Man From Atlantis

  MARK HARRIS LOOKED LIKE A MAN...

  But seven miles below the surface—without diving gear or breathing apparatus—he moved along the ocean floor like the sea-being he was. Befor him a door opened in the side of an underwater mountain to reveal a sinister threat to the terrestrial world.

  A power hungry genius has lured the best scientific minds in the world to his secret laboratory in the impenetrable depths of the sea. There he had created a computerized war machine which would wipe out life on earth and establish him king of an underwater empire.

  Only Mark Harris could penetrate his infernal habitat to save life on earth... the earth where men breathed air... the earth which was not his home.

  FIRST IN A SERIES OF BREATHTAKING ADVENTURES BASED ON THE FANTASTIC NEW TELEVISION SENSATION.

  THE FIGURE OF A FINELY MUSCELED

  MAN FROLICKED IN THE ROUND POOL

  WITH THE GRACE OF A SPIRITED

  DOLPHIN.

  “He appears to be perfectly adapted to aquatic life, displaying great agility and strenght,” Elizabeth Merrill reported to Lt. Ainsley and Admiral Pierce. “The chest cavity is water-filled with gills in place of normal lung tissue. Skin appears humanoid with dolphin-like characteristics. His feet are webbed, his eyes are almost catlike in action, able to see at ocean depths in almost total darkness. He has not spoken, though he’s got vocal equipment. I have the impression he understands a good deal. As for his origins, he’s given us very little to go on. We took every scrap of information we had and fed it to Big Daddy at the Defense Department and the computer sent back an answer.”

  The three of them looked up at the monitor as the computer ran its incredible printout:

  LAST CITIZEN OF ATLANTIS???

  #1

  MAN

  FROM

  ATLANTIS

  Richard Woodley

  A DELL BOOK

  Published by

  Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

  New York, New York 10017

  Copyright © 1977 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in connection with reviews written specifically for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.

  Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  ISBN: 0-440-15368-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  First printing—October 1977

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  chapter 1

  It was a rare storm, one that puzzled the meteorologists. Lacking the familiar configurations of a hurricane or typhoon, it formed suddenly from the confluence of several smaller storms hundreds of miles at sea, far to the west of the coast of California. The mingling of errant gales wildly churned the depths of the Pacific.

  Radio messages from freighters and large fishing boats reported fifty-foot waves, and winds and temperatures that rose and fell with horrendous inconsistency. Weathermen at widely separated shore stations frantically compared notes, trying both to fathom the eerie flukiness and to prepare themselves for the arrival of the storm on shore.

  In the end there were no valid or useful predictions. The separate storms met and mixed quickly to form the vast, crazy weather pattern, the winds and rains swirled over the Pacific in ominous magnificence for a couple of hours, and then it was over. The storm never really arrived at the coast.

  While tides and waves were higher than usual along the shore, there was none of the threatened destruction of beach homes and marinas. Still, the storm at sea had been awesome. Meteorologists would be able to reflect on the phenomenon for weeks, develop, advance, and discard their theories over hundreds of radio and TV broadcasts. They would talk of ice ages and droughts and rearrangements of the earth’s fertile zones.

  For even though the destructive force of the storm never reached land, it was without precedent in their loose-leaf histories of weather. And the reputations of weathermen would be enhanced not by writing the storm off as a fluke of nature, but by expounding grand notions and humble warnings about the wondrous powers of climate and how little we really knew about the intricate workings of our natural world.

  In the immediate aftermath of the mighty storm’s near brush with land, the waves beat on the shore, boiling up kelp and fish and debris and hurling it ali high onto the sand. Lightning pierced the night sky. Gusts of wind alternated with moments of shark calm. Shore birds sought lee inland.

  The beach was deserted except for a man and boy walking along the spindrift fringes of the waves, poking at the debris with walldng sticks. Their Dalmatian pranced on ahead, sniffing here and there at pieces of wood and seaweed, and barking at an occasional fish or small shark left gasping on the sand.

  “Hey Dad,” the boy called, “look at thisl” Lightning flashes illuminated the remains of a small wrecked boat with Japanese letters on its wooden planks. The man came over and poked at the planks with his stick. “Suppose anybody was aboard, Dad?”

  “Not lately, Wyatt. The wood is rotting. It was probably sunk out there for a long time before the storm brought it up.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get the whole storm here. That would have been exciting.”

  “It would have been exciting, all right. But it would have caused a lot of damage, from what they say. We sure could have used the raiN, though. They’re already rationing water up north, in the San Francisco area.”

  “Because of the drought.”

  “Right.”

  They walked on together, jabbing their gnarled sticks into the wet sand, feeling the wind tousling their hair. The man’s thinning hair was gray, his face weather-beaten.

  “Dad, how come there’s so many different seaweeds and stuff that I’ve never seen on the beach before?”

  “I guess it’s because the storm was so powerful. Usually it doesn’t disturb the bottom out there much. But in this case it looks like it churned up a whole lot of things that probably hadn’t been bothered in ages, stuff that just lay on the bottom of the sea. Quite a blow, all right.”

  “What would it have been like, on a boat?”

  “Scary. Really scary.”

  “Even on a big boat?”

  “You bet.”

  “What can you do, if you’re on a boat out there in a storm like that?”

  “Hold her bow into the wind, if possible. And keep some power under you.”

  “That’s all?”

  “And pray. That’s about all you can do. Good ship, good man at the helm, and a good man upstairs watching over you can bring you through most blows.”

  Their dog stopped to paw at a large clump of kelp. Suddenly it stepped back and growled. It darted in and out toward the pile, barking excitedly. A wave washed in other the clump, and the dog scooted back out of the way. Then it advanced quickly in the path of the retreating wave and growled viciously.

  “Take it easy, Measles!” the boy called. “It’s okay!”

  They continued walking casually toward the clump of seaweed. The dog yipped persistently, dancing around, thrusting its nose close to the pile, scratching around the edges of it. The lip of another wave washed over, but this time the dog did not retreat. It remained next to the pile, scratching with its front paws.

  “Some darned dying sand shark is gonna snap his nose off one day,” the man said.

  They ambled up to the seaweed and Wyatt pushed the dog away and ran w
ith him further up the beach.

  The man stood looking at the seaweed. A bolt of lightning lit the scene, and the wind fluttered his shirt. He prodded a the kelp with his stick. It hit something solid. As he knelt beside the clump to investigate it, a wave washed over his bare feet. Lightning flashed again and agian.

  And then the man saw what was enmeshed in the seaweed, what had excited the dog. His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened. It was a human hand, nearly black, its fingers curled like talons and moving slightly.

  He leaned forward and gently pulled away some of the seaweed. Under it was a man, kelp tightly wound around his muscled body. He was clad only in skin-tight trunks. Rumbles of distant thunder paused long enough for Wyatt’s father to hear the man’s faint, tortured gasps.

  The man struggled weakly in the sand, reaching with one blackened hand, clawing at the seaweed with the other.

  “Oh my God.” With greater urgency, Wyatt’s father pulled away more of the seaweed and was about to cradle the man’s head in his arm when he thought better of it. Not knowing the extent of the man’s injuries, he dared not move him at all.

  He sprang to his feet. “Wyatt!” He tried to keep his voice calm. “Come here right away!”

  Wyatt trotted back with the dog. The dog immediately approached the seaweed where the man lay half-buried, and began to growl again.

  “Wyatt, run home, call the police. Tell them we need an ambulance. There’s a man hurt here.”

  “What?”

  “Just do what I say, Wyatt. Run on home. Hurry. If you’re fast enough, you may help save this man’s life.”

  “Can I just see what...”

  “Go! The man is dying, Wyatt!”

  It was an old house elegantly remodeled, with a giant bay window overlooking the sea like a ship’s bridge. A party honoring the retired captain’s anniversary was in progress there. Navy men were in dress blues, civilians wore dark, formal suits and long gowns. For the most part, the party had confined itself inside in deference to the expected storm, but now a couple of the guests were out in the backyard garden, enjoying the cool breeze and the pleasant, distant thunder, or wandering over to the edge of the cliff for a glimpse of the wind-tossed Pacific. Tall torches were placed around the garden, their oil-fed fiames flickering in the wind.

  Near a tall and bushy forsythia, a man and woman stood dose together, talking softly.

  “Hey there, behind the bushes,” came a woman’s voice from the patio, “do I see some friendlies?”

  The man and woman turned. The man was wearing a black dinner suit and black bow tie, the woman was dressed in a chic pastel-green chiffon gown topped with a diaphanous trailing wrap.

  The woman who called was the hostess, the captain’s wife. She wore a fluffy blue evening dress and her graying hair was neatly coiffed. She smiled at the couple. “Doug and Elizabeth, are you friendlies?”

  “We’re friendlies,” Elizabeth Merrill answered cheerfully, tossing her long, blond hair.

  “Friendly as can be,” said Doug Berkeley, turning toward the captain’s wife and smiling.

  She lifted the hem of her long gown and came carefully down the steps and walked over to them. “Well then,” she glanced behind her and then took one of their elbows in each of her hands, “come inside and get the party started.” She leaned between them and added conspiratorially, “We need some lively young people to get things moving.”

  “I thought things were already moving an hour ago,” Doug said.

  “Oh, you know how Navy people are,” she said, smoothing her gown. “They’re all dears, so proper and obedient and stiff. They all stand around, sipping when the captain sips, smiling when the captain smiles, answering when the captain speaks. Navy all the way. It’s as if they can never let down, so long as they’re in uniform. Come,” she turned and started toward the house, “we need a healthy dose of young, beautiful people out of uniform. You’ll remind them that they’re all human beings, underneath those dress blues. I wouldn’t have interrupted you for less.”

  “You didn’t interrupt anything,” Elizabeth said brightly, starting after her. “Doug was giving me brotherly advice.”

  “Aw...” he winced and caught up with Elizabeth. The woman disappeared into the house.

  “You can’t really think of me as a brother,” Doug said softly as they walked up the steps to the patio.

  “I don’t—really.” She smiled at him.

  “Well then, why...”

  “Sorry this is such a bore.”

  “I like service parties.” He squared his shoulders.

  “I don’t. If I’m not working in the lab, I’d rather be diving. I get withdrawal symptoms if I’m out of the water too long.”

  They moved across the patio.

  “Can that be your only hobby, Liz?”

  “What else is there? You only call me Liz when you’re annoyed.”

  He chuckled and tried to draw her to him, but she gracefully eluded his arm. “Duty calls.” She smiled and opened the door for him.

  Doug shook his head and scratched his ear. “Sometimes I think you’re only attracted to fish.”

  “Whatever else you many think,” she took his elbow and guided him through the door, “I’ve never seen a fish quite as handsome as you, not yet. Although I haven’t been below a hundred feet in quite a while.”

  * * *

  White-coated interns and nurses bustled around the small emergency room. A young resident physician swept the curtain aside and stepped in. “What’s up?”

  He went quickly to the side of the cardio-pulmonary-resuscitation table where the man from the beach lay, covered with a white sheet from his shoulders to his feet. His face was blue. His breath came in hoarse gasps. A breathing bag was attached to a tube that entered his mouth. The cores of intems and nurses stared in frustration and worry.

  “Found him on the beach, unconscious and barely alive,” said one intern, rubbing his chin. “Drowning maybe, but...”

  “We got him tubed and bagged with a hundred-percent oxygen,” said a nurse in a nervous, quaking voice. “Trying to get him ventilated. BP is palpable at seventy. Pulse one-fifty and thready. We don’t know if—”

  “He really looks cyanotic,” said the resident, elbowing between the others to bend over the man. “Well, let’s get a couple of lines going. CVP in the central line—”

  “I need a sixteen-gauge short intro cath,” the intern said as he turned quickly to a nurse.

  “And I want a peripheral line with two amps of dopamine in 500 of D-5,” the resident touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand, “and start the drip at thirty a minute. That ought to bring him up. And let’s get a portable chest and get the EKG tech in here. What are those stirrups doing in here? We need more room.”

  “Delivery room was full,” a nurse said, “we had to bring one in here.”

  “Well, get that table out. Jesus Christ. People should have babies at home. Back to nature. If this guy was gonna go swimming in that storm, he should have used the buddy system. When we bring him around, I think send him back to summer camp for a refresher course. John,” he turned to the intern, “was there any vomiting? Blood? Did you pump him out?”

  “He had some water in him, Doctor, but he’s clear now. I checked the tube. No obstructions, no broken teeth. I did get some head trauma. Looks like he got bopped with something.”

  “Yeah, maybe a submarine. That old beachcomber Burger found him? I thought he only picked up rotten wood and dead sharks.”

  “This time he found us a live one, Doctor.” The intern looked at the resident for a responding smile, but he didn’t get one.

  “Did you check the guy’s eyes? He could have O.D.’d on something good.”

  The intern bent over the man and lifted an eyelid with bis thumb.

  “Better give me a liter of saline and open it wide.” The resident prowled áround the table, checking the tubes.

  The head nurse was on the phone. “We need a stat EKG
and a stat portable chest X-ray—”

  “And a skull set,” the resident put in.

  “—and a set of skull film.”

  “How are his eyes?” The resident looked back over his shoulder while he arranged some silver tools on a tray. “They constricted? Dilated? What?”

  “Well, they’re unh, at midpoint,” the intern said.

  “Okay. Listen, nurse.” The nearest nurse, with her hands clasped over her stomach, looked quickly up at him. “Let’s push, oh, point two NARCAN just to be on the safe side.”

  “But they’re funny.”

  “Hunh?” The resident turned back to the table, where the intern had both the man’s eyes propped open with his thumbs.

  “The eyes are funny.”

  The resident bent down. “Funny is not exactly a clinicai description, but I see what you mean.”

  The man’s eyes held open by the intern were wide and staring. They were an almost solid green, with small points of white in the centers.

  Another intern prepared to put in the first intravenous line. He reached under the sheet and exposed the man’s limp arm. “Hey, what’s this?” He gaped at the blackened hand. “Why’s it like that?”

  The resident shook his head. “Let’s just concentrate on getting him breathing first.”

  The man gasped weakly for breath, his chest barely moving. His face was a deathly gray-blue, like slate. Interns and nurses attached the various tubes to his arms and neck, and positioned the hanging bottles above him. The X-ray technician and two assistants wheeled in their gear and positioned the X-ray machine over him.

  The technician adjusted the plate under his body. “Okay,” she said, backing off with the remote switch in her hand, “I’m shooting.”

  A whir came from behind the dark cone of the machine as the motor revved up.

  “Hurry up with that fihn, will you?” the resident said, pacing back and forth. “I know you guys prefer to send it out to Kodak, but this guy may have just a few minutes left.”