and pressed a button.

"Engine room speaking," a metallic voice came through. "We must slow down. Main bearings beginning to smoke. She'll seize up any minute."

"Maintain revolutions." Swanson swung back the microphone. The youngster at the diving console, the one with the jumping cheek muscles and the nervous twitch, started to mumble, "Oh, dear God, oh, dear God," over and over again, softly at first, then the voice climbing up the scale to hysteria. Swanson moved two paces and touched him on the shoulder. "Do you mind, laddie? I can hardly hear myself think." The mumbling stopped and the boy sat quite still, his face carved from gray granite, the nerve in his neck going like a trip hammer.

"How much more of this will she take?" I asked casually. At least, I meant it to sound casual, but it came out like the croak of an asthmatic bullfrog.

"I'm afraid we're moving into the realms of the unknown," Swanson admitted calmly. "One thousand feet plus. If that dial is right, we passed the theoretical implosion point — where the hull should have collapsed — fifty feet ago. At the present moment she's being subjected to well over a million tons of pressure." Swanson's repose, his glacial calm, was staggering, they must have scoured the whole of America to find a man like that. If ever there was the right man in the right place at the right time, it was Commander Swanson in the control room of a runaway submarine diving to depths hundreds of feet below what any submarine had ever experienced before.

"She's slowing," Hansen whispered.

"She's slowing." Swanson nodded.

She wasn't slowing half fast enough for me. It was impossible that the pressure hull could hold out any longer. I wondered vaguely what the end would be like, then put the thought from my mind, I would never know anything about it, anyway. At that depth the pressure must have been about twenty tons to the square foot; we'd be squashed as flat as flounders before our senses could even begin to record what was happening to us.

The engine-room call-up bell rang again. The voice this time was imploring, desperate. "We must ease up, Captain. Switch gear is turning red hot. We can see it glowing."

"Wait till it's white hot, then you can complain about it," Swanson said curtly. If the engines were going to break down, they were going to break down: but until they did, he'd tear the life out of them in an attempt to save the «Dolphin». Another bell rang.

"Control room?" The voice was harsh, high-pitched. "Crew's mess deck speaking. Water is beginning to come in." For the first time, every eye in the control room turned away from the depth gauge and fixed itself on that loudspeaker. The hull was giving at last under the fantastic pressure, the crushing weight. One little hole, one tiny, threadlike crack as a starting point, and the pressure hull would rip and tear and flatten like a toy under a steam hammer. A quick glance at the strained, shocked faces showed this same thought in every mind.

"Where?" Swanson demanded.

"Starboard bulkhead."

"How much?"

"A pint or two, just trickling down the bulkhead. And it's getting worse. It's getting worse all the time. For God's sake, Captain, what are we going to do?"

"What are you going to do?" Swanson echoed. "Mop the damn stuff up, of course. You don't want to live in a dirty ship, do you?" He hung up.

"She's stopped. She's stopped." Four words and a prayer. I'd been wrong about every eye being on that loud-speaker; one pair of eyes had never left the depth gauge, the pair belonging to the youngster at the console.

"She's stopped," the diving officer confirmed. His voice had a shake in it.

No one spoke. The blood continued to drip unheeded from Hansen's crushed fingers. I thought that I detected, for the first time, a faint sheen of sweat on Swanson's brow, but I couldn't be sure. The deck still shuddered beneath our feet as the giant engines strove to lift the «Dolphin» out of those deadly depths; the compressed air still hissed into the diesel and fresh-water tanks. I could no longer see the depth gauge; the diving officer had drawn himself up so close to it that he obscured most of it from me.

Ninety seconds passed, ninety seconds that didn't seem any longer than a leap year, ninety interminable seconds while we waited for the sea to burst in our hull and take us for its own, then the diving officer said. "Ten feet. Up."

"Are you sure?" Swanson asked.

"A year's pay."

"We're not out of the woods yet," Swanson said mildly. "The hull can still go: it should have gone a damn long time ago. Another hundred feet — that means a couple of tons less pressure to the square foot — and I think we'll have a chance. At least a fifty-fifty chance. And after that the chances will improve with every foot we ascend, and as we ascend, the highly compressed air in the torpedo room will expand, -driving out water and so lightening the ship."