Silence is—Deadly

Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization--and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio--silence of that sort would be deadly!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way--like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all.

Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him--Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford.

The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile.

Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory.

Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky--a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the domination of the Nazi gestapo. At other times, the man seemed a genius. Perhaps that was the answer--a mad genius!

Curtis opened the door and looked out. Rain whipped against his face like a stinging wet lash. Overhead, the sky was a storm-racked mass of clouds, broken in one spot by a tiny patch of starlit blue.

His eyes rested inquiringly on the face of the man who stood before him. It was Nelson, his shaggy blond brows drawn scowlingly down over his pale eyes; his thin face a mass of tense lines; his big hands fumbling at the neck of his slicker. Rain was coursing down his white cheeks, streaking them with glistening furrows.

The fellow was a headache to Curtis. He was overfriendly with a black-browed bos'n's mate named Joe Bradford--the worst trouble maker on board. But there was no question of his ability. He was a good navigating officer--dependable, accurate, conscientious. Nevertheless, his taut face, restless, searching eyes, and eternally nervous manner got Curtis' goat.

"Come in, Nelson!" he said.

Nelson shouldered his way inside, and stood there in his dripping oilskins, blinking his eyes against the yellow light.

Curtis closed the door and nodded toward the bent form of Zukor Androka, with a quizzical grin. "Old Czech-and-Double-Czech is working hard on his latest invention to pull Hitler's teeth and re-establish the Czech Republic!"

Nelson had no answering smile, although there had been a great deal of good-natured joking aboard the Comerford ever since the navy department had sent the scientist on board the cruiser to carry on his experiments.

"I'm worried, sir!" Nelson said. "I'm not sure about my dead reckoning. This storm--"

Curtis threw his arm around Nelson's dripping shoulders. "Forget it! Don't let a little error get you down!"

"But this storm, sir!" Nelson avoided Curtis' friendly eyes and slipped out from under his arm. "It's got me worried. Quartering wind of undetermined force, variable and gusty. There's a chop to the sea--as if from unestimated currents among the islets. No chance to check by observation, and now there is a chance--look at me!"

He held out his hands. They were shaking as if he had the chills.

"You say there is a chance?" Curtis asked. "Stars out?"

"As if by providence, sir, there's a clear patch. I'm wondering--" His voice trailed off, but his eyes swung toward the gleaming sextant on the rack.

Commander Curtis shrugged good-naturedly and reached for the instrument. "Not that I've lost confidence in you, Nels, but just because you asked for it!"