A Meeting With Medusa by Arthur C. Clarke Page B

ever seen the radiator grille of a car after it’s run into a lamppost? Well, one section of the grid looked very much like that. Something had battered it in, as if a madman had gone to work on it with a sledgehammer.
    There were gasps of astonishment and anger from the people looking over my shoulder. I heard sabotash muttered again, and for the first time began to take it seriously. The only other explanation that made sense was a falling boulder, but the slopes of the canyon had been carefully checked against this very possibility.
    Whatever the cause, the damaged grid had to be replaced. That could not be done until my lobster—all twenty tons of it—had been flown out from the Spezia dockyard where it was kept between jobs.
    ‘Well,’ said Shapiro, when I had finished my visual inspection and photographed the sorry spectacle on the screen, ‘how long will it take?’
    I refused to commit myself. The first thing I ever learned in the underwater business is that no job turns out as you expect. Cost and time estimates can never be firm because it’s not until you’re halfway through a contract that you know exactly what you’re up against.
    My private guess was three days. So I said: ‘If everything goes well, it shouldn’t take more than a week.’
    Shapiro groaned. ‘Can’t you do it quicker?’
    ‘I won’t tempt fate by making rash promises. Anyway, that still gives you two weeks before your deadline.’
    He had to be content with that, though he kept nagging at me all the way back into the harbour. When we got there, he had something else to think about.
    ‘Morning, Joe,’ I said to the man who was still waiting patiently on the jetty. ‘I thought I recognised you on the way out. What are you doing here?’
    ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
    ‘You’d better speak to my boss. Chief Engineer Shapiro, meet Joe Watkins, science correspondent of Time .’
    Lev’s response was not exactly cordial. Normally, there was nothing he liked better than talking to newsmen, who arrived at the rate of about one a week. Now, as the target date approached, they would be flying in from all directions. Including, of course, Russia. And at the present moment Tass would be just as unwelcome as Time .
    It was amusing to see how Karpukhin took charge of the situation. From that moment, Joe had permanently attached to him as guide, philosopher, and drinking companion a smooth young public-relations type named Sergei Markov. Despite all Joe’s efforts, the two were inseparable. In the middle of the afternoon, weary after a long conference in Shapiro’s office, I caught up with them for a belated lunch at the government resthouse.
    ‘What’s going on here, Klaus?’ Joe asked pathetically. ‘I smell trouble, but no one will admit anything.’
    I toyed with my curry, trying to separate the bits that were safe from those that would take off the top of my head.
    ‘You can’t expect me to discuss a client’s affairs,’ I answered.
    ‘You were talkative enough,’ Joe reminded me, ‘when you were doing the survey for the Gibraltar Dam.’
    ‘Well, yes,’ I admitted. ‘And I appreciate the write-up you gave me. But this time there are trade secrets involved. I’m—ah—making some last-minute adjustments to improve the efficiency of the system.’
    And that, of course, was the truth; for I was indeed hoping to raise the efficiency of the system from its present value of exactly zero.
    ‘Hmm,’ said Joe sarcastically. ‘Thank you very much.’
    ‘Anyway,’ I said, trying to head him off, ‘what’s your latest crackbrained theory?’
    For a highly competent science writer, Joe has an odd liking for the bizarre and the improbable. Perhaps it’s a form of escapism; I happen to know that he also writes science fiction, though this is a well-kept secret from his employers. He has a sneaking fondness for poltergeists and ESP and flying saucers, but lost continents are his real specialty.
    ‘I am