Norman pointed to the screen. “How deep is he?”

“I don’t know. Thousand, twelve hundred feet, something like that.”

“And what have they found?”

“So far, just the big titanium fin.” The officer glanced around. “It doesn’t read on any monitors now. Bill, can you show Dr. Johnson here the fin?”

“Sorry, sir,” the technician said. “Present MainComOps is working north of there, in quadrant seven.”

“Ah. Quad seven’s almost half a mile away from the fin,” the officer said to Norman. “Too bad: it’s a hell of a thing to see. But you’ll see it later, I’m sure. This way to Captain Barnes.”

They walked for a moment down the corridor; then the officer said, “Do you know the Captain, sir?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondered. He’s been very eager to see you. Calling up the com techs every hour, to find out when you’re arriving.”

“No,” Norman said, “I’ve never met him.”

“Very nice man.”

“I’ m sure.”

The officer glanced over his shoulder. “You know, they have a saying about the Captain,” he said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“They say his bite is worse than his bark.”

Through another door, which was marked “Project Commander” and had beneath that a sliding plate that said “Capt. Harold C. Barnes, USN.” The officer stepped aside, and Norman entered a paneled stateroom. A burly man in shirtsleeves stood up from behind a stack of files.

Captain Barnes was one of those trim military men who made Norman feel fat and inadequate. In his middle forties, Hal Barnes had erect military bearing, an alert expression, short hair, a flat gut, and a politician’s firm handshake.