Yakovlev still sat at the compass, his elbows on his knees and his hands pressing his head. The men lounged in the cabins and corridors, their faces livid with suffocation. Prince Bylopolsky remained leaning over his [v]logarithmic tables, which had now become useless. From time to time he wiped his face, as if removing a net of invisible cobwebs. Finally he rose to his feet, took a few steps, and fainted dead away.
Giving the order to proceed at full speed, Andrey hoped to pass the mine zone, even though some of his men succumbed for lack of air. Pale and excited, his hair in disorder, and his coat unbuttoned, he was everywhere at once, and his voice sustained the failing strength of the half-suffocated crew. Seeing the prince stretched unconscious on a berth, Andrey poured a few drops of brandy in his mouth and kissed his wet, childlike forehead. In making too rapid a movement, lurid flames danced before his eyes, and he bent back, striking his head against a sharp angle of an engine. He felt no pain from the blow.
“Bad!” thought Andrey, and crawled over to the emergency oxygen container. He opened the faucet and inhaled the fragrant stream of gas. His head began to swim and a sweet fire ran through his veins. With an effort he rose to his feet. The outlines of the objects around him were strangely distinct, and the faces of the men imploringly turned to him—some of them bearded and high-cheekboned, others tender and childlike—seemed to him touchingly human....
In the corridor Andrey came upon a man standing against the wall and gulping the air like a fish. Seeing the commander, he made an effort to cheer up and mumbled, “Beg pardon, sir; I’m a bit unwell.” The captain leaned over and looked into his eyes, which a film of death was already beginning to veil. Andrey, turning to the telephone tube, gave a command to rise. The Kate shook all over and dived upward. The ascent lasted four minutes and a half, at the end of which time the boat stood still and light fell on the screen of the periscope. The sailors crawled up to the main hatchway and unscrewed it. Cold salt air rushed into the boat, swelling the chests of the sufferers and turning their heads; the sensation of free breathing was delicious after the suffocation they had so long endured.
Andrey, leaping on the bridge, found the evening sun suspended above vast masses of warm clouds and the sea quiet and peaceful. He began to take observations with the [v]sextant, which shook in his trembling hand. Presently a loud buzzing was heard in the sky, followed by the measured crackling of a machine gun; from the hull of the boat came a sharp rat-a-tat, as if some one was throwing dry peas on it. A hydroplane was circling above the Kate.
Andrey bit his lip and kept on working; a squad of his men loaded their rifles. The hydroplane swooped down almost to the surface of the sea, then soared with a shrill “F-r-r-r” and flew right over the boat. A clean-shaven pilot sat motionless, his hands on the wheel; below him an observer gazed downward, waiting. Suddenly the latter lifted a bomb and threw it into a tube. The missile flashed in the air and plunged into the sea at the very side of the boat. One of the crew fired his rifle, and the observer threw up his leather-covered arms with outspread fingers. Slowly circling under the fire of the submarine crew, the aircraft rose toward the clouds and sailed off.
Over the sky-ridge another aeroplane appeared, looking like a long thin line. Meantime the Kate picked her way with graceful ease across the orange-colored waters as if cutting through molten glass. Andrey, buttoning his coat, said with a grimace, “Well, Yakovlev, the mines are behind us, but what are we going to do now?”
“This region is full of reefs and sandbanks,” replied Yakovlev.
“That’s just the trouble. I wouldn’t risk sailing under the water. Wait a moment.” He raised his hand.
A violent whizzing sound came from the west; Andrey ordered greater speed. A [v]grenade hissed on the right, and a jet of water spurted up from the quiet surface. The Kate tacked sharply toward the purpling horizon in the west, and behind, in her shadowy wake, another bomb burst and blossomed out into a small cloud. The boat then turned east again, but now in front of her, on both sides, everywhere, shells burst and sputtered fire. The scouting hydroplane dashed over the submarine like a bat; two pale faces looked down and disappeared. Then right above the stern of the Kate a grenade exploded and one of the sailors dropped his rifle, clutched his face, toppled over the railing, and disappeared beneath the water.