"They got the torpoon?" Ken asked.
Sallorsen's arm raised in a pointing gesture. "Look."
Some fifty feet away from the Peary, on the side opposite to the one Ken Torrance had approached, a dimly discernible object lay in the mud. In miniature, it resembled the submarine: a cigar-shaped steel shell, held down to the sea-bottom by ropes bound over it. Cutting edges of steel had been fastened along its length.
"I see," said Ken slowly. "And its pilot?"
"Stayed in the torpoon thirty-six hours. Then went crazy. Put on sea-suit and tried to get back here. Whisk—they got him. Killed and mangled while we watched!"
"But didn't his torpoon have a nitro-shell gun? Couldn't he have fought them off for a time?"
"Exploring submarine, this! No guns in torpoons like whalers. Gun wouldn't help, anyway. These devils too fast. No use. No hope anywhere...." Sallorsen sank back against the bulkhead, his lips moving but no sound coming forth. Dully he stared ahead, through the submarine, for a moment before uttering a cackling mockery of a laugh and going on.
"Even after that, still hoped! Blew every tank on ship; blew out most of her oil. Threw out everything not vital. Lightened her as much as could. Machinery—detachable metal—fixtures—baggage—instruments—knives, plates, cups—everything! She rose a couple of feet—no more! Put motors at full speed—back and forth—again, again, again. Buoyancy—power—no good. No damn good!
"And then we tried the last chance. Explosives. Had quite a store, Nitromite, packed in cases; time-fuses to set it off. Had it for blasting ice. I sent up a charge and blew hole in the ice overhead, for our other torpoon.