The horizon curved in a blanket of burgundy.  The bend and hue tugged vision to the edge of vertigo.  Then, other colors glowed softly, averting eye-twisting balance.  Pale yellow, green, amber, blue white; bars, circles, squares, quivering needles and triangles and target rings; digital numbers and letters ghosting in a disciplined spray of light and color.  Very gently, the new illumination gave the reddish horizon familiarity.  Dr. Ira Goodfellow of the Wilkins Oceanographic Institute rested comfortably in a padded contour seat facing the subdued artificial coruscation of the tiny submarine world. Padded straps and belts held him easily, secure but not tightly bound, although any severe motion would immediately clutch him in a defensive web.

Goodfellow clenched an old briar pipe between his teeth with easy pressure.  The pipe was not for smoking in this atmosphere of controlled pressure, but the memory of the sweet flavor provided a measure of comfort.  There could be little relaxation of discipline within this sharply-confined world---no more than a bubble of steel, glassite, and alloyed armor---yet Ira Goodfellow wore his discipline like a comfortable robe and slippers.   Just bare inches from his body, seawater was grinding with crushing pressure against the glassite hull of his tiny research submarine.  He didn't begrudge the unlit pipe, or anything else for that matter, as it was a petty price to pay for a man who had an "inner space" planet to explore.

The abyssal depths had long beckoned to Ira Goodfellow, who'd spent most of his life on and beneath the sea.  Despite his reputation as one of the planet's leading oceanographers, Goodfellow knew that he understood only the barest fraction of the secrets the deeps sea had kept from man.  Unimpressed by the pompousness of the academic world, he was far more at home at this moment, gliding effortlessly downward, three thousand feet beneath the choppy and frigid waters that flowed along the forbidding mountain chain sailors knew as the Aleutian Islands.

The muted lights in the submarine cabin softened the weathering wrought by salt, wind and sun on the 56-year-old face of this man who had joined his soul deeply with the dark brine.  Crow's-feet pressed along the corners of Goodfellow's eyes, and unruly brows and wisps of hair fallen from his forehead covered scars and wrinkles.

The two-man submarine, Twiki, eased down through the level of 500 fathoms.  Strapped in the right seat was Coy Lindsay, 26-years-old, a willing, enthusiastic, and almost worshipful disciple of Dr. Goodfellow.  Lindsay's awareness of events about them quivered at its highest possible summit.  Lindsay---intense, almost brooding---would have been surprised, if not mildly shocked, to have known Goodfellow's high opinion of his younger assistant.

Prior to the Nukie Ballista---a brief but furious nuclear war that started with fireball-shattering terror in late 1995 and ended with a whimper a scant four months later---the technological push had produced a generation of scientists who wore blinders.  In their individual pursuits, they had suffered tunnel vision that was valuable under the most exacting circumstances, but let there come a situation when their own specific skill was tossed into uncertainty or blacked out due to equipment failure, and they became blind bats without any purpose save that of techno-janitors or errand boys.

Not so the breed represented by Coy Lindsay.  The horrific Nukie Ballista was 5 years behind him; it remained, in the form of shattered cities, roaming mutant gangs and devastating radioactive debris spread helter-skelter by capricious winds, but the lessons had been learned, and, in the compressing of training and education needed to make up for all the brilliant young minds sacrificed to the nuclear gods in those four months of lunacy, diversity was a keynote never again forgotten.  Assisted by computer facilities, by drugs to stimulate the brain's memory receptors, by a long overdue dose of hard common sense in educational practices, the young people burgeoning their way into the post-Ballista world heralded an era where multifaceted skills were developed as fully as possible.

Thus, Coy Lindsay was a hydrographic authority as well as a man who followed a natural bent and could speak, read, and write 8 separate languages.  His learning for biology was nurtured in the cross-referencing of scientific knowledge in related subjects.  This kind of education resulted in individuals who were highly skilled in their own field(s) but were also well-grounded in other subjects, therefore preventing their isolation from the "whole" of a world that relied ever more heavily on science and technology to survive its near-Gotterdammerung.

A billion dead; twice that many suffering from radioactive poisoning and abortive biowarfare; and the remainder struggling with shattered agricultural systems, diseased flora and devastated animal stocks.  It was a world that sorely needed help.

Food, of course, headed the list of priorities for survival.  Food, and new sources of fossil fuels to ensure the functioning of the technological systems so desperately needed to hold together the framework of industry that had to mend, rebuild, and expand in an atmosphere of bitterness, rage, guilt and cynicism.  The aftermath of any war in which there is no clearly-defined victor, as was the case now, produces no era of bounty or increased personal freedom, but precisely the opposite.  Out of that brief lunacy had emerged a new China, strong not so much in nuclear weaponry (for her nuclear missiles and aircraft were worth less than the remaining arms of the United States and Soviet Union) but in nonnuclear arms, and still the world's greatest reservoir of manpower.

Reality stared at the planet with increasing bleakness every day.  The problems involving food, energy, and the distribution of same, needed immediate solution, or the international community must sink again into savage conflict for the few remaining bones of sustenance.  It was a bizarre dichotomy:  The gap between the heavily technologized nations and the primitive have-nots had become even greater; and men who have nothing to lose are quite willing to throw away their lives in a final spasm of self-respect.

Yet hope remained.  Not some distant tendril drifting beyond reasonable grasp, not some dreamed-of charitable windfall, but a new science that could plumb the depths of the Earth's neighboring planet for food to feed billions and the lubricants so crucial to industrial and engineering systems.

The planet was sometimes referred to as Hydroworld: the ocean depths of our own globe.  Between the dark brine and the sun-scorched upper layers of the sea were the riches men sought to suspend further deterioration of their planet.  The solution for daily life, especially now that the brave, new 21st century had just dawned, was simple:  Either find, claw free, and distribute what the world needed, or accept the fact that those left behind would have to slaughter one another in order to survive on what was left.

Thus, Dr. Ira Goodfellow and Coy Lindsay were sliding down a gentle gravity chute into the ocean depths of the Aleutians, easing through a level of 3,000 feet, with more than 23,00 feet lying beneath them, as they piloted their teardrop-shaped submersible towards the Aleutian Trench, a sheer-walled fissure in the ocean bottom that promised thick and syrupy riches of raw petroleum.

The gravitational anomalies from satellite flybys had titillated geologists, had hinted of subtle shifts in the makeup of the crustal floor of the ocean, but even in this day and age there was no easy voyage to the bottom of a sea five miles straight down.   Old-fashioned bathyscaphs and other pioneering diving systems might plumb those depths, but their voyages were little more than games of blindman's bluff, groping through stygian darkness pierced by short-ranged lights, too often at the mercy of unknown currents, upflows, avalanches, and sea terrain pitifully charted.

The 2-man sub, Twiki, was one of the newer vessels--not that distant from the experimental category.  Its glassite/magnesium composition gave it a strength of no more than 70,000 pounds to the square inch, far beyond any pressure that would be encountered in the deeps.  It was also a triumphant departure from the positive buoyancy "gasbags" that gave high speeds, unprecedented maneuverability, and a freedom that the old-time submariners could find only in dreams or the cherished hopes for the future.  It carried with it the same penalty of any machine that moved through the fluid medium we call the atmosphere.  When your power failed, you were on your way down.  Period.

The tiny Twiki that carried Goodfellow and Lindsay was too diminutive to impress anyone save those familiar with such underwater vehicles.  2 men and no more could fit in its cramped cabin, but those two men operated their submarine like a small observation aircraft; they were able to dive, ascend, turn, or hover as they so desired.  Most of the equipment, beyond propulsion and fuel, consisted of instruments and probes that would enable Goodfellow and Lindsay to test the nature of w hat men everywhere sought so desperately---one find of petroleum t hat could change international politics.

As the 2 men slid away from the place where sea met sky, they were surrounded by a world of sound that most people are never exposed to----a cacophonous array of screeching, groaning, chittering, clicking, rolls and reports, booming thunder, and grating....the medley of life in the sea, made louder by the medium through which it moves.  Sound within the oceans is stronger and carries much farther than comparable concussion waves in the atmosphere.  Below 3,000 feet, beyond that level where even the tiniest ghost of sunlight can penetrate, life swelled, roared and whispered all about them.  The sounds penetrated the hull of the submarine, but the two men, enjoying the orchestration, listened more carefully because of the hydrophones on the exterior hull that carried the sounds in through cabin speakers.

Goodfellow and Lindsay descended through a night that was always there.  No last wisp of sunlight could reach them here, but they were expert in the art of groping with optical myopia in this world of never-ending darkness.   If the two men wished to make visual observations, they needed to switch on brilliant searchlights in a dense fog, where must of the light gets lost through scattering and reflection.  The men could also extend their visual reach by sending out little projectiles carrying either searchlights or powerful flare bombs.  The flare bombs hissed wildly in the thick pressures of the deeps, sputtering and growling as their chemicals combined furiously to emit a great bowl of light that was as limited as it was intense.

Yet there could be natural light in these dark waters, made through the agency of bioluminescence.  The deeps at times exploded in quiet isolated glory as all manner of patterns.  Best of all, one could never anticipate what would be encountered, no more than one could predict the pattern of the next snowflake to alight on a fingertip.

Goodfellow shifted his gaze from the viewport directly before him to the curving bank of instruments and controls.  His eye moved expertly across the shaped plastic colors to SONAR SCAN, which at the moment was absent of activity on the viewscope.  He continued his scan, much as a pilot flying blind on instruments to cover DEPTH, DESCENT RATE, SALINITY, TEMPERATURE, RANGE, and other information readouts.  The digital numbers and letters shone or flickered or changed, obedient to the information coming in from instruments and sensors, and in his quick scans Goodfellow would be alert to any minor changes.  Were there a sudden change that might require him or Lindsay to apply full attention, a warning chime would sound, and the light intensity of the readout would flare at once to the eye commanding level.  

It happened just at that moment.  A sonar contact was made.  The modulated sound waves pulsating from the submarine had "found" an object, bounced back the information, and the digital RANGE blossomed into light as the chime sounded.  Both men studied the instrument panel calmly.

"Whatever it is," Goodfellow said through the pipestem in his teeth, "there's a lot of it.  Fascinating."

Lindsay leaned forward to adjust the panel controls.  For several moments he kept quiet, concentrating.  "There," he said at last, "we're locked on.  I'll try to narrow the range."

Goodfellow gestured easily.  "Don't be too concerned with it, Coy.  We've got some temperature inversions surrounding us."

"Well, I think if I can..." He straightened up, showing surprise.  "Dead on, Ira.  No more than 200 yards out."

Goodfellow's hands stirred to his controls.  "Very good.  Stand by for floodlights.  I don't think we'll need any flares."

"Yes, doctor."

"But," the old codger continued, "we will need the autocamera as well.  This will prove very interesting."

Lindsay glanced quickly at him.  "You know what's out there?"

A smiled teased at Goodfellow's lips.  "But of course I do,  old boy," he said slowly.  He studied the gauges and the scope, relaxed, patient, almost sure he would be seeing "old friends."

"We're good to go," Lindsay reported.  "Our bearing is 030 and we're closing steadily.  Want the lights now?"

Goodfellow shook his head.  One finger tapped the sonarscope.  "Not yet.  But activate the cameras.  I think our friends out there are about to start chatting with each other."

Lindsay's blank stare was more eloquent than any question he could have asked.

Goodfellow smiled. "Observe."

They were acutely aware of the sound of water moving heavily past the hull, the continuing sound of ocean life, the hum of power within the submarine.  On an impulse, just as Goodfellow brought the floodlights up, Lindsay turned off all the lights so that they were looking into darkness.  But just for an instant.

In utter silence they watched a series of multicolored explosions in the near distance.  Lindsay sucked in his breath, started to speak, changed his mind, and surrendered himself to the moment, for he saw a beauty encountered by very few men:  the silent exchange of messages between creatures in permanent neutral darkness that produced light in a barely credible range, in brilliant flashes and subtle hues.  

Lindsay stared at great octopuses clamoring silently, calling for each other, sending their signals by way of bioluminescence.  Light rippled from the central bodies out along the tentacles in definite patterns, intelligent rhythms.  The creatures glowed eerily.  Most of the animals slipped behind and above the little submarine as it continued its descent, but several moved suddenly, leaving behind them trails of sparkling mites, a mixture of their own fluids swirling through the phosphorescent particles of the deep sea.

As he turned to the old codger beside him, Lindsay's face reflected a sense of wonder.  "I had no idea.  I know about the octopuses, of course, and that they---it still overwhelms me1  They were talking.  There was a pattern, signals sent between them, and....."

"They were talking about us, Coy." Goodfellow removed the pipe from between his teeth, smiled at his assistant.  "You saw how most of them just ignored us after a few moments.  Just a few went with us, followed our descent."

He smiled as Lindsay returned his gaze to the viewport.  "You won't see them anymore," Goodfellow went on.  "They've determined we're no threat to them, so they've gone about their business."

"You've seen this before?"

Goodfellow nodded.  "Many times. I wish I could have the chance to research their light patterns, establish the intelligence factor.  It's high.  They're some of the smartest creatures in the ol' briny."

Lindsay chewed his lower lip.  "Have we ever tried to communicate with them?" he asked.  "I mean, like we have with the whales?"

Goodfellow shook his head slowly.  "We've never had the chance.  We have submarines like ours," he gestured, "but we don't have the time to spend chasing ocean rainbows.  One thing appears certain, though.  These creatures have been communicating in this fashion for maybe millions of years.  Certainly long before the human race got off its foreknuckles and walked on two legs."

Lindsay glanced through the viewport, spoke without turning.  " They're still with us," he observed.

Goodfellow slowly shook his head. "How very odd.  Quickly, Coy. Let's get the blokes on film.  Hit the lights and cameras for..."

"No need to finish."  Lindsay's hands worked the controls and, instantly, dazzling lights flooded the ocean and cameras whirred into action.  In the shocking white beams the bright octopus colors faded, and then the animals became dimly visible.  The two men had a brief glimpse of pale bodies and swirling tentacles, and then all vanished behind clouds of inky liquid as the octopuses fled.

"Kill the systems," Goodfellow ordered.

The floodlights glowed away, and once again their world consisted of the burgundy light of the cabin and the spattering glows of color from the instruments and consoles.

"Six hundred fathoms," Goodfellow noted.  He leaned back in his seat, adjusted his body for comfort, reached out for a microphone, and pressed a switch marked ANTENNA RELEASE.  "We'll never find any petroleum way up here, Coy.  Increase our rate of descent."

He paused as Lindsay adjusted the power.   The tiny submarine trembled as the hydrojets increased their speed.  

"We're through 600 fathoms, our descent coming up to 130 fathoms per minute," Lindsay recited.

"Jolly good.  Keep at it.  I'll talk to the people topside."

He waited for the antenna release indicator to show a green light, then he spoke quietly into the microphone.