“What would Scoot think of me?” he thought, “getting dizzy even for a second only a hundred feet off the ground?”
Down below was the river, and March saw a sub making its way down toward Long Island Sound. It looked very tiny and slim.
“How did it go, sir?” asked a voice behind him. He turned and saw the pharmacist.
“All right, I guess,” March replied. “Didn’t mind it, anyway. I guess I was a little slow. They had to send a man down to hurry me up.”
“They sent one down to slow me down,” the pharmacist said, “but I came out just about right. They told me it was a better sign if you went too slow than too fast.”
“I suppose it indicates you’re not overanxious about being under water,” March said.
A familiar head broke the water of the tank and March saw Stan Bigelow moving over toward the platform. When he had got out and removed his Lung, he smiled at March.
“Nothing to it, was there?” he called. “I’d like to try the fifty-foot level right away.”
“Same here,” March said, “but I guess we wait a day or two.”
Later, when they did make the fifty-foot escape, they found that it went just the same as the eighteen-footer. Sure, it took fifty seconds, but the sensations were about the same. There was more pressure on the ears, but not enough to bother anyone. March was very surprised to hear that one of the enlisted men, near the end of the group, had suddenly gone panicky just before it was his turn to go.