ed Ken Torrance. He noted his position on the torpoon's
dials and gave it to the _Narwhal_ by radio. They would then follow and
pick up the whale.

"I'll have the second in ten minutes," he promised confidently. "Signing
off!"

Again the torp darted after its prey.

He found it easy, this time, to overhaul them. Not many minutes had
elapsed before he again caught sight of their rhythmically thrusting
flukes and the flash of white under-sides. Unaware that one of their
fellows had been left a lifeless carcass by the steel fish again nearing
them, they had reduced their speed somewhat.

Ken angled down a hundred feet into the deeper shadows, not wanting to
apprise them of his presence. He continued at that level until the belly
of the rearmost whale rolled white above him; then he veered off to the
left, rising as he did so, in order to bring his assault to bear
directly on the killer's flanks.

He swung back and streaked in for the kill. It looked like an easy one.

But he was never more mistaken in his life. For, as luck had it, he had
chosen a tartar, a fighting fish--literally the "killer" which its kind
had been named.

* * * * *

The torpooner knew what he was in for as soon as he fired his first
shell. Its aim was bad, and instead of sinking into the flesh it merely
ripped across the whale's back, leaving a ragged, ugly scar.

An ordinary whale would have been scared into panic by the wound and
doubled its speed in an effort to get away; but Ken Torrance saw this
one wheel its six-foot snout around viciously until its beady little
eyes settled on the torpoon.

"I'll be damned!" he muttered. "He's turning to fight. All right, come
ahead!"

He veered about and fired another shot that missed its mark by feet, but
creased the whale's flukes. At once this terrible weapon lashed
titanically up and down, and thirty feet of berserk killer came curving
towards the lone man inside his shell of steel. Ken tensed himself for
combat. He would have to keep a good distance from the fish and fire
until he got it, as a square smash from its flukes might crumple the
torp like an egg-shell.

[Illustration: _Thirty feet of berserk killer came curving towards the
lone man_.]

But his foe gave him no chance. Crazy with pain and anger, it swept up
and nipped his dive for the bottom with a fluke-blow that tumbled the
torpoon over and dazed its pilot. Before he could get straightened out
it was o