"Well, he's shrieking about 'machine-fish'--fish with machines over
them!... I--I'm going to broadcast the whole story to the land
stations. 'Machine-fish'! I don't know.... I don't know.... You'd
better hurry back, Wells!"

He rang off.

* * * * *

Keith slipped off the headphones and told Bowman what he had learned.
Hardy, staunchly built craft, those fishing boats were; born in the
teeth of gales. What horror could have ripped them--all of them--to
driftwood, with the weather perfect? And a half-mad survivor, raving
about "machine-fish"!

"Such things are preposterous," Bowman commented scornfully.

"But--the fleet's gone, Hemmy," Keith replied. "Anyway, we'll speed
back, and see what it's all about."

He punched swift commands on the control studs. "Empty Tanks, Zoom to
Surface, Full Speed," the crimson words glared down below, and the
_NX-1_ at once shoved her snout up, trembling as her great electric
motors began their pulsing whine. The delicate fingers of the massed
dials before Keith danced exultantly. The depth-levels tolled out:

"Seven thousand ... six thousand ... five thousand--"

"Keith! Look there!"

Hemmy Bowman was pointing with amazement at the location chart, a
black mesh screen that showed the position of other submarines within
a radius of two miles. In one corner, a spot of vivid red was shining.

"But it can't be a submarine!" Wells objected. "Our reports would have
mentioned it!"

The two officers stared at each other.

"'Machine-fish!'" Bowman whispered softly. "If there were machines,
the metal would register on the chart."

"It must be them!" the commander roared, coming out of his daze. "And,
by God, we're going after them!"

* * * * *

Rapidly he brought the _NX-1_ out of her zoom to the surface, and left
her at four thousand feet, in perfect trim, while he read the
instruments closely.

A green spot in the center of the location chart denoted the _NX-1's_
exact position. A distance of perhaps forty inches separated it from
the red light on the meshed screen--which represented, roughly, a mile
and a half. Below the chart was a thick dial, over which a black hand,
indicating the mysterious submersible's approximate depth, was slowly
moving.

"He's sinking--whatever he is," Keith muttered to Hemmy. "Hey, Sparks!
Get me Captain Knapp."

A moment later the connection was put through.

"Bob? This is Wells