eturned, and Angus McKegnie was alone with his reflections.

* * * * *

After the first hour he gave voice to them in one simple, bitter
sentence. "Just why the hell," he muttered, "did I ever join the
Navy?" The silence offered no reply, and McKegnie, desperate from his
cramped position, ventured to poke his head around the instrument
panel. The faint emergency lights showed the control room to be empty.
He decided to come out, and did so, worming his way back with great
difficulty.

Once out, the first thing his eyes fell on was the teleview screen.
Now the cook had never seen one of the octopi, and the screen showed
hundreds of monsters clustering around the _NX-1._ So with unusual
promptness he acted, jamming himself once again into his hiding place.
Maybe, he thought, they had some way in which they could see into the
control room and discover him!

Hours passed. The cook was sopping with sweat. Finally his thoughts
emerged into words.

"I got to get out of here!" he said intensely. "I _got_ to! And I got
to run this submarine!"

The sound of his voice somehow emboldened him. Once more he backed out
of his cranny, and with cautious, trembling steps explored the control
room. He kept his eyes from the teleview, though it had a terrible
fascination for him, and surveyed the _NX-1's_ array of control
instruments. The prospective navigator groaned at the sight.

There were dozens of mysterious wheels, jutting from every possible
angle, squads of black and red-handled levers, whole armies of queer
little stud-buttons and dials. His knowledge of cooking helped him not
at all in the presence of that maze of devices. Timidly he touched one
of the levers, but immediately snatched his hand away as if afraid it
would bite. His boldly announced purpose of running the craft went
glimmering.

* * * * *

An accidental glimpse of the monsters in the teleview suddenly decided
him that he needed a weapon. He hunted frantically through the lockers
and found three service revolvers, which he fastened at his waist,
adding his own carving knife to the arsenal. But he didn't feel much
better. Then, remembering for the first time his sea-suit radio, he
yelled: "Mr. Wells! Mr. Wells! Oh, Mr. Wells, where are you? Can you
hear me?" There was, of course, no answer.

He tried to bring his muddled thoughts and fears to order. "I got to
run this thing," he said doggedly.